Page 5 of 10 Things I Hate About the Earl

“I have no idea who you’re talking about, cuz.” Celinda snapped her fan open, catching the attention of a gentleman across the room and smiling at him.

“Why are you flirting with Bertie Symmons? We’ve known him since we were eight years old, and he cried when his mama wouldn’t allow him to climb a tree.” Kate glared at the young man in question, the son of one of their neighbors in Somerset.

“One has to flirt with old friends sometimes if one wants to dance badly enough.” Celinda touched the edge of the fan with her finger, snapped it closed, and smiled at Bertie, who hastily excused himself and headed toward them.

“I’ve never wanted to dance quite that badly.” Kate sniffed and wiggled her toes in her new green satin slippers. Standing for so long during the early part of the Season took some getting used to. “I do wish I had an inkling of who I wanted to flirt with.”

“As do I.” Celinda laughed. “I have no idea so far this Season. I’m just practicing on Bertie so I’ll remember how.”

“Lady Celinda, Miss Locke.”

Kate whirled around and stopped dead, coming face to face with Lady Hamilton and the handsome stranger she’d been looking for. Lord, but he looked even more attractive up close. He smiled charmingly, revealing white, even teeth in a wide mouth with sensual lips. Her heart stuttered.

Celinda’s China blue eyes widened, and a brilliant smile curved her lips. She curtsied, and Kate followed suit, quite unable to take her gaze off the gentleman.

“Ladies, good evening once more.” Lady Hamilton nodded, smiling first at one then the other of them. “May I introduce Lord Finley? He is recently returned from some five years in America.”

Kate struggled to breathe. She snapped her fan open and plied it vigorously, hoping she wouldn’t swoon.

“My lord, this is Lady Celinda Grantham, Lord Ivor’s daughter. Miss Katherine Locke is her cousin and Lord Ainsley’s sister.”

Lord Finley bowed gracefully, coiled animal energy in the movement. “Lady Celinda, I am familiar with your family.” His large, deep blue eyes, the exact color of an early night sky, gleamed in the candlelight. “Miss Locke.” He bowed again then turned back to her cousin. “Might I beg the next dance, Lady Celinda?”

“Of course, my lord.” Celinda cast her eyes down and shut her fan.

Kate’s heart sank. He had chosen her cousin instead of her. How unfair when she’d seen him first.

“And the next after with you, Miss Locke, if you are not engaged?” His dark eyes seemed to pierce her, almost as though he knew her thoughts.

“I would be honored, Lord Finley.” At least she would get to dance with him eventually.

“Then that is settled.” Lady Hamilton gave a trilling laugh and, putting a hand on her arm, drew Kate a little away.

“Shall we go make up the set, my lady?” Finley offered his arm, and Celinda grasped it as though it were a lifeline.

“Thank you, my lord. I’d be delighted.”

“Lady Celinda?” Bertie Symmons finally arrived, frowning to find Celinda firmly anchored to Lord Finley’s arm. “I thought…I mean…”

“Oh, Bertie. Mr. Symmons, that is.” Celinda smiled smoothly as though nothing were amiss. “Lord Finley, may I present Mr. Symmons, an old acquaintance.” She continued to smile and nod in Kate’s direction. “Mr. Symmons, as I have just accepted a dance with Lord Finley, you must ask to stand up with Miss Locke.”

She would murder her cousin before the evening was through. Not only was Bertie uninteresting, but he was also a horrible dance partner. Celinda would be made to pay. Still, she must put on a delighted face for Lord Finley to see. Kate smiled and looked expectantly at Bertie.

“Would you like to dance, Kate?” He sounded as unsure as possible, and if Celinda had been the only one present, she would’ve glared and banished him to the ends of the earth.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Symmons. I should be delighted.” She took his arm and followed Celinda and her delectable partner onto the dance floor. “If you step on my feet, Bertie,” she whispered as they took their places in line, “I shall kick you in the shins.” Let the martyrdom begin.

* * * *

“Shall we take this corner here?” Ainsley indicated a small square table for two drawn up cozily near the fire.

“As you wish.” Marcus followed his friend, snaring a glass of wine from a footman stationed just outside the card room. “Bezique?” He sat with his back to the fire, the better to see Ainsley’s face during play.

“Piquet, please? I’ve gone off Bezique recently.” Ainsley settled in the seat opposite. “That was all old Boyle wanted to play last weekend. As I’m wooing the gentleman’s support for a vote coming up in a couple of weeks, I played it for four days running.”

Marcus shrugged. “One’s as good as the other, as long as you lose.” He was a much better Bezique player than Piquet, but he felt luck was with him tonight, so it should not matter in the least. He twirled the stem of his glass, the rich burgundy wine glowing like a jewel in the firelight.

“Grown cocky, have you?” Ainsley pulled the walnut card box, inlaid with a mother-of-pearl design, toward him. He opened it and fished out the two plainest decks. “I assume you have no affinity for flowers, Haversham?”