And yet, she could not bring herself to change the subject. “How will you prove it?”
“How would you like me to?”
Clara wasn’t sure she could speak, even if she knew how to answer such a slippery question.
“I am completely yours,” he said, his expression friendly and open—a delightful change from what she had become accustomed to since arriving in England. “I am at your disposal. Your humble servant. Here for your pleasure.”
She stared in shock for another few seconds, then couldn’t help herself. She laughed out loud. Maybe it was nerves. “I’ve never met anyone quite like you.”
And who was he, exactly? All she knew was that he was someone very daring and very grand. Everything about him was exciting and magnificent and lordly. He was such a glorious change from the ordinary.
He gazed at her. “Look around you. Every man on the floor is taking notice of you here tonight and wishing he had spotted you first. They are each hoping that I will soon disappear and leave you free once again.”
Clara did look around. The other gentlemen were simply dancing with their partners, not looking at her at all. “I’m afraid I don’t see it.”
“No? How else can I prove it to you, then? I know. Feel my heart. It’s racing.” He pulled her hand to his chest and held it there.
Stunned by this physical intimacy in the middle of a crowded ballroom, and flustered by the feel of the man’s hard chest beneath the flat of her hand, Clara felt his heartbeat. It was not racing. He was as calm as a lake in the deep of night.
Utterly beguiled and falling into a lazy daze, Clara missed a step.
Her partner righted her and continued on without missing a beat, holding her hand out again, where it should be.
Clara’s mouth felt suddenly dry. In fact, she could hardly breathe. Did this man always have this debilitating effect on women? If so, she was in for an engaging, perhaps difficult, first season there if she ever encountered him again.
They danced a little longer, and she noticed his pace was slowing, growing more leisurely. Clara found herself avoiding his gaze. He had knocked her off kilter with that last little flirtation.
The waltz ended, and the orchestra paused. The sound of pages turning filled the silence. Clara raised a hand to her cheek and felt a bit faint in the heat of the room. Or perhaps it was this man’s effect on her that was causing her to feel fuzzy-headed.
He sensed her distress with perfectly timed precision. “Would you like a cool drink? There is a punch bowl in the supper room.”
“Please,” she replied.
He offered his arm, and she permitted him to escort her into the next room, where a long buffet table was overflowing with tea cakes and crumpets, large bowls of colorful fruit, clotted cream and towers of frosted peaches. There were shellfish on silver platters, cheeses and meats, and cakes and candies and berries.
The gentleman led her to the punch bowl, filled a glass and handed it to her. She took three large gulps before she realized it was burning her throat. It tasted bitter with some sort of spirit.
She tried to swallow without croaking or making any facial contortions, then smiled politely at him and carefully set the cup on the table. She wasn’t about to have any more of that beverage, whatever it was. She didn’t want to end up smelling like a distillery.
“Better?” he asked.
“Yes, better.”Except that my throat is on fire!She tried to clear it. “Thank you.” Her response barely squeaked out of her.
“Would you like to see the Fuseli? It’s in the main hall.”
She swallowed again. “I’m not sure that I should be away from my—”
“You can’t come to Livingston House and not see the Fuseli.”
Clara looked up at his elegant mouth, heard the sound of his seductive voice, and felt a buzzing sensation somewhere deep within herself, along with a desire to follow him wherever he led her.
“I suppose I could go and have a peek.”
“‘Have a peek.’ What a charming American expression.”
He offered his arm to her again, and she went with him to the main hall, determined to take one look at the masterpiece, then politely thank her partner and ask him to escort her back to Mrs. Gunther.
Out in the hall, other couples were whispering quietly in corners, and Clara found the whole atmosphere somewhat dreamlike. The ladies seemed to float around as if bewitched by something, and the gentlemen spoke in hushed tones. The masks gave it all a rather mysterious flavor, as if they were all supposed to keep some great collective secret.
