“Miss Blackburn!” Rose shot to her feet and faced Newbury directly, trying to hold her voice steady. “You said something about a dance.”
Newbury studied her, the look in his eyes more of a scientist examining a unique species than a suitor interested in romance, which was actually a bit of a relief. Rose already knew she was odd. After a moment, he offered her his arm. “His dance with Lady Elizabeth is the next one, so we have a few moments. I’m grateful it’s not a waltz.”
She hesitated a moment, then slid her hand inside his elbow and let him lead her back toward the dance floor. She tried to conquer the fluttery feeling his warmth and closeness sent searing through her—it had been a long time since she had been on any man’s arm, especially one who had lingered in her mind for so many years. She focused on their goal as he wove them through clusters of folks gathered around the edges of the ballroom. “Indeed. According to the card, it’s a quadrille. And unless she is in at Almack’s and approved for the waltz, she wouldn’t be allowed to be here anyway. Every mother worth her reputation would come off those chairs to stop her. Cecily certainly cannot, since she has not received a voucher from Almack’s.” She paused. “And I doubt she will.”
“I thought she was considered this season’s diamond.”
Rose shrugged. “By the gossip sheets. Not by the patronesses at Almack’s. Unfortunately for Cecily, she has me as a sister.”
He glanced down at her. “It cannot be that bad.”
Rose gave a light laugh. “You have been gone a long time.” She peered up at him, caught for a moment by the depth in those beautiful eyes. “I’ll have to tell you sometime about the night I stopped an orchestra from playing a waltz, in order to prevent one particular rake from getting too close to a friend.”
Newbury grinned. “Did it involve poking or lemonade?”
“No. Just a lot of champagne.”
Newbury closed his free hand over hers, and her breath caught as he murmured, “We are being stared at.”
Rose had been ignoring the looks and whispers that had followed them through the crowd and advised her escort to do the same.
“Butwhyare we being stared at?”
Rose shook her head. “Don’t be naïve, Lord Newbury. You are a remarkably handsome marquess who has been a rake and out of Society for far too many years, and I am a spinster so long on the shelf I have grown mold under my slippers. At the same time, you are the heir to an expansive dukedom, while I am destined for a life in the country with my aunt. We are on the opposite ends of theton, so we make for a curiosity on the floor. And thetonboth loves and hates anything out of the usual.”
He remained silent a moment then his head leaned toward her as he whispered, “You think I’m remarkably handsome?”
She gave an impolite snort, covering the rude noise with her hand. “Thatis what you got out of my statement?”
“Well, Iama rogue and a scoundrel. We tend to be rather self-centered.”
“For someone so self-centered, you must have an appalling dearth of mirrors in your house if you have to ask the question.”
They had reached the far side of the ballroom and took the low-rise steps to the dance floor, pausing as the orchestra flipped pages and retuned their instruments. “Humor me. Pretend you are in your first season and want to flatter a future duke.”
She released his arm and looked up, studying his face, the light of mirth in his dark eyes, the soft fullness of his lips. “Are all men this fragile, or is it just the aristocracy?”
“Why do you think we become rakes?” His expression held an unmistakable glee. “Men love to be praised and admired.”
“I hear mistresses are very good at that.”
He pulled her closer, whispering, “Mistresses are good at everything.”
That fluttery feeling in her gut surged, along with a growing heat that spread through her chest, but she whispered back. “If you are trying to shock me, sir, you will have to try harder.”
Newbury’s laugh drew a few odd stares in their direction, but the first notes of the musicians distracted them all. Rose was oddly relieved, even though it had been years since she had danced at a ball. Getting some distance from Thomas felt like a good idea. “Are you ready for a quadrille? Where’s Beth? And the bas—”
“She’s just over my right shoulder.” Newbury never looked away from Rose as he spoke. “We are First Couple and will take the lead.”
Rose blinked as Thomas’s matter-of-fact words reminded her that as a marquess, he would be the highest-ranking male in their circle. Of course they would be First Couple. Rose scolded herself for letting her familiarity with a childhood friend—rogue or not—make her forget that Thomas Ashton was one of the most prominent men in the entire room. This should not bother her—she had overseen the disgrace of at least one duke and several earls—but it did, for a reason she couldn’t quite name. His use of the dance terms also underscored that no matter how long he had been away, Lord Newbury remembered the protocol of theton, even to the dance steps.
He continued to speak, his words even. “They are Second Couple. Robert is watching from the sphinx.” He stepped away, then offered her his hand. “Shall we?”
*
Thomas had expecteda dance. So he found himself a bit surprised when, instead, he was treated to a performance. As the lively melody of the quadrille swirled around the ballroom, the dancers had quickly spread into eight groups of four couples. Thomas and Rose faced off against Beth and Broxley, bowed, then started into the swift and light steps, crossing and circling with ease. At his side, Rose was a strong but deft partner, moving through the intricacy of the quadrille with the smoothness of silk on glass. She responded to his leading with nary a blunder.
When the partner exchanges occurred, however, Rose’s skillful feet tripped through an odd kickstep, as if she were dodging Broxley’s toes. During one turn, the shoulder of her dress had slipped down on her arm, and she glared at him as she yanked it back up. Then, after a particularly sharp hop to one side, she gave a loud gasp of pain and scowled at him with a look that Thomas would have sworn could have melted sand. Broxley stared at Rose as if she’d dropped in from a foreign land. Back at Thomas’s side, Rose had said, rather loudly, “Save me, Lord Newbury, from that man’s feet.”
