“Not at all, mademoiselle. But you would flatter me if you would grant me the favor of a dance.”
Rafe struggled to keep from rolling his eyes at this exchange.
“I would be delighted, my lord. His lordship and I”— she cast a defiant look at Rafe—“have just completed our conversation.”
Like hell they had, Rafe thought, as he watched Minton lead Alix to the dance floor. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Cole grinning at him.
“You appear to be having a damned difficult time holding on to your wife, Moreham,” he observed cheerfully.
“She may dance with Minton all she likes, Davenport,” he said, not taking his eyes from the whirling couple. “It does not change the fact that she is my wife.”
“It’s a funny thing about women, Rafe; they’re not like horses. It takes more than a certificate and an exchange of trinkets to make them stay put. Have you told her how you feel about her?”
“I would think that after all that has passed between us that would be understood.”
“I think, my friend, it is no more clear to her than it isto Lady Dinsmore that you are no longer an available bachelor.” Cole looked up at the gallery, and Rafe followed his gaze to see Anne standing among a group of women observing the dancing.
“I’ve known Anne Dinsmore for a long time,” Rafe muttered, “and I’m sure that she will understand.”
“I watched Anne Dinsmore grow up as well and, as I recall, she was the child who would follow the game along, smiling all the while but, if she was losing, would toss a rock at your head as soon as your back was turned.”
“Have you ever thought that it might have been because your head presented such an inviting target?”
A dimple appeared in Cole’s cheek. “I haven’t. Though on occasion, I believe Phoebe might have considered a similar thing.”
“Where is your charming wife this evening?”
“If you’re looking for an ally then you’ll have to wait. Some country squire trod on the hem of her dress and she’s gone off to the retiring room to have it repaired. In the meantime, may I suggest we go in search of some of our host’s famous brandy?”
Anne Dinsmore was indeed wishingshe had something to throw at Rafe’s head as she observed the activity in the grand salon below her. Moreham had yet to come up and greet her; as far as she could tell he’d spent all his time staring after that little French witch. She could tolerate a little flirtatious pursuit, but she was beginning to suspect that Rafe’s attentions towards the girl were more serious. She’d done her best to cast herself in his way this season, to pick up where they’d left off that summer, but in spite of her efforts he seemed increasingly distracted.
There should be a price to pay for toying with a woman’s expectations, she thought with rising annoyance. Moreham had failed to come up to scratch and here shewas, forced once again to scan the pool of men that she knew were either too short or too fat, too venal, or too stupid to make a suitable husband.
As if to rub salt into her wounds, Mrs. Hensford said loudly, “Just look at the Earl of Moreham staring at Lady Melbourne’s little French protégé; he hasn’t taken his eyes off her all evening. It would appear, Lady Anne, as though last season’s fish is slipping your hook.”
Anne purposely ignored the woman, knowing that a response would appear pitifully defensive. Instead, she languidly waved her fan and changed the subject. “You know, Mrs. Hensford, James took me to see the most marvelous play in Covent Gardens the other evening.” She pretended to catch herself, as she turned to face the woman. “Oh, but then your husband prefers the ballet, does he not?” The woman flushed scarlet at this thinly veiled reference to her husband’s well-known practice of keeping young dancers on his wife’s money.
As Mrs. Hensford quickly found a pretense to move away from the group, another woman tapped Anne lightly on the arm with her fan. “Ah, my dear, I see disappointment has not blunted your edge.”
Anne turned and smiled serenely at the elderly woman to her right, knowing that Lady Morton would not smile back to avoid revealing her missing teeth. “Moreham and I grew up together, you know. We are old friends. I’m pleased to see he’s found someone to distract him from his business affairs and from the grief of losing his father and brother in so short a span of time.” She sighed. “Though I do worry that in his pursuit of Mademoiselle de La Brou, he is neglecting poor Elizabeth.”
“Indeed,” Lady Morton said, craning her neck closer like a baby bird eagerly waiting for a tasty bit of gossip to fall.
Anne tilted her graceful white neck towards LadyMorton. “Elizabeth Harcrest is such a delightful girl, but”—she paused as if searching for just the right word—“so naive, so careless. I fear if she should fix her attention on the wrong kind of person, she might behave in an unwise manner.”
Lady Morton pursed her lips and nodded knowingly. Anne turned her attention back to the crowded ballroom, smiling with satisfaction. She knew she could count on Jemma Morton to flutter about the ton, repeating her comments with delicious embellishments. Anne’s pale blue eyes came to rest on the gaunt frame of Lord Rothwell, and she glided off in his direction. Rothwell was comfortably set up, she reflected, and while he might expect her to pay nominal attention to his flourishing brood, at least he wouldn’t be after her for an heir.
Alix stoodbefore the mirror in the retiring room trying to coax a loose strand of hair back into place. Damn Rafe for the confusing man he was, she thought as the strand tumbled loose from its pin. Just when she thought she had him figured out, he’d change. Yesterday he’d had Anne Dinsmore hanging on his arm like some great pastel shawl, and this evening he’d been dancing attendance on her as if she were the only woman in the room.
When she looked into his eyes she thought she saw something that might pass for love, but he had said nothing to her about his feelings. She worried that what she saw might be simple possessiveness, or worse, nothing more than a reflection of her own emotions. She didn’t want to be the one to raise the subject, and it was more than a matter of pride. Ifsheasked, and he said he loved her, she’d always wonder if he’d said it only to soothe her into marriage; if he said hedidn’t,she’d be destroyed. Damn the man, she thought again, why couldn’t he behave more like the swains in those poems about courtly love?
A ripple of sharp-edged laughter caught her attention. Three women stood before the mirror, patting their hair and straightening their gowns as they chattered. They were elegantly clad and coifed, and they carried themselves with the slightly bored assurance of women who had seen and experienced all that the London season had to offer. Fragments of their conversation distracted her. They were laughing at some dandy’s choice of waistcoat and jacket, some other man’s obsession with horses.
And then she heard them mention Elizabeth Harcrest.
“I understand the earl is going to have his hands full presentingthatone,” said a tall woman with auburn hair in a deep green gown.
“They say she’s been aterrorsince she laced up her first corset,” said a blonde in peach.
