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The way he said her name, the timbre of his voice lowering to a rumbling purr, caused another prickle across her flesh.

She was wrong. He most definitely was dangerous.

“I so desired an introduction, I cajoled my dear aunt into doing the honors. I was determined to make your acquaintance,” he murmured, the sincerity in his melodic baritone not quite reaching his quicksilver eyes.

Determined? She gawked, open-mouthed, only shutting it with a snap when Yvette nudged her none too gently in the ribs.

The musicians struck a few discordant notes. An elderly lord, smelling of camphor and hair tonic, bowed before Yvette. “I believe you promised me this dance, my dear.”

Yvette smiled. “Indeed, I did, Uncle Gabriel.” She looked to Vangie. “Your headache?”

“Is all but gone,” Vangie assured her. It wasn’t the truth. The pounding in her skull had increased steadily.

With a smile and a little wave, Yvette placed her other hand on her uncle’s arm and allowed him to lead her away.

Vangie flinched as Lord Pickles rudely shoved his way past her cousin. She was certain he thought to partner her for the next dance. For a number of weeks now, the loathsome bore had been trying to persuade her to venture into another, much less respectable, sort of liaison.

With practiced efficiency, a pinched look about her nose and mouth, Lady Fitzgibbons introduced the viscount and earl. Breathing between her slightly parted lips, Vangie only half listened, the whole while silently rehearsing her excuse for declining to dance with Lord Pickles.

Wait. Did her ladyship say his name is Pickering?

Bold as brass, Lord Warrick tucked her gloved hand into the bend of his arm.

Surprised and startled, she glanced upward.

His mouth curved into a confident smile. “Miss Caruthers, do say you’ll do me the honor of partnering me for this dance.”

She ought to object to his forwardness. Instead, she returned his smile, grateful to have been rescued from the awkwardness of refusing Lord Pickering. Now, perhaps he would scurry away and leave her be.

“I say, Warrick, Miss Caruthers was to be my partner for this waltz,” Pickering whined.

Arching an arrogant eyebrow, Lord Warrick smiled possessively, offering what sounded like a half-sincere apology. “Sorry, Pickering, old chap. Miss Caruthers has graciously accepted my request.”

Persistent to the point of boorishness, Lord Pickering insisted, “I heard no acceptance.” He turned his watery gaze on Vangie, releasing a waft of stale body odor with his movement. “Do you wish to dance with the viscount or myself, Evangeline?”

The way he puffed out his padded chest indicated he’d every confidence she would favor an earl over a minor lord. Most impressionable misses would have done. She, however, wasn’t one of them. And Evangeline? Did the man have no sense of propriety? Faith, whatever was he thinking addressing her by her Christian name? She’d never given him permission to do so. His cock-sureness and indecorous behavior was embarrassing, not to mention off-putting.

Lady Fitz—gibbles?—rounded on him, outraged. “Lord Pickering, you overstep the bounds! How dare you address Miss Caruthers in such a manner?”

“Indeed, bad ton, Pickering,” Lord Warrick said, “taking liberties with a lady.”

Vangie cast him a swift, puzzled glance. Did sarcasm tinge his voice?

He returned her regard with an innocent smile.

She must have imagined the mockery.

“Miss Caruthers?” Scratching his bum, Lord Pickering looked at her expectantly.

Gads, but he was gauche. Grateful to be spared his lascivious attention and malodorous company, she answered, “Lord Warrick did ask first, Lord Pickle—er, Pickering.”

Sputtering in indignation, the fop stomped off, his face a mottled shade of red; an exact match to his garish, clattering footwear.

“Needs his ears boxed, boorish jackanape.” Lady Fitzgibbons jabbed her fan in the direction of his retreating form. Nose wrinkled, she gave the air a delicate sniff. “And a bath, by God!”

Vangie suppressed a smile. My sentiments exactly.

Half-turning toward the card room, her ladyship spoke over her shoulder. “Enjoy your dance, dears. I’m off to challenge Lady Higgenbottom to a game of faro. She’s such a poor loser.” With a wink, and a naughty chuckle, she made for the exit.

Lord Warrick tilted his dark head, indicating the other dancers. “Shall we?”