She could spot neither Thomas nor Robert among the wandering crowd, and wondered if he were, in fact, well enough to attend. She continued to scan the crowd, looking for any of her spinster friends or anything that looked like a gathering place for them. Nothing stood out, and Rose sipped her lemonade slowly, realizing with chagrin that she had lost the skill to mingle when she didn’t have a destination in mind. At previous balls, she’d always been going somewhere—to a refreshment table, Spinster’s Row, or to aggravate some scoundrel. She occasionally chatted with people as she moved to-and-fro, but to mingle just to mingle felt awkward. What would she even say beyond comments about the weather or Lady Blackmore’s taste in artwork?
No wonder bachelors despised these things. Hours in a starched cravat making conversation with young ladies trained in protocol and fashion, who treated their debut with the seriousness of matriculation at Oxford. Which, of course, for them it was. As she’d told Cecily, “Your life has changed forever.”
As will yours with Thomas.
The thought made her smile.
“Wicked thoughts?”
That baritone...Rose turned, looking up into those kohl-dark eyes. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
He laughed. “Careful. I’ll hold you to that.” Thomas’s gaze went over her, head to toe. “Do you know how magnificent you are? I spotted you from the other side of the room. I’m glad your modiste finally brought you into this decade.”
She scowled at him. “I’ll have you know my dresses have all been of the finest designs.”
“Yes, they were. Five years ago.”
“I cannot believe we are discussing fashion.”
“You were discussing fashion. I was discussing your beauty.”
Rose felt the heat in her cheeks. “Oh.”
“Lady Rose, may I claim the first dance this evening?”
It was Rose’s turn to look Thomas over, head to toe, her eyebrows furrowing. Deep shadows still colored the skin around his eyes, and the angles of his face were deeply drawn, as if he’d lost weight. His right arm had been meticulously wrapped in a sling that held it close to his body, and he leaned on the wolf’s-head cane. His evening kit was subdued, black on white, with the only hint of flare seen in an indigo waistcoat with silver buttons.
Her gaze met his again. “You’re wearing indigo.”
He leaned a bit closer. “A tiny bird shared with me the color of your dress.”
“Sarah.”
He shook his head. “Someone with a bit more flight in her wings these days.”
Her eyes widened. “Cecily?”
“Your sister is not quite as distracted as you might think. And she was right. You look magnificent in that dress. The color suits you. You should wear it more often.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Good. That was my intent. Sometimes I think you don’t realize how lovely you truly are.”
Rose glanced down, uncomfortable with his flattery—even though it made her heart race. She needed to redirect this conversation. “Why are you leaning so hard on the cane?”
His mouth twisted for a moment, a brief glimpse of his frustration. “The pistol ball exited below my right shoulder blade. It has left my back... a bit unstable.”
Rose scowled, peering up at his face. “So you could not dance, even if your shoulder has healed.”
“No. But with my name on your card, it will give me an excuse to squire you around the room so that all of Society will see you on my arm.”
“You want to show me off?”
He bent his head to whisper in her ear. “I want to claim you.”
The words sent an unexpected rush of sensual delight through her, almost as if he had kissed her as thoroughly as he had in her office that night. She closed her eyes against the sensation, the headiness.
“Are you warm, my dear? You seem a bit flushed.”
