Markham scowled. “Every time I turn around, Nash is fawning over her like a spoiled child with a new toy.”
Lucy shot Ciaran an amused glance. “Fawning? I believe they’re simply dancing, my lord.”
Lord Markham grunted, but didn’t reply.
“Lady Felicia enjoys his company,” Lucy went on. “He’s very fashionable, but a lovely, gentlemanly sort, in spite of it, and soattentive.”
Markham’s gaze shifted from the dancers to Lucy’s face. “Attentive?”
She gave him a sunny smile. “Oh, yes. Why, just look at his face!”
Markham looked, and his own face fell.
“Better yet, look at Lady Felicia’s face,” Lucy added. “A lady likes to be fawned over every now and then, Lord Markham.”
Ciaran chuckled at Markham’s perplexed expression. “The lady enjoys dancing, Markham. Something to keep in mind.”
Markham watched Lady Felicia in silence. He looked nearly as befuddled and anxious as Vale did when he looked at Eloisa Jarvis. Ciaran almost felt sorry for him—love was a devil of a business—but just as he opened his mouth to offer some encouragement, Markham stalked off without another word.
“Oh, dear.” Lucy turned to Ciaran, a low laugh escaping her lips. “He doesn’t look at all pleased, does he? I feel rather bad for him, but I daresay it’ll do him good to have a rival. A man needs a gentle push every now and then.”
“Or a not so gentle one.” Ciaran hadn’t taken the seat Lady Felicia had vacated. Instead he stood gazing down at Lucy, admiring the way the candlelight played on her hair. She was wearing a green gown again tonight, with a matching green ribbon woven throughout her copper curls. He’d seen her wear the color many times. It was a similar shade to the green lining of the cloak she’d been wearing the first time he saw her on the beach in Brighton.
Not many ladies could wear such a vibrant shade of green, but not many ladies were Lucy. No color could outshine her, no matter how bright.
Ciaran forgot he’d decided not to dance with her. He forgot everything he’d told himself and held out his hand to her. “Come dance with me, Lucy.”
Lucy glanced up at him, her eyebrow raised. “Certainly not. I like you too much to dance with you.”
She laughed at his expression, and a tingle of pleasure shot down Ciaran’s spine. She had the most engaging laugh—rich and full, but husky, as if she were slightly breathless.
“You agreed to dance with me at the assembly in Brighton,” he reminded her. “Why should this be any different?”
“Youknowwhy. Because I’ll make a dreadful mess of it. Brighton is one thing, Ciaran, but London is quite another.”
“Come now, Lucy. You owe me a dance.” All at once, Ciaran wanted to dance with her more than anything, and he was prepared to tease and cajole until she gave in.
“It had to be the quadrille, didn’t it?” Lucy muttered, her gaze dropping to something she held in her lap. She stared down at it, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her brows drawn together with fierce concentration.
Ciaran leaned over her shoulder, curious, and saw a few cramped lines scrawled across the leaves of her fan.
The steps to the quadrille.
He dissolved into a grin. “Ah. Your lessons at Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy still aren’t going well, then?”
Lucy grimaced. “Not unless you’d call nearly knocking a gentleman down ‘going well.’”
There wasn’t any reason in the world Ciaran should find that endearing, but somehow, he did. He’d felt just as out of place as Lucy did now when he’d first come to London last year. A big, awkward Scot among all the sleek, fashionable London gentlemen. He’d been like a fish out of water.
But if there was one thing he’d learned since then it was how to dance the quadrille. He’d led every wallflower in London through every dance at every ball last season. He was as skilled a partner as any dancing master. “It’s not as difficult as it looks. Come dance with me, Lucy, and I’ll teach you the steps as we go.”
Lucy glanced at the dancers, then back at his face, then back at the dancers. Ciaran could see she wanted to dance, but her forehead was creased with doubt. “You didn’t see the disaster I made of the set the other day at my lesson. If you had, you wouldn’t ask me. I trod on Monsieur Guilland’s foot a half-dozen times, at least.”
“I don’t care. I’d still ask you, even if you’d trod on dozens of gentlemen’s feet.” Ciaran realized with a start it was true. Even if she’d knocked a man unconscious—or, more likely, broken his nose—he’d still ask her. He couldn’t think of a single circumstance in which he wouldn’t want to dance with Lucy.
Dance with her, lie on a beach with her, watch a bout with her, stroll along Bond Street with her on his arm. Images of Lucy flashed through his mind—moonlight on damp red hair, glittering drops of water clinging to long, dark eyelashes—and an odd, breathless feeling swelled inside him.
He didn’t know what to make of it, but all at once a part of him wanted to flee—to leave London this minute and run off to Scotland before he did something he’d regret.
