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A muscle twitched in Westfeld’s jaw. “No,” he said. He looked surprised to have spoken. “No. I didn’t come here to… That is, Lady Elaine, I came here to ask you to dance.” He turned his gloved hand out—not reaching toward her, just offering it up. Incongruously, she noticed that his gloves were kidskin brown—not a fashionable color.
How odd. Westfeld had always dressed at the height of fashion.
Despite that lapse, she would almost have thought him handsome, if she let herself forget who he was. Since she’d last seen him, the lines of his face had grown harsher, more angular. She could almost pretend he was a different person.
But the passage of years had not dimmed her memory of how this form of recreation would proceed. It was the game of “let’s be kind to Elaine,” and it had been played on her before. Let’s invite Elaine to our exclusive party. Let’s invite Elaine to dance. Let’s make Elaine believe that we’ve forgotten how to be cruel to her.
The next step was always, Now that we’ve lured her into exposing herself, let’s humiliate her in front of everyone. She would have given up on society altogether, except that doing so would have left her mother alone and unprotected.
“You needn’t accept,” Westfeld said, so softly that only she could hear. “I would understand completely.”
And that was the hell of their jests. If she refused, he would know he had the capacity to hurt her. He would know that she feared him. He would win. And that was the last thing she wanted him to do.
And so Elaine smiled into the eyes of the man who had ruined her life. “But of course, Lord Westfeld,” she said. “I would love it above all things.”
Chapter Two
Alas. Lady Elaine did not love dancing with him, Evan thought ruefully. She hated it.
Her hands were warm in his, even through gloves. She danced beautifully. She smiled the entire time. She also did not look at his face, not once. Instead, she concentrated her attention on the second button of his coat, even though she had to look down to do it.
What Evan needed to say to her was too important to be delivered cavalierly. But with talk so momentous on his mind, his skill for small conversation seemed to slip away.
Finally, he managed, “Your gown is lovely.” It was, he supposed, although he was hardly the judge of such things. Pink silk, large sleeves, a skirt so wide he might have tripped over it. Might still do so, if he didn’t watch his step.
Her gaze flicked up, and then back to his button, its touch on his face as temporary as a hawk moth flitting by a window.
“I’ve lost all sense of fashion myself,” he told her.
Her perusal of his coat became more marked, and too late, he realized what he’d said—he’d praised her gown, and then implied that he had no taste. It came out as the worst sort of backhanded compliment.
Lady Elaine raised her eyes to him. He felt a sort of shock travel through him as she did so. Her eyes were gray and luminous. She was smiling at him, but there was a knife-edge to her expression. “Indeed,” she said, her tone solemn. “I can’t recall the last time I saw a gentleman wearing brown gloves.”
A little bit of an insult in return. Good for her; he deserved it.
“All my gloves are brown,” he confessed. “It’s a habit remaining from my mountaineering days. If your clothing is too dark, it absorbs too much sun and you become overheated. If it’s too light, the dirt shows. I long ago abandoned fashion in favor of function.”
She raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “Would you believe I still have my waistcoat pockets lined with mackintosh?”
“I hardly know what to think,” she said. “I cannot envision you as anything except an outright leader of fashion. You were always quite the dandy.” She spoke lightly, but he could almost hear the accusation underlying her words. He had been a useless fribble.
His hand tightened about her waist. “People change.” He had changed. “I wish I didn’t have to do this.”
Her hands tensed against him, and her face went as still as a deer sighted in the forest. But she didn’t flee. Instead, that smile of hers broadened.
“How ungallant,” she replied. “You did ask me to dance. And here you represent yourself as a gentleman.”
“You misunderstand,” he said. “I do not wish you out of my presence. I wish I had not made it necessary to say what I must. I am sorry.”
She had never flinched at any of his insults. But at his apology, she jumped.
“I am sorry,” he repeated. “You cannot know how dreadfully sorry I am.”
“Whatever for?” Her face was so guileless that for one instant he believed she might forgive him. But then her eyes widened slightly. “Oh, there’s no need to worry about that,” she said. “It’s quite easy to misstep in the waltz. You must keep time carefully—one two three, one two three—”
She was addressing his button once again. He hadn’t misstepped, the little baggage. Somehow, over the years, she’d developed the talent of delivering the most splendid snubs in that breathy tone of voice. She hid her claws behind that innocent demeanor. But, by God, she was insulting him.
And, by God, he liked it. He liked that the fire and zest he’d seen in her that first Season had not completely faded. He glanced down and his gaze fixed on the creamy skin of her throat. For just one second, he contemplated leaning down and setting his lips right there, on her shoulder. He wondered, not so idly, what she would taste like.
She was probably counting the minutes until the waltz ended.
He shook his head. “You know what I’m referring to. My conduct all those years ago was inexcusable. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, because I don’t see how I could merit it. But I must let you know I regret it.”
She fixed her eyes on him. “You know, Westfeld,” she said, in that same breezy tone that she always employed, “I have no notion what you could possibly be apologizing for.” Her eyes cut away. “In point of fact, I scarcely recall you at all.”
Ouch.
A hint of color touched her cheeks. “If you are perhaps referring to the last time we danced—”
Oh, hell. He didn’t want to think of that.
“—I assure you, I thought nothing of your inebriation. My father, Lord Stockhurst, says only a very weak fellow drinks to excess, and I am not so unkind as to hold your incapacity against you.”
He hadn’t been drunk, damn it. He’d been rude and boorish. And the venom in her words—coupled with that sweet, placid smile—answered his question. No, she wouldn’t forgive him. He could have guessed that from the start. As languorous as the waltz could be, she did not relax against him. The muscles of her back were tense and stiff against his hand. She was wary, as if she expected that at any moment he might savage her.
She had every reason to think ill of him. Yet, for all that, some errant corner of his mind paid avid attention to the pale pink ribbon threaded through the neckline of her gown. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he were to pull on it. Would the gown stay up, or…
God. Ten minutes in her company and he was fantasizing about her breasts again.
He was a beast: there were no two ways about it. He had apologized to her. And if she hadn’t accepted it…he might well be a beast, but he wasn’t the sort of man who would make a lady feel uncomfortable just so he could have the satisfaction of obtaining false forgiveness. If she wanted to pretend that she’d never been hurt, it was not his place to gainsay her.
She was light on her feet, and her gloved hand in his made him feel a whole range of uncomfortable things, from the unquiet stirrings of his lust to a pained, wistful sadness.
Damn, but remorse could run deep. There was nothing to do about this one, though, and so he folded it up and left it inside him. If he lived his life with only this one major regret, he’d count himself lucky. The waltz came to an end. And if his hand covered hers a little too firmly as he escorted her back to her mother, well, there were worse ways to a
pologize.
“Lady Elaine,” he started to say, and then could not find a way to finish the sentence. He gave her a little bow, and slowly relinquished her hand.
“Lord Westfeld.” She turned to leave, and then stopped, her gaze darting to the figures before them.
Diana had seated herself in a chair near Lady Stockhurst. The two appeared to be engaged in earnest conversation. As Evan watched, Diana leaned forward and set her hand on Lady Stockhurst’s shoulder.
Next to him, Elaine’s breath sucked in.
Lady Stockhurst looked up. Her eyes brightened as she saw her daughter, and she made a beckoning motion. Elaine slunk forward, each step slower than the last. Above her shoulder, Diana caught Evan’s eyes, and she gave him a slow, dangerous smile.
No. Not this again.
“Elaine,” Lady Stockhurst was saying, “I have just been talking with Lady Cosgrove.”
No, no.
Lady Stockhurst brushed at her hair, and a smooth, pale wisp came tumbling free. “And guess what she said? She told me that everyone here was interested in my work—so very interested! She suggested I might deliver a lecture on the final evening of the house party. She’ll present the notion to Mrs. Arleston. What do you think?”
It did not take a particularly intelligent man to tell what Lady Elaine thought. She stared straight at her mother. At her side, her gloved fingers compressed into a fist.
Because if there was a bigger laughingstock in all the ton than Elaine, it was her mother—her mother, who seemed dreamy and insubstantial half the time, never quite aware of her surroundings, entirely unable to follow a normal conversation. Ten years ago, she’d been prone to lapse into the most incomprehensible discussions at the drop of a hat, on retrogrades and periodicity of orbits. It appeared that hadn’t changed, either.
