Page 49 of Marrying the Wrong Earl (Lords and Ladies in Love 2)

Their arrival at this ball was markedly different than the last one. Arabella held her head high, confidence in her every movement. His muscles tightened at the stares she was receiving from the men in the room. Had they no one else to gape at? He took her small hand resting on his arm in his and wrapped his arm around her waist. A definite possessive move that was very unlike him. She looked at him, a slight smile that had heat rising to his face. Bloody hell, he was acting like a lovestruck half-wit, the type of man he’d always pitied.

He frowned when Lord Applegate, trailed by two other fools, moved toward them, Applegate’s eyes practically falling out of his muddled head. “My lady.” He bowed and took her extended hand. “You are looking spectacularly enchanting this evening.”

Nash snorted as Arabella did a slight dip and blushed prettily. “Thank you, my lord.”

Mr. Marshall, a known libertine and third son of the Earl of Lancaster, was next to bow and stare at Arabella’s breasts. Nash ran his finger around the inside of his cravat. He would need to find the two lords he must speak with and whisk Arabella home. She was not used to this attention, and she was probably very uncomfortable.

“May I request to be added to your dance card, my lady?” Applegate broke into a foolish grin that had Nash itching to punch it off his ridiculous face. Of course, it would be good manners for Arabella to accept, but since he knew her so well, he would excuse this lapse of good behavior when she refused him.

“Yes, my lord. I would be delighted to add you to my dance card.” She lowered her lashes and held out the small card dangling from her wrist.

Good lord, the woman was flirting! He looked back and forth between Applegate and Arabella, his mouth agape. Before he had recovered his senses, Marshall, and the other man with their group, Lord Boyle, had written their names on her dance card as well. Nash grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and gulped it down as he watched his wife—who liked to sew up bloody animals—banter with three of the most notorious members of the ton.

The orchestra started up a waltz, and setting the glass in his hand on a nearby table, Nash took Arabella’s hand. “My dear. I believe this is my dance.”

She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling. “Did you write your name on my dance card?”

He growled and tugged her away from her admirers, holding her hand tightly as he led her to the dance floor. He spun her around into his arms, gripping her waist, his face close to hers. “I do

not need to write my name on your dance card.”

Arabella shrugged. “I was merely asking, my lord.” The grin on her face riled him even more.

The dance number began, and they moved with the music. “You are very popular tonight, my dear.” Lord, he hated how his voice sounded. He was leaving himself open for her scorn. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was jealous. Which he was not, of course, but there was no reason to make her believe that.

“Do you think so?” She seemed actually pleased.

“I thought you did not enjoy the attentions of the ton.” Could she hear the desperation in his voice? He needed to pull himself together before she burst out laughing. Taking a deep breath, he turned them to avoid another couple.

“I find I do not mind it so much this evening. Perhaps I have been misjudging people.”

She had not been misjudging people, she had merely been dressed as the wallflower she’d thought herself to be. Only good enough for old men. He pulled her closer, their thighs touching as they moved in a circle.

“Nash, I don’t think this is respectable.” She tried to ease back. He was having none of it. She belonged to him, and everyone here would know it.

He leaned in, whispering in her ear. “When we get home, I will show you how very unrespectable I can be.”

Her breath hitched. “I don’t think that’s a word.”

“No matter. What I have in mind does not require words.” He spun her around, noting how weak her legs seemed as she clung to him. “Trust me.”

Chapter Sixteen

Arabella was certain Sophia had laced her stays too tight. Ever since Nash had entered her bedroom earlier, she’d had trouble breathing. Now with the look on his face, and his comments, she was sure she’d faint dead away.

His muscled arm was tight against her waist, his hand splayed across her lower back. Muscular thighs encased in satin breeches—which were now touching her legs in a most inappropriate manner—along with his black waistcoat and tailcoat gave him a very rakish look.

Their entrance down the stairs to the ballroom had been much friendlier this time. She couldn’t help but think it had a great deal to do with her husband. Every woman they passed had eyed him as if he were the next course in their dinner. Were she not so annoyed at their forwardness, she might have giggled at the two young ladies who dropped their handkerchiefs in his path.

Thankfully, he had missed it. He seemed too taken up with the few gentlemen who had requested dances from her. She thought it was very nice of them, since she would no doubt have a mostly empty dance card.

The music came to an end. Nash seemed reluctant to let her go. She viewed him with curiosity as she attempted to move out of his arms. “Nash? I believe I would like a glass of lemonade before my next dance.”

“Certainly, my dear.” Keeping his hand on her lower back, he walked her back to the crowd at the edge of the dance floor. He maneuvered her around several gentlemen who seemed to want to speak to them and right to a group of elderly matrons, who immediately invited her into their conversation about their various ailments.

Confused at his behavior since they’d arrived, she watched him make his way back to the refreshment table. Lady Humphries tapped her on the arm with her fan. “No point in watching him, dear, men will do what they want. You best remember that.” She tapped her cane on the floor to emphasize her point.

“I beg your pardon?” What did the woman mean?