If his jaw had dropped any lower, it would have been in his waistcoat pocket. “B-but I’m bringing some p-p-punch to Cynthia,” he stammered, his eyes locked on the low décolleté of her new gown.
“She will survive without you for a moment,” replied Augusta in a low voice as she took the glasses from his unresisting grip and put them aside. “While I may not.”
Ashton looked even more confused, but he allowed himself to be dragged out onto the dance floor. Augusta breathed a sigh of relief. Bruised toes were a small price to pay for such sanctuary. Perhaps with a bit of luck the earl would fail to spot her among the capering couples and simply go away.
But that hope was quickly dashed.
“I say,” remarked Ashton, as he made an awkward attempt to execute a box step turn. “Lord Dunham seems to be, er, remarking on your new style of gowns again—that is, he has been staring quite pointedly at you for the last several minutes.”
She refused to look around.
“Er, he’s right, you know. Can’t imagine why you didn’t do it sooner. The dress, I mean. Looks marvelous.” His words were moving about in as disjointed a manner as his feet.
“Umm, I don’t suppose you could take me for a stroll in the garden?” Augusta gave what she hoped was a brilliant smile. “I’m feeling rather warm.”
His face looked to be on fire. “But I … I’m to dance with Cynthia for the next set.”
“Oh, dash it,” she muttered. “You were never one to abandon a friend in the heat of battle.”
Ashton eyed her with concern. “You, er, haven’t perchance repeated that little experiment of sneaking into your father’s supply of French brandy? I thought you decided it was an experience you did not wish to repeat?—”
“Of course I’m not foxed,” she snapped. “It’s just that—oh, never mind.”
The music was coming to an end, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see a tall, dark shape moving toward them, like a storm cloud sweeping in from the North Sea.
“No need to see Lady Augusta back to her chair, Ashton,” came a deep voice. Its ominous rumble reminded her of approaching thunder. “I shall make sure she is looked after.”
Her friend nearly tripped in his haste to get away.
Marcus’s gloved hand came firmly around her elbow as the first lilting notes of a waltz sounded from the violins.
Augusta smiled sweetly. “Are you sure you wish to dance, my lord? I would have thought in your present condition, it might prove a bit too strenuous.”
His eyes narrowed. “Oh, don’t worry about me, Lady Augusta. But now that you mention it, are you sure you did not suffer any lasting injury when I fell soheavilyon top of you?”
The color rose to her cheeks as she recalled how the earl’s muscular form had molded to her every curve. “No,” she said quickly. “It had no effect at all.”
“Perhaps you are right, though,” he continued. “Let us forego the pleasure of a dance and, say, take a stroll in the garden.”
“Ah, I would prefer to stay right here, sir. I fear I might … take a chill outside.”
Marcus eyed her gown for a moment. It was one of the styles that Marianne had chosen for her, with bare shoulders and a plunging neckline that her sister had said suited her figure very well.
Judging by the look on Marcus’s face, she was by no means assured that was true. All he finally said was, “I can see why.”
Augusta felt herself getting redder.
“However, we will have to chance it, for you are going to accompany me outside, Lady Augusta, if I have to throw you over my shoulder and carry you out there.”
This time she actually muttered one of the rude words under her breath, but she reluctantly placed a hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her through the french doors. At least, she thought with some small measure of satisfaction, he was still walking with a slight limp. It served him right for being such an arrogant, odious, overbearing, high-handed ….
She had not come close to running out of adjectives when the earl came to a halt by a small, circular pool screened by a low trellis of climbing roses and turned to confront her.
“Perhaps you would care to explain your actions of the other night.” He was dressed entirely in black, save for the white silk cravat knotted in a perfect Trone d’Amour, and with his dark brows drawn together and his arms crossed over his broad chest, he could not have looked more intimidating.
Augusta imagined that was the general idea.
“Actually, I would not,” she replied.
