Page 11 of The Luckiest Lady in London

It had been a week since Lady Tenwhestle’s dinner. Mr. Pitt had returned to town and would be in attendance. Lord Firth was also expected. But what to do about his sister, Miss Edwards? After all Louisa’s effort at pleasantry and flattery, Miss Edwards seemed to hold her in only greater dislike.

Beside Louisa, Lady Balfour reminisced with one of her dowager friends on the fashions of their youth. Wasn’t a woman’s outline much more elegant in the days of the crinoline, when a slender waist was superbly complemented by a flounced bell of a skirt? The bustles of the current decade made a lady much too bouffant to the rear, and one could never count on these treacherous devices to hold their shape after one sat down to dinner, or even a fifteen-minute call.

But the crinoline did have its drawbacks, they concurred. Preceding a gentleman up a staircase presented all sorts of dangers. And who could forget that dinner party during which Lady Neville’s skirts caught fire without her even being aware of it?

“His lordship the Marquess of Wrenworth,” bellowed Lady Fielding’s most stentorian manservant.

Louisa started.

“Why, it’s that dear boy!” Lady Balfour exclaimed with pleasure. “A bit early, isn’t he?”

Several nights this past week Louisa had been victim to a recurring nightmare. In the nightmares, she and Lord Wrenworth would come across each other at a public venue, a park or a thickly attended party. She would be getting along just fine, but the very moment she saw him, she would realize, to her horror, that she was stark naked. No one else would notice it, but he always did—and would proceed to approach and touch her in unspeakable ways.

As he walked down the steps, serene and elegant, heat and dread alike buffeted Louisa. She would like to blame her dreams entirely on some dark sorcery on his part, but she could scarcely deny that she was the one who could not stop imagining, as she lay in bed, that he was somewhere in the shadows of her room, watching her, his gaze half desire, half malice, and all power.

He took his time, making a leisurely round of the periphery of the ballroom, before coming to a stop next to Lady Balfour and her friend, delighting them with compliments on their complexion and toilette. Louisa tensed, the way one held one’s breath and abdomen to brace for a too-abrupt stop of the carriage.

“Oh, enough,” Lady Balfour scolded happily. “Don’t waste your charms on us old crows. Give your attention to my dear young cousin here. Surely you have not forgotten her?”

Louisa’s marriage might have begun as a charity project. But her sponsor would be damned, now that she had taken Louisa in hand, if the girl didn’t make a properly spectacular match.

“Yes, of course, Miss Cantwell.” He scantly cast a glance her way, his attentive smile solely for Lady Balfour. “Your charge is the most charming dinner companion anyone could ask for.”

“Good,” said Lady Balfour. “That means you owe her a waltz, young man.”

And that was how Louisa found herself in Lord Wrenworth’s arms, spinning about the ballroom. It was sobering how adroitly he had manipulated her to the dance floor—and temporary privacy.

It didn’t help that she had only the most circumstantial evidence and her intuition to support her belief that it had been a manipulation. After all, he did dance, from time to time, with unmarried ladies from well-connected families—at just the exact frequency to give cause for excitement, but not feverish hopes.

She wished she knew what he wanted from her. And why.

“That is a very pretty dress on you, Miss Cantwell,” he said.

“Thank you,” she murmured, all too aware of the gentle pressure his hand exerted on her back.

“Prettier than I remembered, when Lady Tenwhestle wore it a few Seasons ago.”

A true gentleman would have kept that observation to himself. But she already knew he was no gentleman—he must have sold his soul to the devil for everyone else to continue to think of him as the epitome of gentlemanliness.

“Lady Tenwhestle has been very generous in the loan of this dress—and others,” she answered defiantly.

He swung her into several consecutive 360-degree turns, giving her no choice but to hold on to him tight. The strength in the man’s shoulders…

In her dreams he had pushed her naked person against a pillar and held her there with one hand.

“It’s a pleasure to dance with you, my dear Miss Cantwell,” he said softly. “I have been looking forward to it for days.”

She shivered. Did he dream of her, as she dreamed of him?

“Have you, sir?” She prayed she sounded modest, rather than hopeful.

“But you aren’t only pretty and light on your feet, are you, Miss Cantwell?” he went on. “You are also exceedingly clever.”

She was forcefully reminded that the man was a minefield—why was he suddenly remarking on her cleverness?—and she could not allow herself a moment of distraction. “I’m sure I don’t deserve such extravagant compliments from your lordship.”

“I assure you, Miss Cantwell, you have earned any and all praise on my part. Few debutantes travel along their path to matrimony with as much purpose and design as you do, while appearing as guileless. You have been preparing for years, haven’t you?”

It was all she could do not to trip. “My goodness, sir, do you really think me so scheming?”