Twelve
ELEGANT CLOTHES WERE always uncomfortable, and tuxedos were no exception.
Standing in front of the wall mirror in his bedroom, Christopher finished tying his cravat. The collar chafed his skin, and the waistcoat seemed about to choke him. But a ball required a proper attire, and admittedly, the crew Benedict and Cowasj had hired had done a great job in a short time. There were still major renovations to undertake, but the house had been scrubbed from the roof to the cellar. The walls sparked as if freshly painted, and the marble floors were so polished he could use them as mirrors. Even the garden wasn’t a wild jungle anymore.
In fact—he walked to the window—with the lanterns glowing in the dark and the statutes adorning the winding path, it looked like a picture he’d seen in a fairy tale book. Promenading with Amelia through the bushes and watching the light playing on her smooth skin would be wonderful.
Carriages rattled past the front door, and footmen hurried to open doors and usher the horses away. Ladies in voluminous bustles and gentlemen in dark suits streamed from broughams and landaus. Hell, he didn’t even know who these people were. Benedict had sent the invitations—weeks ago, apparently—and had given him a list he’d barely glanced at.
Not that it mattered. He’d avoid contact with the guests as much as possible.
A knock came from the door. “My Lord,” Harvey said. “Everything is ready.”
No, not everything. Muttering a curse, Christopher opened the door.
Harvey bowed. “Will you enter the ballroom escorting one of the ladies?”
“Excuse me?” His fingers froze on the bloody cravat.
“It’s tradition that, during the first ball of the season—”
“This is the only ball.”
Harvey bowed again, damn him. “That the Earl of Gladstone starts the ball by entering with a lady. It should be Lady Lyons, but in her absence, one of our lady guests will be perfect.”
Damn. He loitered in the corridor. Music and chatter echoed from the staircase.
Harvey cleared his throat. “I might dare give you some information on the current state of the ladies. Mrs Armstrong is still of poor health after the trip to the lake and said she might join the ball later. Miss Julia wishes to be escorted by Sir Benedict.”
“Which left Amelia.” She would’ve been his sole choice, anyway. “Please, invite her on my behalf to enter the ballroom with me.”
Delight flickered on the butler’s face. “At once, My Lord.”
He darted towards the other side of the corridor, his coattails fluttering behind him.
Left alone, Christopher paced on the landing, trying to ease the knot of anxiety in his abdomen. He didn’t know what was more frightening: facing a horde of people he barely knew, or escorting Amelia to the ballroom without limping too badly. Perhaps he should take his walking stick. He’d left it in his room for his stupid pride, but he’d thought he’d be alone. He didn’t want to embarrass Amelia, tripping on his own feet.
Christopher was contemplating going back to his room when soft footfalls sounded. He turned, and a shock of stillness went through him.
Amelia’s pink and white dress hugged her curves like a glove. Golden curls bounced softly on her naked shoulders, and the pink in her cheeks matched the colour of her full lips. She beamed, and he forgot to breathe for a moment.
“You look lovely.” The words form a knot of desire in his throat. Why hadn’t he immediately said ‘yes’ to her proposal? He couldn’t remember.
“Do you think?” She twirled gracefully on the tips of her shoes, and the fabric of her skirt twisted around her legs.
“I do.” It came out low and husky.
“You look dashing, too.” She stretched her gloved arm. “Shall we? I’m curious to see how the couches we chose fit the ballroom.”
He was curious to see how her breasts fit his palms. “Yes.” He offered her his arm.
“I’ve booked the waltz for you,” she said, waving the card where the ladies wrote down the names of the gentlemen with whom they wished to dance.
“Lovely.” Lord, could he speak using more than a couple of words? And he’d used ‘lovely’ twice.
Her sapphire eyes held him captive as they climbed down the stairs. She beamed again, and he . . . Her words sank in. Waltz? Not bloody likely.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I do not dance.” Especially waltzes that required quick footwork.
