And Then She Fell(17)
He glanced down at her. “Three teas?”
She shrugged. “I wanted to spread the word widely enough.”
“And what was that word?”
“That I’ve agreed to help you look over the field because your mother is so rarely in town these days and isn’t here at the moment, nor expected up this Season, and as your next nearest useful connection—correct me if I’m wrong—is Lady Osbaldestone?” She paused and arched a brow at him. When he looked appalled, but nodded, she went on, “Well, given that, it wasn’t all that hard to suggest that after your retreat from Melinda Wentworth, you turned to me, Simon’s sister and someone very well acquainted with the unmarried young ladies of the ton, for assistance. Mind you, I took care to paint your interest as being merely idle—the sort of thing a gentleman might do at a certain age, that sort of thing.”
“So you concealed that I have a deadline looming?”
She nodded decisively. “You were perfectly correct in thinking it won’t do for the matchmakers to get wind of that. If instead they believe you have nothing more than a vague interest in matrimony, they won’t rush you all at once in case you balk, fling up your hands in horror, and run away to the country.”
“Ah—I think I’m getting the hang of this now. They’ll happily parade their charges before me in the park and at whatever events I attend, but they won’t see any pressing need to force their charges’ claims to my attention down my wolfish throat.”
“Precisely.” She paused, then allowed, “Actually, it doesn’t hurt at all that you are an acknowledged wolf. It makes them think twice before offering up any of the very young and truly innocent.”
James laughed—he couldn’t help it. “What a very nice way of putting me in my place—and ensuring I remain tame.”
“I wasn’t so much thinking in terms of ‘tame’—more of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
Before he could reply to that piece of impertinence, the strains of a waltz filled the air—and his response was there, ready-made, before him. He turned to her, bowed, and held out his hand. “I believe that’s our waltz.”
“What?” She looked stunned. “No . . . that is—” She dragged in a breath. “You should waltz with one of the possible candidates for your short list.”
He watched as she looked about, searching the throng almost desperately. “Henrietta—it’s just a waltz. And I’m tired of having to converse appropriately and otherwise assess my partners. Come and put me out of my misery, and let me enjoy one waltz for the evening.” He made the last words sound almost whiny, a plea for relief—all pretense, of course. The notion of this waltz—of waltzing with her—had been fermenting in his brain since he’d first set eyes on her as she’d descended the ballroom steps.
He’d promised himself this in payment for his earlier toeing of her line. He’d done as she’d asked, now it was her turn to play to his rules.
She glanced at him uncertainly, then her resistance fell. “Oh, very well.” She resettled her shawl, then reached out and set her gloved hand in his.
He closed his fingers about her slender digits and felt triumph surge inside. But it was such a small win—just a waltz, nothing more.
Holding her hand high, he led her onto the clearing dance floor, then turned and swept her into his arms, and into the swirling pleasures of the dance. Capturing her gaze, letting his own lock with the soft blue, he let his lips curve, appreciative and encouraging, sensed the lithe tension in her svelte form, and gave himself up to the heady delight—and drew her with him.
He was a past master at the art of circling a ton dance floor, of using the waltz to his own ends . . . but tonight, he discovered, the shoe was on the other foot, and the waltz used him. Worked on him, certainly, and on her, too; he couldn’t recall ever being so immersed in the moment, so caught in the effortless action, in the swooping glide, the swirling turns, the sheer power that flowed when he had her—Henrietta—in his arms.
It had never been like this before; no waltz had ever captured him before. His senses had coalesced and locked, fixed, so deeply engaged with her and the moment that there was nothing left of him, of his awareness, for anything else. The world fell away, and they were the only two people revolving down the floor, and he was lost, trapped, in her eyes.
Caught, ensnared, by the effortless way she matched him, light on her feet, instantly responsive to every subtle direction he gave. He hadn’t expected her to be . . . such a perfect match.