The Season(54)

“Never. Coincidence eliminates the entertainment of speculation!”

“Indeed.”

And, with that, they were caught up in the swirl of the evening. They entered the ballroom just minutes before the first dance, a minuet, began and they were enveloped by a crowd of young aristocrats all angling for a place on their dance cards. Alex found herself in the dance with Lord St. Marks, a sweet but small marquess whom she’d always quite liked. She was finding the dance quite enjoyable, until she noticed Blackmoor over the top of her partner’s head. He was having a wonderful time, smiling and laughing with the lady in his arms—who happened to be Penelope Grayson. Alex was overcome by a flash of jealousy. How could he be dancing with her after he kissed me?

“She’s got the nature of an asp,” Alex muttered to herself.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?”

She looked down at St. Marks with a smile and said, “Uh…I am reading Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra, my lord, and I cannot seem to shake the horrid vision of the queen’s death. Death by asp. Quite dreadful, you know.”

From the look of obvious confusion on St. Marks’s face, she was certain he’d never had such an odd conversation during a ball before and, had she been in any other frame of mind, she would have found a great deal of humor in his drawn-out “Rather,” clearly the only response he could conjure.

They had turned in such a manner that Alex was no longer able to see Penelope and Blackmoor without craning her neck indelicately, so, instead, she simply counted steps until the dance was over. Two hundred and forty-three steps, to be exact. St. Marks promenaded her the customary halfway around the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell—a farewell she rather thought he was looking forward to—and Alex went searching for someone to entertain her and distract her from her own preoccupations.

In less than a half a minute, she came face-to-face with Blackmoor himself, all crisp cravat and broad shoulders and bright smile, and Alex’s mood grew darker. How could he be enjoying himself to such an impressive degree?

“Lady Alexandra,” he said, offering her a devastating smile and a short bow.

“Lord Blackmoor,” she said, unable to keep a tinge of churlishness from her tone, “I thought you were with Penelope.”

“I was,” he answered amiably, “but she met up with some friends and I decided to make my rounds. Are your brothers here?” He looked out at the crowd, searching for the Stafford boys.

Irrationally, she wanted to stomp on his foot. Instead, she said sarcastically, “I’m certain they are, considering this is their ancestral home.”

“Ah, well, I expect they’ll turn up.” He lifted her gloved hand and took the ribboned pencil there in hand. Looking down at her dance card, a lock of blond hair fell across his forehead as he observed, “I see you have the next waltz free. May I?”

Distracted by his hair, her overwhelming desire to push it back from his forehead, and his clear, questioning gaze, she forgot to remain aloof. “Yes, of course.” She watched as he slashed Blackmoor across the card, noticing the strength of his script before shaking herself and silently admonishing her inner lunatic.

“Shall we?” He offered her an arm and escorted her to the center of the crowded ballroom just in time for the waltz to begin. When it did, she felt immediately and unexplainably disoriented, uncertain of whether the feeling sprang from the spinning steps of the dance or the fact that she was keenly aware of the heat of his palm even through the twin fabrics of their gloves. She couldn’t stop herself from focusing on that heat, on the weight of his other hand on the small of her back, on the way his hair curled over the edge of his formal jacket, on the space where the angle of his jaw met the sleek line of his neck. She wondered if that skin was as soft as it looked. Shaking her head in a desperate attempt to ignore the feelings she was having, she closed her eyes and let him guide her in swaying circles, willing herself to think of him not as the man who had kissed her a week ago, but as the man who had infuriated her more often than not of late. She inhaled deeply.

He smells simply wonderful.

She disgusted herself. Truly. Stop being such a ninny, Alexandra!

“Are you feeling all right, Alex?” His question was quiet, as to only be heard by her, and when she opened her eyes, she saw the concern in his grey gaze.

She spoke quickly, stringing her words together without pause, “Yes, I’m fine, I’m sorry, I just, I suppose I’m a little overexcited with the ball and the anticipation of the evening.”

“Oh?” The word was slow and accompanied by a raised eyebrow.

“Yes.” She scrambled for an explanation. “Ella and Vivi were here all afternoon and I think we drank too much tea.” She almost groaned aloud. I drank too much tea? The answer sounded inane even to her.

“Too much tea.” One side of his mouth twitched up.

She wanted an end to this conversation. “Indeed. I’m feeling rather peaked, actually. Perhaps we could just stay silent?”

“Certainly.” Was that humor in his voice?

“Excellent.”

It seemed like a millennium for Alex before the dance ended and she was able to step away from him, allowing him to walk her the expected distance. Only he didn’t stop halfway around the ballroom. On the contrary, he escorted her straight out of the room, toward the doors that had been left open onto the gardens that Worthington House shared with Blackmoor House.