Always a Maiden (The Belles of Beak Street #5)(2)

He finished tying his cravat in a simple, albeit fashionable, style. “And here I am making myself presentable so I can fetch your mother and alert her to your disaster. Bend a little at your knees, Lady Susanah.”

“W-What?”

He took a step toward her.

She reached for the wall behind her trying to scuttle backward. She was shivering, yet she felt hot, not cold.

“That’ll do.” He stepped on her dress, catching her like a wild animal in a sprung trap. Then he was lifting her up, his hands beneath her underarms, thumbs perilously close to her breasts, which tingled oddly.

Surely this wasn’t how a man kissed a woman or assaulted her or anything of the kind. Her dress rent with the pop of stitches and ripping material.

He set her back on her feet and looked down. “Well, that was rather worse than I intended. But there is no doubt that your parents will have to take you home, now.”

How had he known why she wanted to tear her dress?

His hand shifted from under her arm to the gaping hole against her ribs. Her stays were visible. And he was touching them.

Her heart thrummed madly. For a second she stared at him, her mouth open before she recalled herself and erased all expression from her face. “Yes, thank you.”

She twisted away from his far too disturbing touch. But it wasn’t as if she could go back in the company with her undergarments exposed.

He backed away and ran his fingers through his disordered locks as if trying to coax his wild waves into order. Instead, she noticed the way one strand curled behind his ear. He had hair the color of tobacco, a mix of raw umber, burnt sienna and a bit of ochre here and there. His eyes sometimes looked green and sometimes brown—rather fascinating if she had ever allowed herself to be fascinated. It was as if he had so much color within him that neither his hair nor his eyes could settle on just one shade.

“Would you be so kind?” He turned and held out his arms as if she were a valet to help him dress. He crouched down a little so she wouldn’t have to reach up too high.

She did her best to help him into his coat and found her hand smoothing the material over his shoulder before she snatched it away. What was wrong with her?

He turned, touched his fingers to her heated cheek, and grinned at her. “I’ll go tell your mother. Stay here.”

“Please,” she said. She wasn’t quite certain what she was asking of him. A few options sprang to mind. Remove your hand should have come first. Be quick about it was a good second option. Kiss me sprang to mind. She said nothing.

Cocking his head to the side, Mr. Cooper said, “You may have what the belles all have.”

“They’re all beautiful,” she said a bit wistfully. “It is no wonder they’ve been so successful in spite…” In spite of the scandals swirling around them, but she couldn’t say that out loud. “Oh never mind.”

“Looks aren’t everything, or you would be just as successful.”

Before she realized he’d complimented her, he was sauntering down the corridor, without looking back. An unusual warmth was spreading through her like butter melting on a fresh roll. Likely it was embarrassment she told herself firmly. It couldn’t possibly be anything else.

But she didn’t have whatever the belles had or she wouldn’t have lost all her suitors to them.



*

Winding through the company in the ballroom, Evan rather thought he might have seen more emotion in Lady Susanah in the last five minutes than he’d seen in the last five years. Altogether his encounter with her had been far more pleasurable than his encounter with Theresa Barnet. Oddly enough Theresa had wanted him to rip off her shift, and he’d declined. Then he’d turned around and ripped Lady Susanah’s dress for her. One of life’s little ironies, he supposed.

Truth be told, he’d enjoyed the chase with Theresa far more than he’d enjoyed the hollow victory. That she had set up an assignation in the midst of a well-attended ball had smacked of wanting to be discovered rather than conducting a discreet liaison, especially since her husband was in attendance. He didn’t mind putting the horns on a man, but he would be damned before he gored the man with them. By all accounts, Mr. Barnet adored his wife. Evan wished him well of her. He was done with Theresa.

He found the woman he was looking for peering around the ballroom with a bit of a frantic, searching look in her eyes. Pasting on a smile, he approached her. “Lady Weatdon, I must apologize.”

For a second he thought the marchioness would give him the cut direct, but she finally deigned to look in his direction. Her glare seared through him. It said she didn’t have time for him and he wasn’t good enough to exchange polite pleasantries with. Especially not when her precious daughter was missing.

“You see I stepped on Lady Susanah’s gown and ripped it badly.” True so far. He should have thought to ask Susanah if she’d been dancing or exactly how he could have encountered her on the floor. “I do regret it.”

Lady Weatdon gave a sniff, her barely stifled irritation was palpable. “You did what?”

“I stepped on her dress and it tore. There is no repairing it. I’m dreadfully sorry. If you would come with me, I’ll take you to her.” Evan extended his arm.

Lady Weatdon ignored it. Her upper lip thinned and she finally asked. “Where is she?”