A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(12)

Lord Payne, however, was in no hurry. He raised a flask to his mouth and tipped it. Minerva swallowed instinctively, as though she could feel the liquor burning down her own throat.

He lowered the flask. Capped it. Replaced it in his pocket. And then his gaze settled, hot and unwavering, on the Highwoods.

The little hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

“He’s looking at you, Diana,” their mother murmured with excitement. “He’s sure to ask you to dance.”

“Diana shouldn’t dance,” Minerva said, unable to take her eyes off him. “Not a reel like this. Her asthma.”

“Pish. The sea air has worked its benefit. She hasn’t had an attack in months now.”

“No. But the last one was brought on by dancing.” She shook her head. “Why must I always be the one to look out for Diana’s well-being?”

“Because I’m looking out for yours. Ungrateful thing.”

Mama’s gaze pierced her. As a girl, Minerva had envied her mother’s blue eyes. They’d seemed the color of tropical oceans and cloudless skies. But their color had faded over the years since Papa’s death. Now their blue was the hue of dyed cambric worn three seasons. Or brittle middle-class china.

The color of patience nearly worn through.

“There are four of us, Minerva. All women. No husband, father, or brother in the portrait. We may not be destitute, but we lack true security. Diana has the chance to catch a wealthy, handsome viscount, and I won’t allow you to stand in her way. Who else is going to save this family? You?” She laughed bitterly.

Minerva couldn’t even summon a response.

“Oh, he’s coming,” Charlotte squeaked. “He’s coming this way.”

Panic fluttered in Minerva’s breast. Did Payne truly mean to propose tonight? Any man with sense would. Diana was always beautiful, but tonight she looked radiant, dressed in an emerald silk gown with ivory lace trim. Her flaxen hair glowed incandescent in the candlelight, and her ethereal composure gave her the air of a lady.

She looked like a viscountess.

And Lord Payne looked every inch the powerful lord. The man strode across the room toward them, cutting his way through the crowd in a straight, unswerving path. People leaped out of his way, like startled crickets. His gaze was intent, determined, focused on . . .

On her. On Minerva.

Don’t be a ninny.

It couldn’t be. Surely it was just a trick of her spectacles. He was coming for Diana, naturally. Obviously. And she hated him for it. He was a horrid, horrid man.

But her heart would not stop pounding. Heat gathered between her br**sts. She’d always wondered what it would feel like to stand on one end of a ballroom and watch a handsome, powerful man make his way to her. This was as close as she’d ever come to it, she supposed. Standing at Diana’s side. Imagining.

Suddenly anxious, she looked to the floor. Then the ceiling. Then she chided herself for her cowardice and forced herself to look at him.

He drew to a halt and bowed, then offered a hand. “May I have this dance?”

Minerva’s heart stalled. The book slipped from her hand and fell to the floor.

“Diana, pass me your reticule,” Mama whispered. “Quickly now. I’ll hold it while you dance.”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary,” Diana answered.

“Of course it’s necessary. You can’t dance with that bulky reticule dangling from your wrist.”

“I’m not going to dance at all. Lord Payne has invited Minerva.”

“Invited Minerva. Of all the ideas.” Mama made a disbelieving, indelicate snort. Which became a strangled gasp, when the woman looked up and finally noticed that Lord Payne’s hand was indeed outstretched to Minerva. “But . . . why?”

He said simply, “Because I choose her.”

“Truly?”

Oh God. Truly? As in, had Minerva truly just said that aloud?

At least she’d stopped herself from voicing the rest of the thoughts running through her addled brain, which went something like, Truly? That whole determined, dangerous saunter across the room was for me? In that case, would you mind going back and doing it all over again? Slowly this time, and with feeling.

“Miss Minerva,” he said, in a voice smooth and dark as obsidian, “may I have this dance?”

She watched, mute and entranced, as his ungloved hand clasped hers. His grip was warm and strong.

She held her breath, feeling the eyes of the whole village on them.

Please. Please, don’t let anyone laugh.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say. “I would be most . . . relieved.”

He led her to the floor, where they queued up for the country dance.

“Relieved?” he murmured with amusement. “Ladies usually find themselves ‘delighted’ or ‘honored’ to dance with me. Even ‘thrilled.’ ”

She shrugged helplessly. “It was the first word that came to mind.”

And it had been honest, at the time. Though as she took her place across from him and the first bars of the music began, her relief evaporated. Fear took its place.

“I can’t dance,” she confessed, stepping forward.

He took her hands and twirled her round. “But you’re already dancing.”