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“Willard, Millie.” Blackwell held up individual fingers and then crossed them together. “If anyone in the world is capable of sweeping Millie off her feet, it would be the Golden God of the Sporting Set!”
Asquith exchanged an alarmed glance with Neville.
Unaware, Blackwell continued, “Were Willard to offer for her hand, the wager, your obligation, and Asquith’s would all be moot.” Blackwell folded his arms. “Well, Neville? What do you think? Ties everything up quite nicely.”
“He and Millie would not suit,” Asquith replied with a glacial glare. “And I would never give my permission for such a match.”
Blackwell shrugged. “Your funeral.”
Asquith turned his attention back to the dancing couple. “Willard would never truly pursue Millie.” Willard was far too proud of his unblemished Norman blood, as he liked to say. “This dance is just a ballroom barb, a simple show to flaunt his charm and his power.”
Power Asquith must find a way to challenge without using his fists. He must send Willard a message. Remind him in a way that left no doubt that Asquith was not without resources.
Willard might one day be an earl, but at present he was only heir apparent. Asquith had already taken his seat in the Lords, as had Neville.
The distinction mattered.
“You may rely on me to watch out for her,” Neville replied, his gaze on Millie. “Because of the pact I made with you both. A pact I intend to keep.”
Asquith nodded gravely.
He had his own duties to attend.
To protect Millie, he would face Willard again. Strategically this time.
Then, when the danger had passed, he would do whatever he must to restore himself to Lenora’s good graces.
Heaven and earth, my son. Heaven and earth.
***
Willard—the very man Asquith had repeatedly disparaged—was dancing with Millie.
Failing to be discreet, Lenora found Asquith in the crowd. His expression was grim, as was Neville’s. Two typically composed and self-possessed men appeared murderous. Was Millie in danger?
Lenora’s hands fluttered at her sides. Her leg twitched. She pivoted as if to go toward Asquith. Then she changed her mind and shifted in Millie’s direction.
Unable to commit to a decision, she remained still.
Millie’s eyes brightened with a keen eagerness as her dance with Willard went on. And, by the end of the half-hour set, Millie’s cheeks burned with a becoming blush, completely uncharacteristic of Lenora’s confident, occasionally cunning, sister.
As Willard delivered Millie back to Lady Asquith, Millie looked... happy?
Or, perhaps, excited could be a better word.
Confounding. Asquith’s and Neville’s expressions suggested Millie was in danger. And Asquith had often hinted that he and Willard were not on good terms. But he’d never explained why.
Did Willard pose a threat to Millie? Or had Lenora mistaken the whole situation?
She should trust her sister. Millie prided herself on being a huntress. She could sense danger a mile away.
If Millie was calm, perhaps Asquith and Neville were the ones mistaken. But their enmity was so obvious.
Lord knew Lenora’s father harbored resentment toward any number of gentlemen, resentments entirely unrelated to feminine concerns. But Asquith wouldn’t resent someone for frivolous—
She stopped herself.
Maybe he would. What in the horse-feathered bumble did she know?
