Always Proper, Suddenly Scandalous (Scandalous Seasons #3)(18)

It was the height of rudeness to forget the name of the gentleman one had spoken to for nearly a quarter of an hour. The orchestra plucked the opening strands of a waltz. She scanned the four names. Ah, yes, she had it! “Lord Sinclair—waltz!”

She winced as the words echoed off the pillar and couples turned around to study her as though she were an insect that had crawled its way into Lord and Lady Essex’s ballroom.

Lord Sinclair’s grin widened, displaying two perfect rows of even white teeth. He sketched a bow. “I do believe I’ve been insulted.”

Not for the first time, Abigail gave thanks that her mother and father were not present, lest they witness her rather dismal failings at a London Season. There were four gentlemen who’d requested a set. Four gentlemen…and she couldn’t remember the name of the one man who’d been conversing with her for several minutes now? It was that blasted Geoffrey Winters.

The Earl of Sinclair cleared his throat, and she jumped. He nodded toward the card at her wrist. “It doesn’t appear I’ve left much of an impression, Miss Stone, if you require the assistance of a card to remember my identity.”

“I…” Abigail sighed. “Forgive me,” she muttered. She’d never mastered the art of dissembling.

“Sinclair,” Robert drawled from where he stood alongside her. “The dance has begun.”

Eternally grateful to Robert for rescuing her from her plight, she placed her fingers on Lord Sinclair’s arm and traded one embarrassment for another. Until this moment, she’d done a remarkably exceptional job of avoiding all dance at ton events. She’d feigned a turned ankle. That had allowed her a handful of dance-free evenings. Then they’d attended the theatre. The opera. A musicale. Oh, then there had been the dinner party at Lord and Lady Pembroke’s. She furrowed her brow. Or was it Pemberly?

“Miss Stone, are you unwell?”

She supposed she could lie to Lord Sinclair or pretend to swoon. Abigail sighed. Alas, the ability to feign a swoon had eluded her just as the ladylike arts of embroidery…and dancing…and watercolor…and…

“I am merely warm, my lord,” she lied.

After a fortnight of attending social functions, it would appear she would at last have to demonstrate for all English Society her shocking lack of grace.

She was renowned for her extreme lack of dancing skills all over the state of Connecticut and well into parts of New York. She supposed she could now add London, England, to the expanding list.

As Lord Sinclair led her onto the dance floor, she felt much like a thief being marched to the gallows. The last thing she desired was any more of Society’s undue attention.

The dancers had already begun twirling in elegantly graceful circles about the ballroom floor. Mayhap no one would notice. Mayhap the crush of dancers about them would obscure Abigail just enough that they’d fail to realize…

She took a deep breath and…

Lord Sinclair winced.

“Forgive me,” she rushed. The tip of her slippers came down hard upon the top of his boot.

He quickly righted her, sparing her from toppling over for all to see.

Lord Sinclair smiled. “This is the most fun I’ve had this evening.”

“Which is not saying a good deal about Lady Hughes’s festivities,” Abigail muttered beneath her breath, stumbling again.

He tossed his head back and his laughter echoed throughout the crowd.

Abigail peeked around the ballroom to ascertain whether Lord Sinclair’s bold laughter had earned the focus of nearby dancers. After all, her intentions in coming to London were to avoid any hint of untoward behavior.

She caught a glimpse of Lord Redbrooke and Beatrice.

Lord Redbrooke scowled at Abigail and Sinclair. Heat slapped her cheeks and she yanked her attention away from Geoffrey and stared at Lord Sinclair’s immaculately folded cravat.

He winced as she stepped upon his toes yet again. “I’m sorry,” she said, automatically.

“Think nothing of it, Miss Stone.”

Abigail silently counted. One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three. If she focused on the rhythm of the orchestra then she’d not have to notice Geoffrey as he swept her graceful cousin about the floor while she, ungainly Abigail, tried not to destroy poor Lord Sinclair’s fine Hessian boots.

“Ouch.”

Tried and failed.

“Forgive me.”

Lord Sinclair adjusted her in his arms, shifting Abigail ever so subtly toward him, so that he bore the weight of their off-center movements. “Oh,” she said, her mouth falling open with surprise. “That is vastly better.”

“For the both of us,” he drawled.

“For…oh.” She clamped her lips tighter than a New England clam at the suggestiveness of his words; words that reminded her of Lord Carmichael’s ill-opinion and recent attack. She’d fled America in the hopes of escaping those suggestive glances.

One-Two-Three, One-Two-Three.

“Tell me, Miss Stone? Are you enjoying your time in England?”

She faltered, and again he adjusted her in his arms. “Yes.” No. She yearned for the day she could return to her family. A pang struck her heart. That is, if she were ever able to return. She wondered not for the first time how long the scandal of being discovered in a man’s arms would be gossiped about by the prominent families of their Connecticut seaside town. Mother had said forever.