When the musicians struck up the next set, a low and lilting waltz, he did. He crossed the ballroom like a man compelled, Miss Pomeroy altogether forgotten. There was a distinct purpose in his stride, and Lottie’s pulse had the audacity to rise with every inch he gained. When he at last reached her, he bowed low, and when he straightened, his eyes held hers with that familiar glint.
“Miss Tolliver,” he said, as though nothing at all had occurred that very morning at the old hunting lodge. “May I have the honour?”
She placed her gloved hand in his. What a fiend he was. “You may.”
And then they were waltzing.
For several measures, neither of them spoke. Lottie lifted her eyes to his and found that he was not smiling at her, not precisely, but studying her face with an attention that made the silk at her ribs feel tighter.
“You look,” he said quietly, “terrible.”
Lottie raised a brow. “Thank you, sir.”
“Your face is as beautiful as ever,” he corrected, “but I must ask who is responsible for that gown.”
“My mother, of course.”
“It is a crime.”
She laughed, for the first time since that morning. “I am told it is for my improvement.”
“And are you improved?”
She turned her head ever so slightly as they swept past an observing dowager and smiled with such sweetness that the woman returned a nod of warm approval. “Entirely. I have bathed, dressed, prayed for forgiveness, and submitted myselffor public inspection. By midnight, I expect to be almost unrecognisable.”
“I think I should recognise you anywhere, Miss Tolliver.”
Lottie’s smile faltered by the smallest degree—not for any tender declaration, for she had no patience for such nonsense, but because, after a day spent being scolded, arranged, warned, and improved, there was something almost unbearable in being recognised without being corrected.
“Though I confess,” he added, “I preferred your earlier state of unrepentance.”
Across the room, Lottie caught her mother’s hawkish eye fixed upon them.“Careful, Mr Deverell. We are surrounded by lace fans and listening ears.”
“Indeed,” he said, guiding her neatly through the turn. “Which is why I am resolved to speak with all the propriety of a Sunday sermon.”
“A sermon would be a novelty from you.”
“A good sermon contains temptation, punishment, and the hope of redemption. I am very qualified.”
The music swelled about them, violins rising in bright phrases as the couples turned beneath the chandeliers.
Jasper’s steps were exact and his hold perfectly correct; only the growing recklessness in his eyes suggested that propriety, like her green silk, was a garment he wore under protest. “We must speak of tomorrow’s engagement.”
She gave a sigh that was very nearly a purr. “Oh, yes. Fencing.”
“Sabres,” he confirmed. “The only proper blade for a lady who intends to draw blood.”
“And you are quite certain you shall not weep when I disarm you before whichever unlucky footman is bribed to keep watch?”
“If you manage to disarm me,” he said, with a look that did wicked things to the pit of her stomach, “I shall very likely beg you to do it again.”
She laughed softly, breathless from more than the dance.
They turned again, the polished floor gliding beneath her slippers. She was achingly aware of the closeness of his mouth to her temple, of the warmth of his breath, and of the way their breathing had begun, quite without permission, to fall into the same measure as the violins. “Time and place?”
“Midday,” he said. “The picture gallery at Westvale House. Presently unoccupied. Lady Catherine is at Bath, and her son owes me a favour.”
“How convenient.” She tilted her head. “And how, pray, am I to elude the watchful Tolliver eye?”
