Page 23 of The Dangerous Lord

“True. But I liked her as soon as Sara introduced us. She’s adorable—funny and intelligent and direct. You must admit you’re far too somber these days and certainly too secretive. You need a woman like her to bring you out of yourself. And if, like so many men, you want a wife with a spotless reputation, she has that, too.”

He snorted. “Spotless? I seriously doubt it.”

“Oh?” Emily looked at him with interest. “Do you know something about Miss Taylor the rest of us don’t?”

A pity he couldn’t tell Emily that Miss Taylor was Lord X. It would serve the loose-tongued creature right to be exposed. But he wasn’t ready for open war. Yet. “I merely meant that she isn’t what she appears.”

“Then you’re the only one to think so,” Emily retorted, obviously disappointed by his refusal to reveal more. “No one ever speaks ill of her.”

That was precisely why Miss Taylor moved with impunity through society. She needn’t be a member of Almack’s. Championed by those of Lady Brumley’s ilk, she need only be the daughter of the dashing Algernon Taylor to gain access to prestigious routs and balls and thus to all the gossip she required for her column.

Secure in her anonymity, she dug up old gossip, then passed judgment without ever suffering society’s censure. If she’d once been the subject of speculation and gossip herself, he doubted she’d be so bloody self-righteous.

Ian stilled. What an intriguing thought—Miss Taylor the subject of gossip. The strains of a waltz reached his ears, and he began to smile. Perhaps it was time the self-righteous Miss Taylor learned firsthand how easily a situation could be misconstrued.

Without giving himself a chance to question his motives, he excused himself to Emily, then strode purposefully across the room. Ah, yes, he knew exactly how to teach Miss Taylor a much-needed lesson in humility, especially if her reputation was as “spotless” as Emily implied.

As soon as Felicity saw Lord St. Clair heading toward her, she braced herself for trouble. Devil take Katherine! Felicity had risked discovery to prevent her friend from marrying a degenerate, and the woman had run off with her family’s steward instead!

If she’d known Mr. Gerard was the object of Katherine’s affections, she would never have encouraged it. But she’d naively imagined some squire’s son with less fortune than Lady Hastings wished. Not a servant, for pity’s sake, who was doubtless a fortune-hunter! Drat it all!

Katherine was supposed to turn St. Clair down flat, then marry a man at least marginally suitable to her genteel class. The foolish girl.

Now, for all her trouble, Felicity had a hornet on her tail. No wonder Lord St. Clair had spent luncheon baiting her—he must be furious! She watched him approach with growing unease. The man had an uncanny ability to keep his true feelings buried ten feet under, and that made him more difficult to manage than a man easy to read. If she had any sense at all, she’d run.

A pity she had nowhere to go.

“Lord St. Clair is coming this way, my dear,” Lady Brumley said beside her, with a nod of her elaborately coiffured head. “Shall I introduce you?”

“Thank you, we’ve met.” No doubt the marchioness would make much of that. Lady Brumley hadn’t reached sixty without learning how to turn the sparest comments into fodder for gossip. Felicity relied on the Galleon of Gossip for half her column. She sometimes wondered if Lady Brumley had guessed who wore Lord X’s pants.

God knows, Felicity wished it were anyone but herself just now.

Then the troublesome viscount was upon them, wearing a smile so alarming she could barely manage one in answer. He nodded briefly at the marchioness, then bowed to Felicity. “Miss Taylor, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”

The scoundrel. He wanted to get her off alone on the dance floor so he could rail at her, and he knew she dared not refuse with Lady Brumley drinking in every word.

Well, she must face his wrath some time or another. “I’d be happy to dance with you,” she lied, extending her hand. Though I’d be happier still if I’d never met you.

He showed no surprise at her acquiescence, but then why should he? He’d planned it this way. He led her to the floor with the practiced ease of a gentleman, then settled one hand on the curve of her waist as the other closed tightly around her gloved fingers. Oh, dear, why were they not promenading? Bowing to each other?

That’s when she actually paid attention to the tempo of the music. She groaned. God preserve her, she’d agreed to a waltz, and waltzes were not her forte. Her dancing in general left much to be desired, but with some figures, like the quadrille, she could follow her fellows and hide her missteps in the crowd. That was impossible with a waltz.

“Lord St. Clair—” she began, meaning to warn him. But he’d already whirled her onto the floor. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, she chanted in her head, futilely trying to keep from stumbling or making a misstep.

“Miss Taylor—” he began.

“Shh,” she muttered, casting an envious glance at the others who so deftly managed the dance’s intricacies. Her fingers dug into his shoulder. “I’m counting.”

“Counting?”

“The measure. I’m very bad at the waltz.”

He eyed her with suspicion. “You must be joking.”

She trod on his foot completely by accident. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered as she sought to find her footing again, nearly bringing them to a halt.

He half-dragged her back into step, remaining silent until she found the measure again. “How could you not have mastered the waltz? You go to a different social affair every night.”