The gall of the man for taking her hand unoffered.
“Lord Briarwood,” Saffron said. “I thought you had left.”
Another lie. She had not lost sight of him for a second since leaving his side. A crowd three times the size of the one currently occupying the ballroom would not be sufficient to dim the intensity of his presence. She wished she knew what it was that caused her to fixate on him, to seek out his shape amid countless others.
“Call me ‘Leo,’” he said.
“Certainly not. That would be highly improper.”
He chuckled. “I would not dare offend your delicate sensibilities. My cousin encouraged me to stay and engage you. I suspect he wants more time to speak with your sister. Dance with me?”
Her already racing heart thudded painfully in her chest. How long had it been since anyone had asked her to dance? She had grown so used to every would-be suitor’s gaze passing over her, drawn to the radiant beauty of her sister.
The screech of a violin announced the start of a new set. The crowd pressed together, forming more space in the center of the room for dancing. The candles above them sputtered as wind breathed into the room. The footman had thrown open more doors to the terrace.
“Is your dance card full?” Lord Briarwood asked. He lifted her sleeve with his other hand and tugged out the circle of papertied to her wrist. She wrenched her hand back before he could leaf through it and discover that not a single name was written on the pages.
“I-I don’t know the steps,” she said. It was a terrible excuse, not believable in the least, but he only quirked an eyebrow.
“Then I shall have to show you.”
The light of the viscount’s attention gave her newfound courage. She took his hand, and they merged into the flow of dancers. Their first set was silent and awkward, but it didn’t take long before the rhythm of the music unlocked the steps from her forgetful body. It was glorious, like she was flying free after years of watching in silence. She didn’t even care that people were staring. Their leering eyes could not disrupt her excitement.
She stomped to the beat then hooked her arm through Briarwood’s and spun in a tight circle until she was so dizzy, she thought she would faint. But then large hands clasped her waist and her head stopped spinning.
I could learn to enjoy this, she thought, her hopes rising. Perhaps it was not too late, after all. She did not have looks to attract a husband, but her mind was sharp, her instincts true. Briarwood was far too scandalous to be suitable, but if she could find a wealthy man to agree to marry her, then Angelica would be spared the injustice of a marriage of convenience.
Lord Briarwood’s palm slid down her side and squeezed her hip. It happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to gasp or pull away—not that she wanted to. The pressure of his fingers sent tingling sensations down her thigh.
If she pretended to trip, would he do it again?
He handed her off to a new partner and the distance brought her back to reality. She chastened herself for her foolishness. As tempting as Briarwood was, he was a rake, not a suitor.
When she returned to his arms, he immediately drew her closer than was proper, causing several other of the ladiesdancing to throw them sidelong glances. She could not tell if they were scandalized or jealous.
“You’re drawing attention to us,” she said, squeezing his hand.
He shrugged. “Let them gawk. I am only doing what they all wish they could.” They whirled past a line of stern-faced matrons along the wall, who tilted their heads together and muttered. The wordsstrangeanddisgracefulwere spoken loudly enough for her to hear and dug into her heart like daggers.
“You dance well,” the viscount said. “Yet they reject you. Why?”
“I have no dowry,” she said, concentrating on moving her feet in tune with the music. She could not embarrass her sister or aunt by falling on the dance floor. “That is reason enough.”
“I am not interested in your dowry. And unless I am mistaken, your sister is also without dowry, yet she has several admirers.”
“I have more pressing concerns,” she said, thinking of the pile of gowns sitting in her room, waiting to be modified so that theTonwould not notice that they were last year’s fashions. That was assuming they could find the funds to make the payment on their townhouse. She woke up most nights in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of burly, faceless men carting trunk after trunk out of their house while Angelica sobbed in Rosemary’s arms.
“What could be more important than marriage?” Briarwood asked mockingly. “I believe my mother once said those exact words to me some years ago. A ridiculous notion.” He caught her as she stumbled on a puddle of spilled wine, lifted her off the ground, and returned her to her feet in a smooth motion.
“You disagree?” she asked, breathless from her momentary flight. The large hand splayed along her back provided a pleasant distraction.
“I’ll share a secret with you. Several of the works on these walls were painted by unmarried women.” He spun her about and nodded to a large oil canvas behind the chaise of disagreeable matrons. It depicted several women in flowing gowns sitting on prancing horses. The frothing, light-colored garments distracted from the wicked eyes of the horses, who looked about to buck their riders.
“It’s lovely,” she said. “Who painted it?”
He flashed a grin. “A darling cousin of mine. She has no head for household matters but is a master with a brush. Finding and supporting artists is a personal project of mine. I don’t think I need to tell you how challenging it is for a woman artist to sell her work under her own name.” He scowled. “There are limited opportunities for women, even in the Royal Society of Arts.” Saffron remembered Lord Briarwood’s reaction to the painting. “Is theRavenmoreone of those paintings?”
He stumbled but caught himself before they careened out of position. Then he drew her a touch closer. “Ravenmore is the name of the painter, not the painting. You haven’t heard of him?”
