“Hmm. The marquess danced with her mother first. I have a feeling Lord Winterbourne can count a lot further than ten.” She peered closely. “But Tamsyn, you seem quite…prejudiced against him. Has he upset you in some way?”
Scowling, Tamsyn raised her gaze from Lord Winterbourne’s perfect coat-tails, only to be met with a sly wink.
He upset her in every which way.
Well, what would one expect of a London rogue? Dancing with one woman whilst flirting with another. He no doubt passed love notes and initiated trysts, all whilst straightening his lavish pale-blue waistcoat – similar in colour to a robin’s egg.
She shook her head and contemplated the assembly, vowing to ignore him, unlike everyone else who could not take their eyes from the marquess – the most exotic creature to grace their ballroom since a roe deer had wandered in eight months past.
If one could afford the subscription of a guinea a Season and be able to dress with a modicum of modesty, then anyone was welcome at the assembly. Girls barely out the schoolroom practised their wiles upon squires’ sons, and widows did the same with the squires.
Customarily, Great-Aunt Sarah Pencally and the Helston matrons would be sat huffing as to why all the decent dressmakers had moved to London, but upon entering the ballroom this evening, she had been besieged for tittle-tattle regarding their noble house guest.
The taciturn lady had merely shaken her turban and tightened her lips before returning to her usual role of casting a beady eye over the young ladies of Helston. So far, she’d saved Miss Hancock from a bottom patting, persuaded Miss Haligay from an imprudent fifth glass of fruit punch and offered Mrs Mankey a shawl.
It was quite the crush, with conversation boisterous and smiles wide. Even the musicians in the minstrel’s gallery played with more vigour as though to impress their elegant guest.
Miss Lambrick shortly joined their huddle, breathless and with green eyes sparkling.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” asked Lowdy.
“Oh yes,” she gushed. “I know he is not of my league, but he has a way with himself, makes you feel special, and no one ever does that with me.”
A coquettish giggle reached their ears and they swivelled as one to view a black-clad Mrs Crowfield laughing up at the very rogue they talked of. And Mrs Crowfield hadn’t laughed since Mr Crowfield had shuffled off his mortal coil five years past.
Twisting back, Tamsyn huffed. “I expect she’s laughing at his waistcoat.”
Her companion gazed quizzically and Miss Lambrick frowned.
But Tamsyn had been so sure he would belittle their provincial gathering, when in fact he gave it spirit and life. She couldn’t bear his utter ease with people, his devil-may-care manner, and she knew she was a horrible person to criticise him, but…
In truth, she was so very envious of the Marquess of Winterbourne.
“He’s a fribble,” that envious mouth continued without thought, “and I wouldn’t dance with him for a Cornish fairing.”
Her friends stared. Silent. Eyes shifting to their silk slippers.
“Miss Treherne, may I request this quadrille?” A scent of citrus cologne accompanied the words, fresh and sharp.
Drat.
“Thank you, Lord Winterbourne. It would be a pleasure.” And off Lowdy skipped.
“Ohhh,” shrieked Miss Lambrick. “I think he heard you.”
Tamsyn closed her eyes. She was not of a malevolent nature; she prepared poultices for Mrs Mildern’s bad knee, provided a home to stray cats and ensured surplus food passed to Benjamin Roskilly, his nine siblings and his Grandfather Thomas.
So why did Lord Winterbourne cause her mouth to spew such words?
You know why, a voice spoke deep within.You think him perfect with his roguish winks, unblemished skin and seductive eyes.
Everything you are not.
“It’s like that book I read,” chimed in Miss Lambrick. “Except topsy-turvy.”
“Pardon?” Tamsyn lifted her lashes.
“Well, the heroine overheard a gentleman say she was not handsome enough to tempt him to dance.” Miss Lambrick eyed the agile marquess. “And it was at an assembly ball just like this one.”
