I admit, I did not expect that Peter would actually dance.”
Lenora, standing against the wall beside where Lady Tesh sat, flushed hot. “Oh, is he dancing? I hadn’t noticed.” Which was a blatant lie, of course. She hadn’t stopped noticing every move he made from the moment they’d entered the assembly rooms.
Like now, as he made his way with precise care through a quadrille. He was stiff as a poker, his brow furrowed in concentration. But he didn’t embarrass himself. It seemed he had remembered every lesson she’d taught him with impressive recall.
A fact that shouldn’t have sat sour in her stomach as it did.
As glowering and unwelcome as Peter was, he was proving himself to be a favorite with the local ladies. A moment didn’t go by that he wasn’t besieged by some flirtatious miss or another. As she watched, the young lady opposite him in the set batted her lashes, swaying a bit closer than was proper as they passed one another. And she wasn’t even his partner.
Lenora fought the urge to gag. Not that she blamed the woman. In the stark black of his evening wear, the expert cut of it hugging every inch of broad shoulder, every sinew of muscle, Peter put the softer, weaker men about him to shame.
But Lenora’s mumbled untruth was not enough to turn Lady Tesh off the subject. “You haven’t noticed? How can you miss him? Not only is he the tallest man present, but he is quite the most good-looking one as well, even with his ridiculous beard and that horrendous glower of his. No offense to you, of course, Mr. Nesbitt,” she said to the man who had just returned, hands laden with glasses of punch. “I mean, goodness, I knew the man would clean up well. But even I did not expect that.”
Lenora snatched at her glass, taking a deep draft of the punch in an effort to quench her suddenly parched throat.
“What I want to know,” Mr. Nesbitt said, leaning against the wall, “is where he learned to dance like that in the first place.”
Lenora, in the process of tipping her glass back to drain the rest of her beverage, promptly choked.
“I say, Miss Hartley,” Mr. Nesbitt said, coming up behind Lenora and pounding her on the back with enthusiasm, “are you all right? I do hate it when that happens.”
She gasped for breath, trying with all her might to tell the man to stop. The music must have ended just then, for within seconds Peter was at her side.
“Quincy, what the blazes do you think you’re doing to Le—er, Miss Hartley?” Through watering eyes, Lenora saw him glare at Mr. Nesbitt and wave him off. Then he was there, his face close to hers, his eyes tight with concern. And Lenora found she could not breathe for quite another reason.
“Miss Hartley choked on some punch. I was helping her to clear it.”
“Helping her? More like beating her to a bloody pulp.” He leaned even closer. So close Lenora could see the dark ring of indigo in his ice blue eyes. He was closer than he had been since their kiss. “Can you breathe?”
No. “Yes,” she croaked, wiping at her streaming eyes. “I’m fine, thank you.” And then, because she couldn’t stand to be this close to him and not throw herself into his arms, she took a hasty step back.
The worry that had softened his features faded away, to be replaced with a hard chill. “Yes, well, that’s…good.” He cleared his throat, his fingers twitching up toward his neckcloth before dropping back to his side. “If you’ll excuse me.” As he gave a small bow and made to turn away, Lenora did her best to ignore the desolation that swept over her.
“Just a moment, my boy,” Lady Tesh said, thwacking him on the arm with her fan. “You’ve got me curious. Where did you learn to dance like that?”
Lenora blanched. Peter managed to keep his countenance much better than she; there was hardly a twitch on his stony face. Except for his eyes, which flitted to her for the briefest of glances. It was barely noticeable, yet it sent a waterfall of memories washing over her: of darkness and heat, open mouths and desperate hands.
“I’ve picked up a few of the more refined arts here and there,” he mumbled.
“Where?” Mr. Nesbitt demanded. “I’ve known you for thirteen years, and can say with complete confidence that I’ve never witnessed you in any type of situation that required dancing.”
“My mother was my tutor,” Peter replied. A neat attempt at deflecting. And one that didn’t fool Mr. Nesbitt one bit if the predatory look on his face was any indication. Lady Tesh, too, seemed more intrigued than ever. Lenora could only be glad that Margery was off talking with a friend, for she didn’t need another pair of sharp eyes on them.
But Peter would not be able to deflect them forever. And if the increasing tension in his face was any indication, it would not take long for Mr. Nesbitt to push him right over the edge. Her body wound tight as a top, Lenora stepped between the two men. “I hate to break up your conversation, but Mr. Ashford has promised me the next set.”
Lady Tesh stared at her. “He has?”
“Yes.”
The viscountess turned to Peter. “You have promised Lenora the next dance?”
His expression didn’t change in the slightest. “Of course.”
Lady Tesh looked about to say something more. Blessedly the music started up. The perfect escape.
Too late, Lenora realized it was a waltz.
She clenched her hands about the empty cup, her mind whirling now that she had effectively backed herself into a corner. For she could not dance the waltz with him, even had she managed to teach him the steps. Which she most certainly had not. She shivered in remembrance.
“Peter, you know the waltz as well?” Lady Tesh demanded.
“Er…” Finally a reaction from the man. He cast her a panicked look.
“No,” Lenora cut in desperately, “he doesn’t. But he has promised to walk the perimeter of the room with me.”
She deposited the cup on a nearby table and, taking hold of Peter’s arm, pulled him through the thickening crowd.
* * *
“You didn’t have to do that.”
Lenora stayed silent, keeping her gaze forward. She had dropped his arm like a hot poker once a safe distance from Lady Tesh and Quincy. Now they walked side by side, not touching, following the wall of the long assembly hall. The heat of her called to him across the small space between them, and his fingers itched to find the small of her back, to guide her to an out-of-the-way place, to take her in his arms…
He dug his blunt nails into his palm.
“I wouldn’t have told them,” he said.
“Can we not talk about it, please?”
Her voice was razor thin, full of her disgust for what they had done, cutting him as surely as if she had wielded a blade.
Hurt and fury welled up in him. It had been building up over the past days, until he thought he’d go mad with it. But after tonight, first being so close to her in the carriage without being able to touch her, followed by the attentions of the local ladies, as well as making certain he didn’t embarrass himself on the dance floor, he finally snapped. Taking her arm in his grip, he pulled her to a stop. “I know what happened between us disgusts you.”
She gasped, her gaze flying about wildly. “Now is not the time.”
“There will never be a good time,” he spat.
She rolled her eyes. “What I mean is, you stubborn man, we cannot discuss this in such a public setting,” she hissed.
“Fine.” Casting a look about the room, he took in the pale yellow walls with their white trim, the soaring ceiling and sparkling chandeliers. Yet there was not a single alcove to hide away in.
Just then the partygoers began moving as one toward the door beneath the musicians’ gallery.
“What the devil is going on?”
“It’s nine,” Lenora replied. “Time for refreshments in the Tea Room.” She grabbed at her skirts, obviously intending to follow the sea of humanity from the hall.
Peter, however, saw his chance to lay this matter between them to rest. Spying a door close by, he grabbed her hand and hauled her through it without a word.
The cool night air hit him as he stepped out onto what appeared to be a long colonnade that spanned the entire side of the assembly room. Carriages and sedan chairs lined the street. But beyond a few smoking grooms huddled in groups and their sleepy horses, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
He turned her to face him. “Problem solved.”
“You can’t bring me out here,” she sputtered. “If you had something to say, why couldn’t you wait until we were back at Seacliff?”
“Because,” he growled, “I can’t trust myself to be alone with you again.”
That stopped her outrage in its tracks. She let out a breath, her face falling slack.
“I know you have no wish for me to renew my…attentions.” He cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable and questioning his wisdom in even bringing the subject up in the first place. “I merely wanted to tell you that I won’t. That’s all.”
But she was frowning. “You mentioned before bringing me out here that your…ahem, attentions…disgusted me.”
“Yes,” he bit out. “Your point being?”
“My point is,” she said, flushing so bright, he saw it even in the faint light from the street lamps, “they did not. Disgust me, that is.”
Her attempts at appeasing him sat cold and bitter in his gut. “You think I believe that?”
Her brows climbed up her forehead. “And why shouldn’t you?”
“Because I saw the proof of your feelings with my own eyes.” When she merely frowned, he let out a harsh breath. “Most women don’t cry when being…kissed.”
Dawning understanding lit her face. “You think because I cried that I was disgusted by you?”
But he couldn’t continue this conversation. Damnation, it had been the height of foolishness to bring her out here, and was only increasing his torment. “Forget I said anything,” he mumbled.
“I shall not.” To his surprise, she stepped closer, lowered her voice to a delicious rasp. “I cried because I was overwhelmed.”
“Overwhelmed,” he repeated blankly, trying not to think about how wonderful she would feel in his arms.
“Yes.” She cleared her throat and looked down to her toes. “I haven’t felt such strong emotion in…well, ever.”
“Ever?” When she nodded, he couldn’t help pressing, “Surely Hillram affected you.”
When she remained silent, her expression turning almost miserable, the realization hit him: she had not felt these things even with Lord Hillram.
Something warm filled him, something he couldn’t identify—and didn’t want to.
“But it doesn’t matter what I felt, or what you might have felt,” she said. “For you aren’t planning to stay.”
It was not a question, yet her eyes found his in the dim light, asking him to deny it. And mayhap, begging for something else. Something he could never give her.
“No,” he said, “I don’t mean to stay. Nor,” he continued, slowly and distinctly, a reminder to himself as much as a need to make her understand, “do I have any plans to take a wife back with me.”
As she nodded and turned to go back inside, he wondered at the look of pain in her eyes. As well as the regret that filled his chest, so thick and cloying, he could hardly breathe.