Chapter Seven
Julian and Lady Margaret stood inside the entrance to the ballroom at yet another society ball. He had only finally agreed to accompany Lady Margaret in order to help calm her nerves over the impending house party. If he’d had his way, he would be sitting quietly at home enjoying a glass or two of fine French brandy.
“We won’t have to stay till the end. I just wish to see some friends,” said Lady Margaret. She leaned in close. “And to put my ear to the ground to pick up any rumors your mother might be spreading about.” She pointed in the direction of a group of recent arrivals and gave Julian a cheerful wave goodbye. “I shall see you in a few hours. Now go and have some fun.”
He dipped into a bow. “Be careful. The countess has a lifetime’s experience in undertaking wicked deeds. You do not want to get caught up in any of her machinations.”
After hunting down a glass of brandy, Julian began his usual circuit of the room. It was interesting to observe London society in its favorite habitat: the ballroom. For every young, finely dressed dandy there were a dozen overweight middle-aged men who barely fitted their clothes.
Then there were the matrons, with their strict pecking order. The wives of the senior titled men were always the center of attention in the various circles of women. Then came the wives of the lesser titles, their friends, and finally, at the edge of the circle stood the women from new money.
He huffed, frustrated. The fact that the women whose families had new money could buy the estates of the older titles several times over did not seem to count for anything. It was far more important that a relative in the dim and distant past had once been close to some long-dead king. Or had fought in some bloody battle. Thetonand its rules.
Rounding a corner, he came upon the dance floor. It was a crush of couples. In typical high society fashion, too many guests were crowded into too small a space. The room was stiflingly hot. He downed the last of his brandy and handed the glass to a passing footman.
He was about to seek out the fresh air of the supper room and sample its delights, when he caught sight of her. “Bloody Caroline Saunders,” he muttered under his breath.
True to form, she was standing with several admirers, all of whom were jostling to pay her their respects. He watched her for a time. She was a beauty; he could not deny that fact.
His body stirred to life as he took in her soft curves. Her hips were a perfect round shape. The fabric of her silver gown barely kissed them before falling gracefully to finish just above her matching silver slippers. His gaze lingered on the mound of her breasts which peaked out the top of the bodice of her gown. They were an enticing delight, which had his fingers itching to touch them. In her hair she wore several long ribbons. They trailed down her back and came to rest on the top of her womanly rump. Julian licked his lips. How delightful it would be to run his tongue down her naked back and place soft kisses on those hips.
He caught himself with a start. He had been indulging in a private fantasy about her, forgetting for a moment where he was, and who she was. He didn’t need to look down to know that he was rock hard.
The object of his attention turned and caught his unsuspecting gaze. Without thinking, he smiled at her.
Blast.
The grin fell from his face as she began to march with great purpose toward him, her group of admirers scurrying behind her.
Damn and double blast.
“Lord Newhall,” she said, stopping a few feet in front of him.
He forced himself to give her the bow which polite society demanded of him. After their last encounter, he would have much preferred to turn and show her his back as he walked away. But manners were deeply ingrained in men of his rank and as much as he wished it, he could not simply ignore her. “Miss Saunders, how are you this evening?”
She looked at the men who had followed her and sighed. At the back of the group stood the hapless fool who Julian had supposedly rescued her from at the ball earlier in the week. The gentleman in question had either not taken the hint, or as Julian suspected, not been allowed to leave Caroline Saunders’s sphere of influence.
He wondered if her fair-maiden-in-distress act had been just that: a means to get the attention of yet another man and make her disciples jealous. The more he looked at Caroline, the more he disliked her.
“I should like to dance. You owe me that much,” she said.
Her offer to dance with him did not go down well with her cluster of admirers. A hubbub of disapproval rippled through the members of the Ice Queen’s entourage. Julian, the interloper, was being pulled up the ranks to the head of the line and her steadfast followers were not happy about it.
She had a spine made of steel, he would give her that. After the charming way she had dealt with both him and his mother, he was certain that it was she who owed him, but the look on her face told him he would get nowhere by protesting.
Caroline held out her hand and wriggled her fingers impatiently at him.
Julian would have dearly loved to slap those long, elegant fingers. “Are you certain one of these other gentlemen could not accompany you in a dance? I can assure you that any one of them is far more eager than I to spin you around the dance floor.” He curled his toes up in his boots to stifle his delight at the anger which flashed across her face. When their gazes met, he slowly blinked. Fiery temptresses like her were easy prey to a man with a cool head.
Yet he hungered for her. Desire and dislike of Caroline now battled for his attention.
“No. I should like to dance with you,” she replied.
Julian considered the options set before him. He could say no, and then be torn limb from limb by her flock of admirers for his insolence. Perhaps that was not such a good way to start the evening.
He could cry off with an existing injury, but that would be cowardice, and he would have to limp around for the rest of the evening. It would also mean admitting to himself that she had got to him. He would poke sticks in his eyes before he admitted to such a foolish notion.
Which left the remaining option. The least appealing of them all.
