The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(49)

“You suppose so? And here I thought you’d be one cursing those fancy steps,” he said, far too clever for his own damned good.

What were she and Adair Thorne? Mortal enemies or uneasy friends? Friends? Pfft, we’d never be that. They were just people with shared backgrounds, who were both uneasy with the arrangements that saw her living here. But in this new solitary world, she’d take whatever she could, where she could. “You ever take part in that?” she countered, tipping her head toward the waltzing partners.

By the horror in his eyes, she may as well have asked him to turn over the keys to his club. “Dancing?” He snorted. “No. Nor will I ever.”

She secretly mourned the idea of a man who moved with his stealth and elegance, in possession of a tall, muscled frame to rival some of the finest fighters she’d ever witnessed in back-alley battles, never gracing a dance floor. “I hated it, too. Hated anything to do with the peerage. Seemed like a waste of good energy and steps.”

“But then?” he asked, with a genuine curiosity there to his query.

“Then I tried it.”

He chuckled. “Why do I find it hard to imagine you agreeing to any lessons on any ladylike activity?”

It was an accurate read on who she was as a person—and after just a short time together. As such, one would have expected Adair was right on that score.

Broderick had insisted she and her sisters all know those intricate steps. As a girl, she’d just been so damned happy whenever she’d escaped Diggory’s attentions that she would have walked a tightwire across London if that was the only way. “Sometimes dancing was safer,” she settled for.

A dark somberness fell across his face.

Not wanting his pity, she hurried to speak. “Oi was so certain it was a waste of valuable time. It was a frivolous activity that served no purpose.” She drifted closer. “But do ya know what, Adair?”

He gave his head a slight, nearly imperceptible shake that urged her on.

“Gambling is, as well, and we built a life on that. And when ya try something else . . . like dancing,” she said, discreetly motioning to the partners on the floor, “ya find for yourself what it’s really like.”

Adair’s gaze remained fixed on her face. “And what is it like?” he asked hoarsely.

She tilted her head back and met his eyes. “Loike floating,” she whispered. “When it’s with the roight partner.”

A charged heat passed between them as their chests moved quickly in a like rhythm, and he shifted his gaze ever so slightly, before ultimately settling on her mouth.

The column of his throat moved, and through the din of the crowded ballroom, she detected that audible swallow.

And shapeless, bespectacled Cleopatra, who’d never been looked upon as a person of beauty, in this instance, with Adair Thorne, felt . . . beautiful. Butterflies danced in her belly, and she fought to retain control of her thoughts.

“There you are.”

They jerked apart and looked to Penelope. The viscountess alternated a smile between them. “You should have indicated you’d found Cleopatra,” she gently chided. “I’ve several gentle”—Cleopatra’s stomach knotted—“guests,” Penelope substituted, “for you to meet.”

Gentlemen. Would-be suitors, who were no doubt fortune hunters, eager to meet the Queen of the Dials, for no other purpose than the wealth she brought to their empty coffers.

“Shall we?” Penelope took Cleopatra’s hand and tucked it in her elbow, forcing her to abandon her place beside Adair.

And there was surely something wrong with her that as she let herself be pulled away, without even a parting greeting exchanged between her and Adair, she wanted to remain with him. It’s only a matter of him being from your world . . . and comfortable for it. He doesn’t care that you have a Cockney accent or treat you with disdain for having deposited a glass upon the floor. Cleopatra worried at her lip. He did, however, treat her as a Killoran to be wary of. What would he say if he knew you’re not just another woman who’d survived within Diggory’s gang . . . ?

With Penelope filling the silence, as she’d already revealed a tendency to do, they made their way through the ballroom. Even over the din of the crowd, the hushed whispers trailing after them punctuated the noise. Ladies yanked their skirts back and retreated, making a path.

“Smile. It confuses them,” Penelope advised through one of those patently false expressions.

“Oi don’t care wot they have to say about me.” Nor were her words for a brave show. It was hard to be anything but self-assured when presented with the gentlemen who tossed away family fortunes at Cleopatra’s family’s tables.

“There are some good gentlemen,” Penelope persisted.

She stopped, forcing her hostess to either continue on and drag her down or join her on the edge of the floor. “How long have you”—she paused, remembering the greatest source of contention between her and Adair—“did you, live inside the Hell and Sin? Nearly a year,” she accurately supplied before the other woman could. It had been her business for the past twenty years to know everything she could about her enemies, and this woman had been among them. “Oi moved into the Devil’s Den when Diggory took it over.”

An uncharacteristic ice frosted Penelope’s features. Black had shared some of Diggory’s evil with his wife, then. It was written in the hatred there.