The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(5)

“You are capable of a heartfelt smile. You may need to worry about a leg shackle yet,” she said, still looking up at him before blinking and taking a step away. “Not from me, of course. I have my sights set elsewhere. Nevertheless, you will do quite well this season.”

He watched her as she took slow steps away from him. Some irrational voice inside didn’t want her to leave. “I don’t want to do well this season.”

“That’s silly. Everyone wants to do well in their endeavors.”

“I’m not endeavoring,” he said, forcing himself to remain still. “I never endeavor—not in what you speak of anyway.”

“Is this more confirmed bachelor talk?” she asked, her eyes narrowed and fixed on him.

“I have obligations, business to see to—”

“With no time for dancing?” She gasped as she searched his face for some secret held there. “You don’t dance, do you?”

Fallon let out a chuckle. When was the last time he’d laughed twice in an evening? “I really should…” he began and glanced away down the hall toward a door that led outside.

“You’re planning to leave now, when it’s still early in the evening,” she replied with a tone of disapproval.

It wasn’t often that anyone dared to disapprove of his actions. Aside from Brice’s ribbing over almost everything he did, Lady Isabelle’s own father had been quite opinionated over Fallon’s actions, but that had been a long time ago. Perhaps disapproval ran though her veins…but laughter and smiles seemed this lady’s usual inclination.

Lady Isabelle Fairlyn was more unexpected than the danger that had him searching the ball tonight. He turned back to her, not wanting to leave, not just yet anyway.

“I am thankful for your aid in my escape tonight, Mr. St. James.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the ballroom and the waltz playing there.

“Of course. Is there somewhere I could escort you? To your family perhaps.”

“I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” She took a few steps away before turning back to him once more. “Practice that smile in my absence.”

He caught himself before promising to do just that. What was wrong with him? Others answered to him. He didn’t answer to ladies—or even to wood nymphs disguised in ball gowns.

“Stay away from falling cakes,” he called after her. And gentlemen like Brice, he finished to himself.

“I can’t make any promises,” she said with a laugh, and she disappeared around the corner.

Fallon stood looking at the empty hall for a moment to gain his bearings, feeling as if he’d been thrown into sudden darkness as Lady Isabelle waltzed away. But a second later he was moving toward the rear of the house. As late as he was already, he would make one more lap through the ground floor in search of Grapling and then be on his way.

His secret club that provided for younger sons of the nobility required all of his attention. He had nothing remaining for other endeavors, as Lady Isabelle had put it. Some gentlemen might have spare time for smiles, dancing, and staring after perplexing ladies, but he had the Spare Heirs Society to see to. And that was exactly how he preferred his life to be.

*

Isabelle dusted the crumbs from her gloves and slipped back into the ballroom as if the cake incident had never occurred. That was what St. James had advised, wasn’t it? Escape the scene of the crime. It was all very clandestine and exciting until one was caught standing in a pile of spilled cakes.

What did St. James know of escaping danger, though?

Perhaps he was secretly a pirate. Her eyes grew wide with the possibilities. With his tall frame, dark hair pushed back from his face and worn a bit too long, and those piercing, deep-brown eyes, she could certainly envision him in command of a ship of lawless men. He traveled the high seas in search of adventure and was only here at this ball to sell off a stolen treasure. And pirates weren’t likely to smile often—it all fit!

Either it was true and he was a pirate, or he was simply a gentleman who had spilled a great many desserts in his day and knew how to escape blame.

She giggled as she headed to the column where she’d left her sister. Whoever Mr. St. James was, she was glad he’d come to her aid for two reasons. One, she would have made an even larger mess of things without him. And two, because in spite of the situation, she’d had a rather enjoyable time in his company.

They should be friends. Ladies were allowed to be friendly with gentlemen as long as nothing untoward happened between them, weren’t they? And it wasn’t as if St. James was dangerous. He was friendly with Mr. Brice, after all. No one wicked could be friends with such a boisterous gentleman as Mr. Brice. “We shall be great friends,” she murmured to herself as she joined Victoria to the side of the ballroom floor.

“You have cake icing on your gown,” her sister said as she drained the last of the champagne in her glass and looked around for a footman with another.

“I’m not surprised.” Isabelle smiled to herself. If Victoria only knew what had happened…

Dropping every sweet at the ball on the floor hadn’t been her plan, but at least she’d gotten to see Mr. Brice for a few moments. And St. James had been quite sporting about the entire escapade. He was a pleasant fellow, even if he wasn’t charming in the usual way. His choice of evening wear was far too dark, and his mannerisms were too businesslike. Yet there was a warmth held within the rich color of his eyes that inspired one to trust him, much like chocolate could be counted upon to be delicious. Trustworthiness was important in friendship.