“Lud, Evansleigh, you’ve been holding out on us.” The unmistakable baritone of Lord Derington’s voice rumbled over the high-pitched notes of the lively quadrille.
Evan glanced to his left and nodded in greeting, though he made no effort to hide his grimace. “Not at all. I’m quite certain I’ve mentioned my sister before.”
Crossing his muscled arms over his barrel chest, Dering cut his eyes to the dance floor. “Yes, but not a word as to her beauty.”
Evan followed the other man’s dark gaze to where Julia and her partner, the young vicar, Mr. Thomas Wright, danced in time with the music. The golden-brown curls around her face bounced with each step she took, highlighting her rosy cheeks and framing her smile. Her overbright smile, as far as Evan was concerned.
“Not that I blame you,” Dering added, flicking his gaze back to Evan. “No doubt you’d have suitors lining your drive when word got out. In fact, I’ll be interested to see what kind of traffic your drawing room sustains tomorrow.”
Evan scowled, his jaw clenching at the thought. “None. Julia is not in the market for a husband.” Even as he spoke the words, she laughed and said something to Wright, her eyes dancing with delight that was visible from half a room away. The scene could very well be titled “Gaiety at the Dance Hall.”
“Hm. Are you sure she knows that?”
“She knows,” he replied tersely. Perhaps he should have turned her around and marched her back to Ledbury when he had the chance. He bit the inside of his cheek. Not that he’d ever had the chance. She’d been so determined, he doubted anything he would have done could have compelled her to leave.
The question was, what had happened to distress her so much? And why was she here now, laughing and dancing like some sort of freshly presented debutante?
“It begs the question, you know,” Dering murmured, his voice a dull rumble.
Evan did know. He didn’t even have to ask what his friend meant. “She’s of sufficient fortune and family to make her own decisions, and she decided to pursue spinsterhood. Brilliant idea, in my opinion.” It was an explanation they had decided on together, and he always had it at the ready.
“Perhaps she is simply waiting on the right man to turn her head. Sounds like a challenge to me.”
Pointedly turning away from the dance floor, Evan looked up at his towering companion. “Don’t you need a drink?”
Dering shook his head. “No, actually. I’ve a dance card to sign when this set is over.” He winked, a rakish grin turning up one corner of his mouth.
Damn it. Evan liked the man, but he wasn’t above thrashing him should Dering get the idea in his head that Julia was fair game. Gritting his teeth, Evan nodded. He’d rather not make too big a concern out of it, lest he pique the viscount’s interest any more. “Suit yourself.”
Dering chuckled. “To think I imagined you an easygoing type of fellow.”
He was—when his “friends” weren’t eyeing his sister as though she were some sort of dessert. “Do you have a sister, Dering?”
“You know I don’t.”
“Then shut the hell up.”
* * *
Considering the hundreds of people crammed into the Assembly Rooms, it shouldn’t have been so easy to spot Lord Evansleigh, but Sophie had seen him almost the moment she arrived. He stood on the perimeter of the dance floor, ridiculously handsome as usual, his attention riveted on the gliding dancers.
Given the likelihood of his attendance—Evan seemed to enjoy the dances as much as she did—his presence should have been a forgone conclusion, yet she still breathed a long sigh of relief. Operation Woo the Earl had begun.
Sophie stepped a few feet to the left, out of the way of the steady flow of traffic pushing into the cavernous Ballroom. The air was warm and humid, yet every last candle on the five monstrous chandeliers was blazing, surely two hundred of them if there was one. She stood on her tiptoes and tried to keep the earl in her line of sight, madly fluttering her fan all the while.
Step One—being in the same room with the man—could officially be considered accomplished. Step Two—having him fall in love with her—and Step Three—accepting his proposal—were surely right around the corner now. She bit her lip against a slightly deranged laugh. This was hopeless.
Already the butterflies had taken flight in her belly, and he wasn’t even within speaking distance. Did the earl have to fill out his jacket quite so well? Really, if he could have a bit of a humpback, or a face full of spots, perhaps, then maybe she wouldn’t feel quite so thoroughly out of her league.
No such luck. He was perfect, with gorgeous shining mahogany hair just long enough to tie back in a dashing tail, and a jaw that was surely the envy of statues everywhere. Lord Derington stood at his side, but instead of dwarfing the earl, the comparison actually served only to make Dering seem oafish and Evan just right.
She dropped down from her toes and sighed. Oh, why had she eaten supper tonight? She should have known her stomach would be rioting at the prospect of actually going over and talking to the man. Putting a hand to her middle, Sophie started edging back to the door.
She couldn’t do this. The sort of bravery such things required was beyond little mousy her. She would simply have to return home, learn a trade, and be self-sufficient for the rest of her life. Or perhaps there was a great need for oboists that she hadn’t known about, but for which she would be perfect. Or even better, she and her youngest sister, Pippa, could join forces, triumphing in the underserved niche of oboe and viola duettists.
“Where do you think you are going?”
Fiddlesticks. Sophie smiled guiltily and met May’s stern expression. “Nowhere. Why?”
“I know a retreat when I see one, Sophie Wembley, and I shan’t let you get away with it.” She stood tall and straight, as effective a barrier as a silk-draped stone wall.
“I was afraid of that.” Wrinkling her nose, Sophie sent her friend a rueful glance. “Where is Charity when she’s needed? She would understand the deep and abiding need to flee.”
“She’ll be back soon enough. In the meantime, you have me.” Despite her firm tone, May’s aquamarine eyes were soft. Looping her arm around Sophie’s elbow, she pulled her close. “You deserve a future, my dear. And the clock is ticking before news of the scandal breaks. This is not the time to turn tail and run. Now, chin up, breasts out, and go forth and enchant your man.”
“May!” Sophie exclaimed, sending furtive looks in all directions to make sure no one had heard the outrageous comment. Horrified laughter bubbled up from deep within her, eclipsing the nervousness. “You can’t say things like that in public. You’ll get us thrown out. Though at this point, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing. On second thought, can you say it again, only a little louder this time?” She fluttered her eyelashes, only half teasing. Still, May’s reminder of why Sophie was here was exactly what she needed.
Now was the time to be bold. Or, at the very least, to attempt to be bold.
Without answering, May started forward, pulling Sophie along with her through the crush. Given May’s height and the striking jade-and-cream silk gown she wore, there was certainly no blending in with the crowd. People naturally gave way to her, which meant that they were proceeding much more rapidly than Sophie was prepared for. Her heart pounded jarringly in her chest, so loudly that she was sure others could hear it above the din of the packed Ballroom. Ahead, she could see Dering’s wide shoulders, a beacon in the rushing tide of revelers sweeping by on the dance floor.
As they approached, she caught better glimpses of Evan. Sophie smiled vaguely to those she brushed past, all the while keeping her gaze firmly on the earl. His attention, in turn, seemed captivated by the dancers, his eyes tracking their movements with the dedication of a theatergoer at a particularly well-done play. How strange that he should be standing to the side instead of dancing. She had presumed he loved to dance just as much as she did, and she rarely saw him without a partner.
Tonight he looked . . . dour. Stern, even.
“May,” Sophie said, tugging against her friend’s momentum. “Wait.”
She paused, lifting an eyebrow. “Yes?”
The music ended then, and a swell of conversation rushed to fill the void. Sophie rose on her toes so she could speak close to her friend’s ear. “I don’t think this is a good time. He looks almost cross, and I certainly don’t want to approach him when he is in a bad mood, because, really, if one wants to make the best impression, shouldn’t one approach one when one’s positive reception may be most assured?”
She was babbling, but this suddenly felt all wrong. She fumbled with her forgotten fan, desperate to cool her overheated face. Snapping it open, she swished it back and forth so rapidly that her carefully coiffed curls lifted from her temples.
May pursed her lips, probably attempting to decipher Sophie’s rush of words, then gave a decisive shake of her head. “I won’t let your nerves get the best of you simply because he’s—” She stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing in the direction of where the earl had stood. “Oh, Lud, where did she come from?”
Sophie followed her friend’s gaze, then nearly cursed right there in the middle of the Ballroom. Miss Harmon. Sophie’s nose wrinkled in displeasure and not a little jealousy. The woman was a menace. Or a plague. Yes, a plague was more like it. She was beautiful—as well she knew—and a talented pianoforte player, but she was the type of individual who preyed on other people’s weaknesses so that she might feel better about herself. At least that’s what Sophie assumed her motive was; it could just be that she reveled in making others look bad.
Marianne was the youngest daughter of Lord Wexley, and when she and Sophie had debuted together two years ago, someone had confused the names, accidentally calling Marianne Miss Wembley. Gasping in overdramatic horror, she had proceeded to verbally berate the man for daring to confuse her dignified family with the lowly Wembleys. Sophie had been only a few feet from them, too shocked to do anything other than back away and escape to the ladies’ retiring room.
Sophie had since learned how better to stand up for herself, but she still disliked the woman. And now here she was, resting her gloved fingers on the arm of the one man Sophie longed for above all others, leaning toward him as though she needed his warmth to survive.
“Go, now,” May urged, giving her a nudge. “Don’t let her get her claws into him.”
Nodding, Sophie squared her shoulders, pulled herself up to her full height—all five feet two inches of it—and started on her way. With every step, the butterflies in her stomach fluttered a little faster, until she was sure she would lift from the ground and be carried away. But she stayed the course. Somewhere between Step One—being in the same room with Evan—and Step Two—having him fall in love with her—she probably needed to actually be within speaking distance of him.
Of course Marianne would look absolutely beautiful tonight, with her golden hair piled in gorgeous twists and curls atop her head, and her bronze and ivory gown making her skin fairly glow in the candlelight. No doubt her eyes would be luminescent as well, since bronzes and golds always complemented their amber hue.
Meanwhile, though Sophie had felt quite confident in her minty green dress and remarkably tamed curls when she had arrived, she had the sinking feeling she would look like an overripe pear by comparison.
She slowed, now only a few yards away. Perhaps she should wait until Miss Harmon moved on. Yes, that was best. No use offering herself up for an unflattering comparison, one that she knew from experience the woman would have no qualms about pointing out. Even though deep down Sophie knew she was grasping for a reason to turn around and release the tension building within her like a teakettle with a clogged spout, she still desperately wished she could take the coward’s way out and retreat.
Steeling herself, she marched forward. She could do this. She was good enough, pretty enough, talented enough, and intelligent enough to not only speak to Evan, but stand up to the comparison with Marianne. Now she was six feet away, five feet, four . . .
At the last second, she spun on her heel, doing an about-face. She couldn’t do it—she just couldn’t. All at once the tension vibrating through her body eased. She exhaled a pent-up breath, relief and dismay sagging her shoulders.
“Miss Wembley!”
Sophie froze. Oh God, that was Evan’s voice. That was Evan’s delectable voice, and he was saying her name. With her heart lodged firmly in her throat, she swiveled on the balls of her feet to face him. Or rather, to face his chest, which just happened to be at her eye level. It was a very nice chest, one that she would be quite happy to stare at, especially if it meant not having to meet his gaze. Gathering every bit of nerve she had in the world, she forced herself to look up into his gorgeous pale blue eyes. “Yes?” she squeaked.
“There you are,” he said, smiling as though they’d been intimates for years. He stepped forward and held out his hand to her, his long fingers holding steady only a foot away so there was no mistaking that she really was the person he wished to address. “I believe this is our dance.”
Their dance? Of their own volition, her hands covered her heart. Me? She had meant to say the word, but no sound had escaped when she opened her mouth.
He nodded, the movement small but unmistakably in the affirmative. His hand stayed right where it was, beckoning her to slip her fingers into his. The very thought sent shivers cascading down her back. With his smile still firmly in place, he tilted his head and said, “Shall we?”
* * *
Evan gritted his teeth even as he smiled, willing the girl to agree to his ruse. God’s teeth, but he’d do anything to escape the clutches of that blasted Miss Harmon. She was about as subtle as a stampeding bull when it came to her interest in him, and he’d be damned if he would be wrangled into dancing with her after she had just subtly insulted both his sister and his friend in the space of a single sentence.
Of course, if he had given two seconds of thought to his choice of coconspirators, he would have never dragged poor Miss Wembley into it. She looked exactly like a startled mouse who’d been caught in the corner by a hungry cat. “Erm,” she said, something akin to panic swimming in her wide, dark-brown eyes. Her gaze dropped to his hand, considering it as one might a loaded pistol.
His conscience pinged, but it was too late to withdraw the offer. If she wished to correct him, then so be it, but he was committed to the ruse until then. It probably would have been better just to have given the Harmon chit the cut directly when he had the chance, no matter how distasteful such an action would have been.
Plunging ahead, he lowered his brows in a look of contrition. “You must forgive me for losing track of time,” he said, his voice sincerely apologetic. Her eyes darted up to meet his, and he locked gazes with her, trying to convince her that he was not setting her up in some sort of trick. “I must have gotten carried away with my conversation with Miss Harmon, but I would never miss our dance, I assure you.”
For two interminable seconds, she didn’t move or say a word. Then, finally, she slipped her small hand into his. “Yes, course. Of course,” she corrected, then blushed and looked away.
“Why, Miss Wembley,” Miss Harmon said, her voice holding a flat note of disingenuousness. “How lovely to see you.” Turning back to Evan, she added, “Do mind your toes, my lord. Sadly, Miss Wembley’s excellent sense of rhythm when she plays her oboe doesn’t always translate to the dance floor.”
Evan stiffened. Christ, he hadn’t expected her to lash out at the girl. “You must be thinking of someone else. I can assure you, Miss Wembley is an accomplished dancer.” His words were sharp as he sent her a cutting glance. Dismissing her without another word, he turned to his innocent accomplice. “Shall we?”
She darted a shocked glance from Miss Harmon’s direction before meeting his eyes once more. This time, a hint of a smile curled her lips as she drew a breath and nodded.
It didn’t matter that the music had not yet even started for the next set, or that his sister had been waylaid by Dering and was nodding as he gestured at her dance card. Offering his partner a subtle wink, Evan grasped her hand more tightly and pulled her toward the very center of the dance floor. After what she’d done for him, he was keen to make this the best dance he could.
“It’s all right, my lord. You needn’t dance with me to prove a point.”
He ignored her softly spoken words and tugged her into the waltzing position as the conductor tapped his baton to signal the start. “You’re absolutely right,” he said, holding her firmly in place, one arm at her back and the other at her elbow. “What a relief to be able to dance with you for the pure pleasure of it.”
Her mouth dropped open half an inch or so as she drew another swift breath. But then the music started, and he swooped into motion, swinging her along across the rapidly filling dance floor. Here he felt comfortable. He was an excellent dancer, and was at ease moving in time to the music. His partners’ skills never much mattered; he had a way of leading them that never failed to lend grace to even the most awkward of dancers.
But, much to his surprise, Miss Wembley wasn’t awkward. Not in the least. Once the dance was really under way, her eyes lost that anxious gleam and instead reflected true pleasure in their coffee-colored depths. She moved beautifully, in fact, and he couldn’t help but return the genuine smile that graced her lips at last.
“Thank you,” he said, leaning a bit closer. He caught a hint of her light scent, a sort of lemony rose fragrance. “You are an absolute gem.”
“Am I?” One raven brow lifted with a hint of playfulness. “And here I thought I was a means to an end.”