She blinked up at him. “So?”
“He is that chit’s uncle,” he enlightened the confusion gathering between her brows. “This is about more than snagging a duke for a husband, I’m afraid. They might not give up.”
“And you don’t trust me,” Lady Elowyn accused.
“It’s not that simple—”
“I’m a woman of my word, Mandeville. You might not trust me, but you have no other choice. We already exchanged,” her face flushed, “that thing. While it apparently might not mean something to you, it means everything to me. That was my first,” she glanced around to see that they couldn’t be overheard, “kissyou stole. This is now my first dance you stole as well. You are ruining my season!”
His brows pulled together, his hand flexing at the small of her back. “You’ve never danced with a man before?” A kiss he expected, but not a dance.
Her fingers curled tighter into his at his question.
So, yes.
Her eyes flashed. “That is not the point!”
True, and the breath of satisfaction filling his chest wasn’t bloody helping. “Forgive me if I don’t see the problem. Have younot gotten exactly what you wished for?” Barring the fact that he wasn’t Stagbourne. Or was that where her ire stemmed from. It was certain the spark arose from the knowledge thathedidn’t come up to snuff against the earl.
Probably not a dispute.
Stagbourne was the better man. The kind one. A man not consumed by revenge.
“Only a man would say that.”
“Probably,” he agreed. “But we can’t stop now.”
That earned him another hot look.
“Not without causing a scene,” he corrected. “Settle down, Lady Elowyn. It’s simply a dance. Or do dances also have a thousand settings?”
She averted her gaze, but not before she muttered. “As a matter of fact, they do. But that isn’t all you stole from me.” Her fierce gaze returned to him. “You stole the most important thing. You stole the ability to enjoy my first. You, sir, are a joy thief.”
Julien’s chest tightened.
He leaned in to whisper into her ear. “You are not wrong, Lady Elowyn. I am exactly that.”
“Then let us not meet after this again.”
Coldness spread through him, the same coldness his mother’s death had left as a parting gift, but he still said, “As the lady wishes.”
The final strains of the waltz wound down, the last note hanging in the air between them.
He should let her go. Every rule of propriety, every ounce of sense he possessed, demanded he release her the moment the music died. Then why the hell was it so damn hard?
“Mandeville.”
Julien bit back a curse and stepped back and bowed, the picture of propriety, when the entire moment felt all wrong. She dropped into a curtsy, chin high, refusing to give the watching room the satisfaction of seeing anything but composure.
They’d barely pulled apart when someone gave a cry of alarm.
Bright red flashed before his eyes before he heard Lady Elowyn gasp. He didn’t know what the hell just happened, but he tried to block it. Unfortunately, the damage was done. The woman in red stepped back to reveal an even redder stain covering Elowyn’s white gown from her bosom down to her midriff. Droplets of red, too much like blood, even coated her neck, dripping in between her breasts.
The culprit was none other than Lady bloody Gabrielle.
A well-placed look of horror plastered her face, at odds with the look of glee in her eyes.
The sight brought on a fury Julien could barely contain. He didn’t think. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around the wildflower’s shoulders, pulling it close around her and angling his own body between her and the worst of the room’s stares.
