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Though she was better natured than the others, even Lady Cowper could not forbear teasing him unmercifully for several minutes, before Lady Andover intervened, asking her friend to take pity on the poor wretch. The patroness considered for another agonising moment before consenting. Then she crossed the room and presented Mr. Langdon to Miss Desmond just as the first notes of the waltz were struck.
Instantly, nearly every eye in the room was upon the couple. Behind their fans, disapproving matrons and disappointed debutantes—all of whom knew of Langdon’s feud with the patronesses—clucked and whispered. Half a dozen young ladies who had sighed after Mr. Langdon all last Season in vain gazed with ill-concealed hostility at the black-haired newcomer with her strange, most un-British, tip-tilted eyes. Well, she would disgrace herself sooner or later. It was in the blood, was it not?
The newcomer was oblivious to the enmity she’d aroused. As one gloved hand lightly clasped her waist and the other her hand, her temperature shot up ten degrees. As if that were not bad enough, her heart must also take leave of reason and commence beating erratically. Delilah looked up at her partner in amazement.
“Are you sorry?” she heard him ask through the thundering in her ears.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I think I am.” She dropped her gaze to his neckcloth and stared blindly at his diamond stick-pin, which seemed to wink evilly at her.
“They’ll stop staring in a moment, Miss Desmond. Only think what it would have been like had you done this without proper permission.”
“It isn’t them—” She caught herself as she realised what was on the tip of her tongue.
“What is it, then?” he asked, concerned. “What has discomposed you?”
“Nothing. I thought I’d missed a step.”
“Impossible. You are the most graceful woman in this room. I’m sure every man here wishes I would be struck by lightning. Tony is glowering, for I have prevented his being first to waltz with you publicly.”
True, Lord Berne was staring in a most threatening manner at his friend, but Miss Desmond could not spare any thoughts for him.
At present, she felt rather as though she had been struck by lightning. She was monstrous uncomfortable, despite her partner’s assured grace. Her limbs felt awkward and stiff, and her heart was rattling along like a poorly sprung carriage. What the devil was wrong with her?
“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I seem forever to be causing you trouble.”
“It’s no trouble, Miss Desmond.”
“You cannot deny I was most provoking.”
“I should not have been provoked.”
She glanced up at him in disbelief, and he smiled.
“I’m glad you wanted rescuing,” he said, his eyes unusually dark. “I only wish I could claim every other waltz as well.”
His hand pressed her waist more firmly, drawing her closer.
“Mr. Langdon,” she feebly protested.
“Trust me, Miss Desmond. I am an accurate judge of distance.” He spun her into a turn that brought her, for a moment, against his chest. But in the next they were the requisite twelve inches apart.
“You’re very daring,” she observed breathlessly.
“No,” he said. “It only wants practice, and a naturally graceful partner. To be able to skirt the bounds of propriety, I mean.”
“Only just, I think.” Her eyes were once more upon the stick pin.
“A few minutes ago you were prepared to flout convention altogether,” he reminded with a smile.
“Are you trying to teach me a lesson, sir?”
“Oh, no. That is a prodigious waste of time. You will not be led, except in dancing. But we men are determined to lead in something, and I could not resist exploiting the rare opportunity.”
It was the dance, she told herself. Waltzing was too much like embracing to music. It was too giddy-making, all this whirling about with everyone else whirling round you as well, in every colour of the rainbow—though yellow seemed glaringly predominant—and all that glitter of precious jewels. The room was too hot and too bright because there were too many candles and too many people.
Also, Mr. Langdon was much too close, or she would not have been so conscious of a crisp herbal scent, so light, yet decidedly male. Still, to increase the distance between them was to appear missish, which Miss Desmond most certainly was not. She only wished her brain would settle down so she could think.
Her brain refused to settle down, however, even after he returned her to Lady Potterby, who promptly commenced the lecture Delilah knew she deserved. Being genuinely sorry, she tried to attend and make properly penitent answers, but her mind was elsewhere.
Repeatedly, Delilah’s attention was drawn to one masculine figure. Her gaze followed Mr. Langdon as he made his way with easy grace through the crowd, pausing now and again to chat—usually with the gentlemen.
As she watched, she gradually became aware that she was not the only one. Countless young ladies were surreptitiously following his movements. Several even attempted to engage him in conversation.
Good heavens, they batted their eyelashes and fluttered their fans just as though he were... well, Lord Berne, for instance. And who was that brazen, carrot-haired baggage who dared to touch Mr. Langdon’s coat sleeve and treat him to that simpering smirk? As she watched him smile in that absent way of his and drift away from the coquette, Delilah drew a sigh of relief. Then, vexed with herself, she fanned her hot face furiously.
She was not left long to agitate herself, for her partners did now allow her to catch her breath again until supper was served. Then Miss Desmond had all she could do to keep from swatting her supper partner with her fan. Lord Argoyne was so dull, prosing on endlessly about his tiresome crops. Luckily, Lady Rand came to her rescue and very neatly rechannelled his grace’s discourse in Lord Rand’s direction, while the two ladies took up their previous discussion of Madame Germaine’s prejudices against French silks.
The conversation grew more one-sided when they reentered the ballroom, for Delilah immediately began seeking Mr. Langdon’s figure in the crowd once more.
“Miss Desmond?” said a familiar masculine voice. “I believe you had promised me the honour.”
Delilah wrenched her mind and gaze back to meet Lord Berne’s winning smile.
The smile was the product only of years of practice, for he was at the moment thoroughly enraged. He had not at all appreciated Miss Desmond’s pink confusion as she danced with Langdon—or Langdon’s smirking satisfaction. Why the devil couldn’t the fellow leave well enough alone? Bad enough he’d got the Demowerys to countenance her, but he must bring Emily Cowper in as well. Next you knew, Miss Desmond would be tripping about the hallowed halls of Almack’s, and so filled with gratitude to Jack that she’d fall into his arms—where she’d already seemed a deal too comfortable by half.
Her eyes had been too much upon Jack all night, the viscount reflected in vexation. Even now, as she apologised for woolgathering, her smile was annoyingly preoccupied.
“Only woolgathering?” he asked, leading her out. “That’s a relief. I’d feared you and Lady Rand had been debating the Greeks, and that I’d interrupted your philosophical meditations.”
“Not at all, My Lord. We were talking of French silks.”
“Whatever you speak of, you make a lovely picture with your two heads bent close, one like amber and the other like jet. What makes the sight more agreeable still is the evidence of genuine friendship. That is rare between ladies.”
Delilah rose to the defence of her sex. “We can be as staunch friends as the gentlemen, sir.”
“Do you think so? I wonder. Look at the lady’s husband. But a few months ago he and Langdon were rivals for her hand. Yet there is no enmity between them. Jack was his groomsman, in fact, and the two remain as intimate as ever. How many feminine relationships could withstand such a test, Miss Desmond?”
She looked up at her partner with clouded eyes. “You have me there, My Lord,”
she answered in a subdued voice. “Still, love is reputed to be a woman’s whole life, while it forms only a fraction of a man’s. Perhaps we’re less forgiving in such cases because they are of more significance to us.”
