Halsey tore his gaze fromInès Bechard, gaily dancing with some fellow, smiles on both their faces. He stood to one side, his back to the wall, while she, in the middle of the floor, enjoyed herself.
Make it up to her.
She certainly did not appear to need any making up!
Still. Fee could be right.
Make it up to her.
But oh so difficult to do. He crossed his arms.
First of all, he was a man about Town, a reputed connoisseur of women whom supposedly no lovely lady could resist. So he knew not how to appease the woman. Had touching her been so very bad?
Not bad.Wicked.
He closed his eyes. His fingers burned at the memory of her skin. He reached for a glass of wine from the footman’s tray and took a swig.
Make it up to her.
Yes, I could, and really, I would do her and any other man a service by taking her to my side.Watching her take the hand of one man in the room one after another to dance this reel or that was torture. He sniffed. Furthermore, he’d had no opportunity. And he would not make a spectacle of himself creating one!
He downed the wine in his glass and set his teeth. That was terrible!
If there was a good reason to win the war against Bonaparte and end the blockade, it was for the British to be able to acquire, once again, good French wine. What came through the French and British lines these days was brought by smugglers. Many were American privateers who plunged through the iron walls of the combined navies. Their bravery was to be applauded, quantity a dream, and quality hit or miss. The wines that came to most drawing rooms like theChelmsfords’ were from grapes taken too early or too late or combined poorly—and they were bitter or dull.
He put his empty glass on the tray of the next footman who passed him. He needed a good whisky.
But before he went, he would check once more on Fee. She currently did a country dance with an older gentleman—and looked to be thoroughly enjoying herself. Halsey was perplexed. Lord Edwards was fifty, a widower, and in need of a wife. If he thought to make Halsey’s little sister his own, then the man wasted his time on the dance floor. She was a graceful sprite and wished for a man who matched her in energy, among other things. Edwards did not. In addition, he had the wit of alamppost. Fee needed a man of strong character and a sense of adventure to match her own.
She would do the right thing for herself and, at the end of this dance, smile and return to their mother and their sister, Jessica, who was just coming out of her year-long mourning for her husband.
Fee’s dance card was full. She was in safe hands.
His mama and his sister Jessica chatted with the Duke of Stratton, an older man who had recently lost his wife. Out early from his mourning, he appeared to flirt with Jessica. That alarmed Halsey, as Jessica was known to put a man in his place quickly if she rejected him.
He grinned, proud of his women.
Now he was in need of that good whisky, or if lucky, a cognac, in the small library on the first floor.
He turned…and halted.
Mademoiselle Bechard had retired from the dance floor and stood with her friends, the Ramseys. Tonight she wore a vibrant shade of woodsy green, a color that took her creamy complexion to stellar contrast. He refused his instant desire. His body did not agree. She had made known her disinterest the other night in the garden at the Carlisles’.
He must console himself with his old rule. He did not waste his time on ladies, no matter their age or circumstance, if they cared not for him. Persuading them to his affections was not a task he took up. So manycovetedhis attentions.
Supply and demand, as his father used to warn, could kill a bachelor. “Either you spend your time in beds where your affections are equally met,” he had warned Evan when he went off to Cambridge, “or you waste it on those who will never want you.”
Halsey had enjoyed many a woman. Fully. Without any effort. In bed, at table, on the dance floor or drawing room,he had enjoyed every woman he wished to have. Those he wished to have included those without husbands, but with an education, wit, and poise. By God, even the bedroom required good communication skills.
So Mademoiselle Bechard’s rejection intrigued him. Dismissal happened so infrequently that he was surprised at it, always. He watched her now as she accepted the attentions of another man who asked her to dance.
Part of him rebelled at the sight. Why that man?Why could that not be me?
He startled. A thought ripped through him—and he stared at her, taking her apart bit by luscious bit to realize she wasactingwith this new partner. The same as she had with the previous one. She was too warm to them! Not herself! Indeed. Not as he had known her in that garden.
Did she act everywhere? Did she not show her true self to men?Too sharp, are you? Too selective?Did she serve him only cold porridge to effect some other purpose?But why? What could that be?He was not a jealous man. He had no reason. Either he had the woman he desired, or he desired her not at all. But he had been pointed with her, and she’d responded in kind. So what, then, could she play for with others? An affection she claimed not to want or need?
He had no idea.
