Marquesses at the Masquerade(59)

“I concur,” a rich baritone interjected.

Mr. Danvers wheeled around. There stood Lord Exmore. Annalise sucked in her breath. This wasn’t the Exmore she remembered. He had been the stiffly proper sort, perfect in manner and manicure. He had gazed at the world with reserved, disapproving eyes—or, at least, that was how he had gazed at her. This Exmore sported a reckless smile, and his hair was unkempt. Dark curls lined with prematurely silver threads fell over his forehead. Dry wrinkles crowded the corners of his eyes. His once chiseled face was slightly bloated, sagging at the corners of his mouth. This was the face of a dissipated libertine whose lifestyle was aging him before his time. Annalise struggled to reconcile this Exmore with the man she had known years ago. She couldn’t. The death of his wife had altered his soul beyond recognition. This man was a stranger.

The Danverses turned, as shocked as Annalise at seeing Exmore.

“My lord.” The hostess fell into a deep curtsey. “You honor us.”

What was happening? Had Exmore not been invited? This party was a few social tiers beneath him, so she hadn’t expected to see him here.

“And I would be exceedingly honored if Miss Van Der Keer and her cousin Miss Sommerville would save a dance for me, if their dances are not spoken for.” He spoke in pleasant tones, although his chest heaved as if he had run here.

What was he doing? He had given his word that he would stay away from her.

“Yes!” Phoebe cried.

Exmore shifted his gaze to Annalise. A beckoning glow warmed his eyes, and he held out his hand for her to take. She studied his long fingers that tapered at the ends. She realized that he was offering to be her savior. He might have been a rake, but his title and wealth solidified his place on the Mount Olympus of London Society. Was he trying to save her? It was too late for her, but she knew she had to take his hand for Phoebe’s and Aunt Sally’s sake. Still, she remained unmoving; everything seeming to slow down around her.

Then he whispered, “Please.”

She shivered at the intimacy of the sound, as if he were aware only of her and not everyone staring at them. She reached out and clasped his hand.

His warm fingers wrapped around hers. Her lips parted. His touch felt as it had the night before—like an old, comforting friend.

*



Exmore continued to hold her hand, afraid that if he let go, she would be washed away by an invisible ocean. He could tell that the stares of others unnerved her. They didn’t bother him, because he had grown accustomed to them. He had learned in these last years, after some of the most notorious nights of his life, to keep his head high and wear a cocky, dangerous smile, no matter what he had done.

He began, “I know I gave you my word that—”

“I meant to write you, but I couldn’t find the right words,” she broke in. “I thought if I waited a bit, the perfect words would magically appear. Such as when you’re not even thinking about it, but simply setting about lighting candles or mending a sleeve, and suddenly, ‘Oh my goodness, those are the words!’ Typically, it happens after I’ve posted a letter.” Her laugh was brittle, in the manner of one making a joke to hide nervousness.

“Ah, then you still have time. Perhaps the words will come to you as we dance.” He led her onto the floor as dancers were assembling for the next dance. Her hand clenched in his.

She shook her head. “I think the only word I have is ‘sorry.’ I’m sorry that I reacted so strongly last night. I’m very confused now. Everything is…” She shook her head. “I can’t explain it.”

“Try,” he encouraged.

Her brows dropped in concentration, and then she said, “This thing on your waistcoat. What is it?”

“A button.”

“What?” She shot him a comical look. “No! That is not what you call a button. That is a spinneybob. Everyone knows it’s a spinneybob.”

“What?” He played along with her game. “I’ve called it a button my entire life.”

“Well, you were wrong your entire life. It’s a spinneybob.”

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at.”

“You do?”

“You’ve changed so drastically that you don’t recognize your own world.”

Her bright expression fell to a more serious one, which fit more comfortably on her nervous features. “Yes. Precisely.”

“I know that feeling well.”

“You see, we are supposed to be enemies. But now it seems we are not.”

“We can still be enemies if that is your preference?”

“Perhaps.” She smiled teasingly and then added, “No. I like you better this way.”

That radiance he remembered at the print shop enshrouded her as she studied him with tender eyes. It seemed that his entire day had culminated in this moment. As if he had known at some hidden level in his mind that it would, and he had simply been killing time, hanging about clubs and hells, waiting for this dance to arrive.

“I didn’t see you at the party earlier.” A nervous quality entered her voice. “How did you know…well…”

“That you were in social peril?”

“I adore how you phrased that.”

“I heard from somewhere that you may be in a spot of trouble. And although I left my musketeer beard and trusty sword at home, I couldn’t resist the beckoning of a lady in distress.”