Page 47 of How the Earl Entices

Her unassuming façade hid a woman so confident and sure of herself that she made grown men quake. One who possessed an endless supply of energy and an intense love of life, coupled with a tendency to leap without looking that was seemingly always putting her into one kind of scrape or another, including some undisclosed predicament during Robert and Mariah’s elopement to Scotland that mandated that she be on her best behavior ever since. No more racing horses through Piccadilly or shooting off guns in the park. No more swimming in the Serpentine. No more parading down St James’s Street beneath her parasol as if she were on the Promenade instead of strolling past rows of gentlemen’s clubs.

For once, Evelyn Winslow had been on an extended stretch of proper ladylike behavior. Which frightened Kit even more.

“I hope you’re enjoying the ball,” he commented, because it was expected.

Her face lit up with a barely controlled excitement. “It’s the most thrilling night of my life!”

Thatstunned him, certain that no one had ever before called Totteridge’s annual ball thrilling.

Before he could think of a reply, she added, “I’ve come to ask that you request a dance from me.”

She’d come to ask…He blinked. “Pardon?”

“And ithasto be a waltz. The very first waltz of the evening, in fact.”

She smiled and flitted her fan at that, as if requesting a dance from a gentleman—and from him, no less—was her birthright. As if he wouldn’t dare dream of denying her.

“Haven’t you heard?” He gestured at the crush around them, which was now leaning in to eavesdrop on their conversation. “I’m a social outcast these days.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient? Because so am I.” She smiled, undaunted. “What better way to thumb our collective noses at society than by waltzing together? Besides,” she murmured as she leaned in closer so she wouldn’t be overheard, “it’s not as if you have anyone else requesting a dance from you tonight.”

So shedidknow what the gossips were saying about him yet wasn’t at all wary of it. “Perhaps you shouldn’t either,” he warned gently. “I would hate for you to be cut simply because you danced with me.”

With a mysterious smile, she tapped her folded fan against his shoulder. “The waltz, Mr. Carlisle.” Then she ordered outright, “Come for me when it starts.”

Without a backward glance, she retreated through the crowd.

Kit stared after her. What the devil was she up to, asking him to dance? No, not asking.Demanding.She’d sidled right up to him and demanded a dance. A waltz, no less.

And not just him, apparently. She was circling the room, stopping to converse with every unmarried gentleman—and some attached—who had the misfortune to stray into her path. A flirtatious smile from her, a nod from the man, another dance most likely secured…At this rate, she’d have every dance for the evening spoken for.

He couldn’t remember Evelyn Winslow dancing that much at any society ball before.

Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember seeing Evelyn atanysociety event except those she’d been forced to attend with her sister, who was nowhere in sight tonight.

His eyes narrowed. What did the trouble-making gel have up her satin sleeve?

He continued to hold up the column through the next dance, in which Evelyn reeled with Hugh Whitby, Baron Whitby’s youngest son, then through the next one with a man Christopher didn’t recognize. She didn’t glance his way, presumably filling up the rest of her dances between sets.

The Master of Ceremonies called out the first waltz of the evening, and the orchestra sent up the opening flourish of notes. Around him, the partygoers pulsed with excitement as they began to pair off and find their way to the dance floor.

Kit tossed back the last of his Madeira. With a determined squaring of his shoulders, he moved through the crush to claim his waltz, feeling every bit like a condemned man marching toward the scaffold. When he reached Evelyn, he wryly arched a brow and held out his hand.

She slipped her trembling fingers into his. He almost stopped this fiasco right there.Shouldhave stopped it. The chit didn’t have any idea what she was getting herself into by asking him for this dance. But when she felt him hesitate, she grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the dance floor.

He took her into position and twirled her into the waltz.

“Your brother’s alive,” Evelyn announced without preamble. Then ordered, “Don’t look shocked!”

“I won’t.” Just damned confused, he was certain. Then he did his best to keep down a look of grief as he squeezed her fingers. Although the way she’d gone about expressing her support was unusual—everythingabout Evelyn Winslow was unusual—he was grateful for her optimism and her attempt to keep up his spirits. “Thank you. I appreciate your kind words.”

“They’re not kind. They’re factual.” She lowered her voice until he barely heard her over the orchestra. “Spalding sent me a letter.”

Only years of training as a Home Office operative kept him from stumbling in surprise. He held his face carefully stoic as he studied her. “My brother contacted you, of all people? When?”

“Today.” Then she gave a peeved sniff, clearly offended. “Whynotme?”

“Why not, indeed?” He supposed it made sense, in a way that was completely brilliant. Or utterly mad. All their family members and close employees were being watched, the houses all under guard, in case Ross attempted to contact any of them. Which was also why Kit persisted in making the social rounds, and especially to the clubs. If Ross wanted to send a message to him, he would have to do so through alternative means.