“That’s done!” Deanna laid the stick of sealing wax onto the blotter and piled the last letter on the already precariously high stack of folded, embossed sheets. Her back hurt, and a throbbing in her temples presaged the onset of a headache. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head against the intricately carved back of her chair and massaged her forehead and neck. “I wonder—do I need spectacles?”
Sybil placed a bookmark between the pages of the novel she had been devouring and looked at Deanna from the comfort of an upholstered loveseat. A multitude of large and small silk cushions were tucked behind and around her, a thick tartan rug in a bold yellow and blue pattern covered her legs, and a matching scarf, fringed in black, hugged her shoulders. Resting her head against a particularly soft cushion, she peeked at Deanna through half-closed eyes.
“If you would light a branch of candles instead of a single one, you would not have to wonder about a need for spectacles. Sometimes you are very foolish, Deanna. Aunt Meredith can well afford to buy candles, and if you had not insisted on writing all of Felix’s letters in one sitting, your back would not hurt either, which I daresay it does, judging by the looks of that chair.”
The girls were seated in the small sitting room sandwiched between their bedchambers. Velvet drapes in a delicate shade of rose were drawn across the window to shut out cold drafts and the early dusk of the winter night. Sybil, on the loveseat under the window, was bathed in a pool of soft light cast by an oil lamp nearby while Deanna sat in near-darkness at a small Queen Anne writing desk on the opposite side of the room.
With a sigh Deanna rose and blew out her candle. “Once you’re used to practicing economy, it’s hard to break the habit,” she murmured, more to herself than to Sybil. “I am hungry. It must be almost time for dinner.”
“Not for another two hours. Did you not have tea?”
“Oh yes. I had a cup of tea and a biscuit in the nursery, but I suppose I’m a bit slow adjusting to town hours. Never, until I came to London, have I dined at eight o’clock.”
“George and I had the most delicious crumpets and cream cakes in a fabulous little tea shop in the city,” said Sybil, her eyes turning wide and dreamy. “It’s called Mother Hubbard’s after the proprietess, and she even has a string quartet playing the most romantic music …”
Deanna sat down in an overstuffed armchair before the fireplace and stretched her cold feet toward the warmth. “Felix did not go with you?”
“Only to the Tower. Then he excused himself. George thought he went to Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon to have a bout with the master.”
Already regretting her show of curiosity, Deanna abruptly changed the subject. “I believe Robby may be trying to say my name, Sybil. I heard him say ‘Dee’ today.”
“That could mean just about anything,” Sybil scoffed. “He seems a bit slow, doesn’t he? I remember baby brother Jeremy chattering like a magpie when he was little older than a year. But aside from ‘Mama’ and ‘Papa’ that one time at Thistledown Cottage, we’ve heard nothing but screeches from Robby.”
“He may not want to speak.” Deanna hefted her chair around and looked at Sybil with a troubled frown. “I showed Robby the locket again today. He did not react at all, just went on playing with the wooden blocks Katie discovered in an old chest in the nursery.”
“At least he seems content.”
“Perhaps. But I’m afraid he may be more affected by the death of his mother than we know.”
Sybil’s long lashes hid her eyes as she stared at the book in her lap. “I’m a heartless wretch,” she said so softly that Deanna could barely make out the words. “I never thought of that—Jeremy would be heartbroken if he were suddenly separated from Mama or Nurse.”
“That’s why I am so very grateful to your aunt for freeing Katie from her duties so that she may stay with Robby. The constancy is good for him, and he is very attached to Katie. I believe her blond curls attracted him at first, but now he loves her for herself.”
“You don’t think he’s confusing her with his mother, do you?”
“No, dear. He knows the difference, I’m sure.”
They fell silent, the stillness broken only by the hiss and crackle of the burning logs in the hearth. But Sybil could not stay subdued for any period of time. Before long she had revived her drooping spirits with glowing memories of her outing. A reminiscing smile curved her lips, and she spoke aloud before she quite realized that she was doing so.
“George bought roasted chestnuts from an old man. We warmed our hands on the hot nuts, and then he peeled them … and we ate them together.”
The small worry lines on Deanna’s forehead deepened. “Sybil dear, perhaps you should not have stayed out quite so long with George. It isn’t seemly to be spending four or five hours in the company of a young gentleman.”
“Pooh! Who would object to my driving out with George in an open carriage and with a groom constantly behind us? Besides, if you feel I shouldn’t be alone with George, you should have come with us.”
This was unanswerable. Deanna’s eyes fell. She didn’t know herself why she had refused George and Felix’s invitation to go driving. There was nothing she would have enjoyed better than to be out and about in the crisp, cold air, being tooled through the old, narrow streets of the city in a sporting curricle drawn by a pair of high-stepping horses. She had stuffed her needlepoint into her workbasket, ready to go; but then she had glanced at Felix.
He had looked so … so certain of her acceptance with that curl of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. One dark brow had risen questioningly at her hesitation, and suddenly she had been afraid—afraid to spend several hours in his magnetic presence. She still felt the butterfly touch of his lips against her palms as if he had kissed them only seconds ago, not yesterday. So, out of cowardice, she had elected to remain at Saltash House to write letters to twenty-two of Robert Armagh’s former comrades in arms—a depressing substitution for an afternoon of fun and frolic.
Lady Saltash’s words popped into Deanna’s mind. “If we cannot find you a husband among the eligible bachelors …”
Well, she did not feel she must find a husband. But, on the other hand, the alternative would mean spending her days in the cottage in Moorfielding—companion to her mother. And later on, in her middle-aged years, she would have to find a position, for Mama’s miniscule navy pension would cease with her demise. Deanna sighed, not very happy with the picture she had painted of her future.
If a sedate widower with a brood of promising children was to be her fate, she might as well enjoy her present freedom as fully and for as long as she could. No more denying myself a harmless pleasure because I might … just might burn my wings by falling in love with a most eligible bachelor!
“Sybil, I’m sorry.” Deanna rose and walked swiftly to the younger girl. Perching on the edge of the loveseat, she gave Sybil a quick hug. “Enjoy yourself, love. After all, that’s why your mama sent you to town. Just be careful, will you? I don’t wish to see you get hurt. George and Felix are charming companions. I just don’t believe they are contemplating—” She broke off.
“Contemplating what, Deanna?”
“Never mind, dear. I have no right to make a judgment, for I do not know them well at all. Just don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. Promise?”
Sybil giggled. “You sound quite spinterish tonight, Deanna. Are you feeling low because you didn’t drive out with Felix?”
“Saucebox!” Tugging gently on Sybil’s ear, Deanna said, “Be warned that on your next outing you will have a chaperon, like it or not. I won’t have another excuse to duck out.”
Sybil swatted Deanna’s hand away and pushed her off the loveseat. “Go and lie down for a while. I believe the headache has addled your brains.”
“I believe I will. Call me when it’s time to get ready for dinner.” A mischievous smile flitted across Deanna’s face. “You may come to rue this, Sybil. A well-rested chaperon can be a veritable ogre, and I believe you are planning to spend time with George at Lady Ogylvee’s soiree tonight?”
Chuckling, Deanna dodged a flying cushion and ran across the room. She picked up the candle on the escritoire and lit it in the fireplace. Righting it hastily to avoid spilling wax into the hearth, she shielded the flame with her hand as she walked toward her bedchamber. The smile faded from her lips when the door was shut securely behind her. How close Sybil had come to the truth—and how mortifying to have to admit it; but she did feel low because she had deprived herself of an opportunity to be with Felix.
The throbbing in her temples increased to a vicious hammering, and her hand shook as she set the candle on the nightstand. Hurriedly she pulled off her slippers and crawled under the quilted coverlet of her four-poster. Curling into a comfortable position, Deanna closed her eyes.
But she could not shut out the image of Felix’s tanned face. Nonsense! How could he be tanned in the middle of winter! He was swarthy. Yes, swarthy—just like a pirate …
His eyes kept changing color. Now they were gray-green, now green. He was angry with her. No, angry with Robby …
Robby’s face with its pale, delicate features and the shock of black hair drifted close to Felix’s scowling one. Robby looked terrified …
Please don’t be angry with him, Felix!
Deanna sat up in bed, her heart thudding and her pulse racing madly. There was a drumming in her head—but no, it was a tap on the door.
“What is it?” she called, trying to catch her breath.
The door was opened softly, and Raker peeked into the room. “Sorry if I waked ye, Miss Olivia. But there’s my lord Fenchmore askin’ to have a word with ye.”
Deanna shook her head to rid herself of the drowsiness that was fogging her mind. Had she been dozing? Her headache was gone—she must have rested longer than she thought.
Misunderstanding the headshake, Raker asked uncertainly, “Ye want me to tell his lordship ye’re not at home?”
“No, of course not. I’ll see the earl. Where is he, Raker?”
“Billings showed him in the small salon on the ground floor, miss.”
“Thank you. I’ll be down directly.”
Deanna scrambled from the bed and shook out the skirt of her gown. It was too rumpled; she couldn’t possibly see a visitor in this state. She must change—but first some cold water for her face.
When she had changed into a gown of honey-colored wool, piped in black and trimmed with knots of black velvet around the hem, she pulled a handsome Norwich shawl from the wardrobe and hastened from the room, flinging the shawl around her shoulders as she sped down the stairs.
Halfway down the first flight, she spun around and raced back up again to her sitting room. It was empty now. Sybil had retired to her own chamber—a sliver of light showed under the door, and the splashing of water penetrated through the panels.
Well, never mind. She didn’t need a chaperon at her age. Deanna snatched up the pile of letters she had written earlier, then descended to the ground floor in a slow and dignified manner.
A footman was ready to usher her into the small salon. And small it was. Felix’s powerful presence seemed to fill the narrow room from wall to wall. He stood by the fireplace, with his back to the door, one elegantly shod foot propped on the fender, and his arm resting negligently against the mantel of Italian marble. At her entrance he straightened and turned swiftly.
“Good evening, Felix,” she said, marveling at the steadiness of her voice, for the sight of him in evening dress had quite taken her breath away. The whiteness of his shirt and stock contrasted sharply with his skin, his dark-brown hair, and the midnight-blue evening coat he wore.
She thrust the letters at him. “Your visit is very timely. I finished them less than an hour ago. Will you frank them?”
Deanna knew she was talking too fast, but while her eyes were roaming over his broad shoulders, which needed no padding to fill the exquisitely tailored coat, and over his long, muscular legs outlined by creaseless, champagne-colored pantaloons, she simply could not concentrate on what she was saying.
“Do I pass inspection?” Felix took the letters, a smile softening his harsh features and his eyes dancing as he watched a slow blush stain her cheeks.
Deanna wished she could think of a scathing reply, but instead a gurgle of laughter rose irrepressibly in her throat. She’d been gawking like the veriest schoolgirl, and she couldn’t blame him for roasting her.
“Indeed. Beau Brummell himself could not look more elegant. In fact, you are bang up to the knocker, my lord.”
His lips twitched. “Don’t let Lady Saltash hear you talk cant. She’s not above rapping your knuckles or putting you on bread and water.”
“That would be a shame. We’re having roast goose with orange sauce tonight—my favorite.”
“You should not have told me,” he said reproachfully. “Now the boiled meat and potatoes at White’s will taste most unpalatable. I am promised to friends, alas, and cannot escape the fare of the club. I just stopped by on my way to White’s to ask if you will be attending Lady Ogylvee’s soiree.”
“Yes, I am looking forward to it.” Deanna seated herself on a small, brocade-covered chaise longue and waved Felix into a chair.
A gleam came into his eyes. He smiled and sat down beside her, placing his arm casually behind her on the back of the sofa. Deanna frowned. If she turned to face him, her knees would touch his. Carefully she spread the narrow skirt of her gown as wide as it would stretch to prevent his moving closer still, then sat up primly, tilting only her face toward him.
“I believe there is to be dancing at the soiree,” she said.
“Yes, indeed. And I’ve come to bespeak a waltz with you.”
Her eyes widened. “I did not think Lady Ogylvee would permit waltzing at her home. When I met her at Mrs. Merriott’s a few days ago, I had the impression that Lady Ogylvee is a lady of the most rigid principles.”
“She is. But she has a grandson and a granddaughter who can wind her around their little fingers. Lord Beverley and Lady Sara are staying with her presently, and I can assure you that several waltzes will be played tonight.”
“In that case—I shall be delighted to dance with you, Felix. Sybil and I have practiced the steps all summer, but I warn you we’ve only danced with each other, and I had to whistle the tune. I fear I may step on your toes or, worse, that I may suddenly try to take the lead.”
“I’ll gladly risk my toes for a dance with a young lady who can whistle, and I promise to nip in the bud any attempt on your part to try to lead.”
“Well, that’s settled, then.”
Even when they were both seated, she had to look up at him. If, on the dance floor, she should have the misfortune to go counter to his directions, the only possible result could be her ignominious topple. Deanna chuckled softly. She’d take good care that that would not happen.
“What’s the jest?” Felix asked, rising from the chaise longue.
She shook her head, smiling. “It’s nothing. Just a stray thought. But tell me, Felix. How long before we can expect replies to our inquiries about Robert Armagh?”
“Since all our letters have to go to France or to America, I imagine it’ll take at least five weeks.”
Her face fell. “That long? I had hoped to see Robby established before I return to Yorkshire.”
“Have you had your fill of London that you are thinking of leaving already?”
“Well, no. But, on the other hand, I do not know how long Sybil and I will remain here. Is there no way to speed things up a bit?”
“Deanna, I shall do my very best to have these letters go out in the next dispatch box. But I cannot go to Whitehall before Monday.”
“Yes, of course. How silly of me.” Deanna rose as well, extending her hand to him. “And I realize that during this time of inclement weather I cannot expect record crossings to America and shall try to exercise patience. Until later, Felix.”
Raising her hand, he murmured, “Remember to save me a waltz.”
He felt the small hand tremble in his as his lips brushed across her knuckes—as if she were frightened. But what utter nonsense! He had yet to meet a woman who was frightened of a mere man.
Felix realized that he had been staring at Deanna and that she had been trying to remove her fingers from his tight clasp. Her wide, gray eyes fringed by long, sooty lashes regarded him questioningly. He released her hand abruptly and took his leave.
As he made his way to St. James’s, he again remembered his mother, who had always flirted, had never been happy unless surrounded by a court of admirers; who had abandoned the seven-year-old Felix at the Ship’s Inn in Dover when she had realized that just setting foot aboard the packet caused him to be violently ill. Felix had been left retching and miserable at the inn to await his papa’s arrival while his mama and her lover had sailed to France.
Turning up the wide collar of his cloak, Felix hastened his steps. What a night to be out walking! The temperature had plummeted again, and where the afternoon sun had melted some of the snow, the night’s frost had turned the water into mirrors of ice.
Had he not suddenly decided to see Deanna, he could already be enjoying a glass of brandy at White’s. But he had given in to impulse tonight and behaved like some callow youth, dropping by Saltash House because he had missed Deanna’s company during the afternoon. Like a fool he had told her he’d stopped on his way to White’s—he could only hope Deanna was still sufficiently unfamiliar with London to overlook the fact that South Audley Street did not lie between Berkeley Square and St. James’s Street.
And why the bloody hell hadn’t he taken the offered excuse and told her he had come for the letters? No, he must ask her to waltz at Lady Ogylvee’s soiree—which he’d had no intention of attending—merely because Deanna had looked so adorably confused when he’d sat down beside her. He had completely forgotten his resolve never to do anything that might be misconstrued as paying attention to a young lady.
Felix was not a convivial dinner companion that night. Very soon after the bland meal, his friends suggested kindly that he go and sulk by himself. They took their boisterous leave of him and did their best to buoy their drooping spirits by playing deep at the faro tables while Felix sat in solitary splendor in the bow window and drank glass after glass of finest old cognac.
“Evening, Fenchmore. I believe you’re sitting in my chair.”
Slowly Felix raised his eyes off his glass, taking in every nuance of sartorial elegance of the other man’s immaculate dark evening coat and oyster-colored pantaloons. And immediately he thought of Deanna again—Deanna, who had favorably compared him to Beau Brummell.
“Evening, Brummell. Weston outdid himself with your coat. Why did he not show me that cloth, I wonder? It is just the shade of blue I asked him to procure for me.”
“Perhaps because I asked him to make me a coat.”
Felix smiled. The Beau, with his innate arrogance and sublime disregard of polite manner, could always amuse him. “Sit down and join me in a cognac,” he invited.
Although Felix’s senior by only three years, Beau Brummell was not a close friend, but Felix respected the Beau’s ingenuity and admired his audacity. Even now, fallen from grace and openly cut by his former, most powerful friend the Prince Regent, Beau Brummell knew how to retain his position as leader of the ton.
Beau Brummell eased himself into the chair opposite Felix, a pained expression flitting across his face. “No one pays me any heed since my fat friend decided to cut me,” he said with mock despair. “You are still sitting in my chair, Fenchmore.”
“I have no wish to move, but unfortunately, I must. One more drink to give me some inner fire to fight the cold, and then you may have your chair, for I shall be on my way to Albemarle Street.”
“Lady Ogylvee’s? You must be in your cups if you’re thinking of going there. The affair will be a dead bore, I assure you.”
Felix, on the verge of quaffing his cognac, frowned and placed his glass on the small table beside him. “Wish I were foxed, for then I might forget I asked a young lady to waltz.”
Beau Brummell raised a brow. “I fear you must be clean raddled. You? Stand up with a young lady? Young matrons are more in your line, Fenchmore.”
“Can’t be helped,” Felix muttered. “I’m obliged to dance with this one. What time is it?”
“Half past eleven when I stepped into the foyer.”
“Damnation!” Felix jumped up, tossed down the last of his cognac and strode to the door. “You may have your chair now, Brummell,” he called over his shoulder.
But Beau Brummell rose as well and followed Felix out into the hall. “I’ll walk with you. I must see this young lady who enticed you to dance.”
“The first dance after supper will be a waltz, Miss St. Cloud.” Young Lord Beverley, Viscount Ogylvee, handed Deanna a plate filled with lobster patties, shavings of cured ham, savory Cornish pastries, and strawberries from the Ogylvee succession houses in Kent. “Will yo do me the honor of dancing with me?”
Fascinated, Deanna looked at the food on her plate. Did Lord Beverley imagine she was starved at Saltash House? Smiling, she told the young man, “Indeed, I dare not dance with you again, my lord. We have already stood up twice. Were you to lead me out a third time, we’d cause no end of speculation.”
“I don’t care a rap for that!” Disregarding the strawberry Deanna had just picked up, he snatched her hand and raised it to his lips. Pelting the back of her hand with hot, moist kisses—Deanna had removed her gloves so that she might enjoy eating the delicious fruit with her fingers—he whispered to her fervently. “You are so beautiful—a pocket Venus! I want to dance with you all night, lovely Deanna.”
“My lord! I did not give you leave to use my first name,” Deanna said sharply, “and pray let go of my hand. We are attracting attention.”
Lord Beverley tightened his grip and spoke hotly. “When I touch you, beautiful Deanna, it is as though I am touching one of those electrical contraptions—only the shock I experience is a thousand times more gratifying than anything Sir Humphrey Davis at the Royal Society could achieve. Admit, you feel the same, lovely goddess!”
“No, my lord, I do not. Truth to tell, I don’t even understand what you’re talking about.”
Deanna disengaged her hand and proceeded to eat the slightly bruised strawberry. Her patience was sorely tried by his importunities, but he was young—barely twenty, she guessed—and she did not wish to create an unpleasant scene at his grandmama’s soiree. When she had dabbed her lips with a snowy napkin, she smiled up at the hovering Lord Beverley.
“Please fetch me a glass of champagne, my lord. I find I’m very thirsty all of a sudden.”
The young man’s sandy brows drew together at his adored goddess’s insensitivity, and he tossed his head so that a second guinea-golden curl joined the one already nestling against his forehead. But he left to hunt down one of the footmen carrying glasses of champagne on massive silver trays.
His sister Lady Sara, sitting between George and a young lieutenant in Hussar’s uniform across the table from Deanna, giggled behind her fan. “Poor Bev! How mortifying for him to be cursed with blond locks when dark hair would be so much more his style. I wonder he doesn’t try to cultivate a limp,” she mused. “But I had better not put that notion in his head. He’s trying so hard already to be like Lord Byron, he’s a dead bore with his posturing.”
“Is that what it is?” Deanna raised a delicately arched brow and glanced across the room where Lord Beverley was waiting for a footman to restock his empty tray at the refreshment table, but she encountered such a brooding stare from the young man that she hastily turned to face her table companions again. “Fancy that,” she murmured. “And I thought he was sulking.”
“You are cruel, Deanna!” Sybil, blissfully happy beside George, looked at her friend reproachfully. “Lord Beverley has obviously fallen in love with you. Isn’t it romantic?” She turned adoring eyes on George. “Love at first sight!”
“There’s no such thing,” George said firmly. “Always turns out to be a delusion. But come now, Sybil.” He changed the subject adroitly, hoping that his good-natured attempts at showing her a good time during her stay in town were not giving her the impression that he was dangling after her. “Lady Saltash is returning to the ballroom, and I should hand you over to her. Otherwise you might miss your next dance partner.”
“I must go as well.” Deanna rose, hoping to slip unnoticed from the supper room with Sybil and George. But Lord Beverley caught up with her before she had reached the door.
“Miss St. Cloud! I have procured the champagne you desired.”
She took the proffered glass. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll carry it with me. If you will excuse me now? Lady Saltash requires my attendance in the ballroom.”
“I shall go with you.”
Deanna sighed, but she could think of nothing short of outright rudeness that might discourage the dramatic young man. As she ascended the stairs to the third floor where the magnificent ballroom, lit by hundreds of candles in glistening chandeliers and gilded wall sconces, ran the full length of the dowager countess Ogylvee’s townhouse, the musicians struck up the first bars of a waltz.
Deanna slipped into a chair beside Lady Saltash, realizing with dismay that there was still no sign of Felix and that young Beverley had taken up his brooding stance behind her, intent on discouraging all of her prospective dance partners.
“Aunt Meredith,” Sybil whispered on the other side of Lady Saltash. “Why does no one ask Deanna and me to waltz? Usually three or four young men arrive at the same time to ask me to dance, but no one came for the earlier waltz either.”
“Patience, Sybil. The gentlemen know you’re not officially out yet. Later during the season you will be given vouchers to Almack’s, and once the patronesses have approved you, you may waltz to your heart’s content, but not before.”
Deanna looked at the baroness in dismay. “I could not waltz even if I were asked?”
“Not if you want to remain in the good graces of the patronesses. Mrs. Drummond-Burrell and Lady Jersey are both present tonight. One false move on your part, and even I will not be able to procure vouchers for you.”
Deanna sipped her champagne and watched the whirling couples on the dance floor with envious eyes. The next dance was a country dance, and Deanna performed gracefully with George as her partner. It was almost midnight now, and still no sign of Felix. When she had arrived at Lady Ogylvee’s at ten o’clock, the musical part of the soiree had just come to its conclusion. The harp and the pianoforte, on which several young ladies had performed their painstakingly memorized recital pieces, had been removed from the ballroom floor by stalwart footmen, and the members of a small orchestra had tuned their instruments.
Deanna had been enchanted with the glittering lights, the elaborate floral decorations, and the elegance of Lady Ogylvee’s illustrious guests. Her own pretty ball gown of sapphire muslin, low-cut and with short, puffed sleeves, had suddenly diminished to mere commonplace despite the wide sash of gold silk that accentuated the gown’s high waistline and fluttered teasingly down her back. Sybil was wearing white, of course, as befitted her youth, and looked breathtakingly beautiful with a white silk rose pinned among her shining brown curls.
When Felix had not made an appearance, and Lord Beverley had started to importune her with his excessive attention, the magic of Deanna’s first ball had dimmed. And now she learned that she would not be permitted to waltz even if Felix did show up!
As though drawn by an invisible force, her eyes moved past the other dancers to the open ballroom door. Her breath caught. Felix was standing beside a pleasant-faced gentleman, whose brown hair was carefully arranged à la Brutus; he was dressed with the same impeccable, understated elegance as Felix himself.
“There’s Beau Brummell,” George whispered just before the movements of the country dance parted them for the last time.
When George guided her back to her chair beside Lady Saltash, he murmured, “You could’ve knocked me down with a feather when I saw Felix standing beside Beau Brummell. When we spoke earlier, Felix said nothing could make him do the pretty at one of Lady Ogylvee’s affairs.”
Deanna had no time to reply, and after all, there was nothing she could have said. Felix was already standing beside Lady Saltash, and as soon as George had bowed and thanked Deanna for the dance, he loomed up before her.
“I believe the next dance is mine,” he said.
There was none of the warmth in his eyes that she had observed at Saltash House when he had asked her to save a waltz for him, and Deanna felt a flicker of resentment awaken in her breast. My Lord Fenchmore arrived in the very nick of time, moments before Lady Saltash would call for the carriage, and condescended to ask her to dance! Well, he need not have bothered.
“Oh dear,” she said, concealing her feelings behind a bright smile. “I hope the next dance may not be a waltz, for I was told I may not participate in the waltzing until one of Almack’s patronesses has granted permission.”
He should have felt relief, Felix thought. But instead, a feeling that could only be termed disappointment filled his breast. “These dam—dashed starchy rules! I had quite forgotten that you’ve never been to Almack’s and have not been ‘approved.’”
The musicians on the balcony at the far end of the ballroom were picking up their instruments, and moments later the strains of a waltz filled the flower-scented air. Deanna felt a sharp pang of envy as she watched several young ladies step onto the dance floor with their partners. The music was irresistible; Deanna’s foot moved in the three-quarter time rhythm. Hastily she withdrew the traitor into the folds of her gown.
Felix recognized the longing in Deanna’s wide gray eyes—didn’t he feel it himself?—and his fighting instincts awoke. He bowed to Lady Saltash. “With your permission, ma’am, I should like to introduce Deanna to Sally Jersey.”
The baroness raised her lorgnette and leveled one of her piercing looks at him, but then she nodded. “Very well. You may try.”
Felix grinned. “Thank you, Lady Saltash.” Holding out his hand to Deanna, he said impatiently, “Come, let’s see if ‘Silence’ won’t grant us permission to waltz.”
Deanna followed in Felix’s wake, pulled along by his firm grip on her hand. She was half running to keep up with his long strides, but her resentment at his high-handedness soon drowned in the rising elation she felt bubbling up in her. She might dance the waltz with Felix after all!
Lady Jersey was in an expansive mood. She had just learned the most delicious tidbit of gossip regarding the Countess Lieven and Lord Palmerston, and she was eager to impart her newfound knowledge to the bevy of young matrons surrounding her. When Felix introduced Deanna and stated his request, she cast a sharp glance at the girl and nodded.
“Go ahead, Miss St. Cloud. If you must waltz, you’d best do so with Felix. I can recommend him as a partner.”
Lady Jersey immediately returned her attention to her companions. There certainly was intrigue behind the Earl of Fenchmore’s request, but that could wait until the morrow. Tonight she’d tear dear Dorothea Lieven limb from limb….
“Why did you call her ‘Silence’?” Deanna asked when Felix had whisked her into the throng of dancing couples.
“That’s been her nickname for time immemorial. She never can be silent, you see.”
Deanna lowered her lashes. Waltzing with Felix was nothing at all like practicing the steps with Sybil. His hand on her back was oddly disturbing, sending tingling shivers up and down her spine. And he was so close, she believed she could feel the warmth of his body drawing her like a magnet.
Disconcerted, she looked up into his face, wanting to break the spell with some light conversation, but she was lost in the ardency of his regard, the glint in his gray-green eyes touching her very soul.
Neither of them realized that they were closer, much closer, to each other than the prescribed twelve inches. Deanna’s lips were slightly parted, soft and rosy, and only with the greatest restraint did Felix resist the temptation to crush her to his chest and kiss those bewitching lips.