“Is something amiss?” he asked.
“Other than your complete lack of subtlety?” Beth crossed her arms. “No, nothing at all.”
He scowled at her. “Subtlety is overrated.”
“Not,” she said, with a matching scowl, “amongst gentlemen of theton. Must I remind you that you recently lifted another gentleman off the floorby his cravat? You are showing your arse.”
Aldermaston let out a bark of laughter that made even the footmen near the door break their stolid expressions. When brother and sister turned to him, he held his arms wide. “The Kennet clan in the wild is something of a marvel of nature.”
Beth glared at Michael. “A marvel of murder, more like it, if my brothers do not learn to control themselves.”
Grinning, Michael brushed her cheek with one finger. “You love us, little sister.”
“Which is the only thing that keeps you alive most days, brother.”
He stepped toward the entrance, and the footmen opened both doors. “We should get you back to the ballroom. Or you’ll miss your last dance.”
They entered the short hallway, but Beth stopped, looking down at the floor a moment. The two men did as well, waiting until she looked up, first at Michael, then at Aldermaston. She moved closer to the marquess, her eyes moist. “Because it will be the last dance, will it not? While you are more subtle than my brother, this evening you have been, perhaps, less so.”
The silence in the hallway suddenly felt heavy across Michael’s shoulders. He moved quietly away from the couple, halfway toward the stairs. He could no longer hear the words, but he saw the tenderness in Aldermaston’s face as he spoke. As the marquess took Beth’s hand, Michael realized his sister’s body trembled. Her lips quivered as she nodded. Aldermaston then kissed her hand and exited out the side door again.
Michael’s heart broke for Beth as he watched her take several deep breaths and try to steady herself. He had been there, had felt that burning ache when someone had walked away. He wanted to go to her but knew she needed a moment.
Finally, Beth turned and approached Michael, her face solemn and still, although tears slid down her cheeks and her voice was choked. “He is going to send for our carriage, then re-enter the ball through the front. He will speak to Papa tomorrow.”
“Speaking of subtle,” Michael murmured.
Beth slapped his chest with the flat of her hand, then used it to cover her mouth as she gave a half-laugh, half-sob. “You are a monster.”
“Without a doubt.”
She studied his eyes. “You knew.”
Michael cleared his throat. “I was... forewarned.”
“In case I created a scene?”
Michael shook his head slowly and reached for her hand. “No, Lady Elizabeth. He has more respect for you than that. He did not want you to be alone or have to explain to your rather reckless brother what had happened.” His mouth twisted. “I also think he did not want me to punch him in the face.”
Beth leaned against him, her voice still low and gravelly. “Rotter.”
He put his arm around her. “Well, you and he both know I might have done so.”
She looked up at him. “Did you not have a top hat?”
“I doubt it will be the first top hat abandoned at a ball.”
“It is a good top hat.”
“Top hats. They come. They go.”
“Michael?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
He stepped away from her and offered her his arm. She took it and they strolled back toward the side door. “You know, when you were born, I told Mother that I would much rather have had a pony. She assured me that someday I would change my mind about that.”
