Page 72 of Make Mine a Marquess

Her father was waiting to escort the two of them to the ballroom. The strains of the orchestra could be heard down the stairs. It was a country ball and the rules were more relaxed. A majordomo wasn’t needed to announce their presence. Instead, they would descend the ballroom stairs and greet the host. With her hand on her father’s left arm, and her mother holding her father’s right, they waited their turn.

Phoebe almost tripped. The host was the Marquess of Landon. Not Lord Willard.

In her befuddled state, she’d forgotten it would be Landon to greet everyone. Dressed in black and white formal attire, it was impossible not to stare. His profile was sharp and confident, and her heart leaped as they approached. She was vaguely aware of his friend, Mr. Adian, standing by his side.

Her father shook Landon’s hand. Landon bowed and kissed the back of her mother’s hand. Then his enigmatic gaze turned to her.

A sizzling heat sent her stomach in a wild swirl. He tilted his head and smiled. “You look lovely, Miss Dawson. I hope you enjoy the evening.”

She mustered her own smile. “Thank you, my lord.” She held her hand behind her lest he place a kiss on its back as he had her mother’s. She wouldn’t be able to endure the brush of his lips on her satin glove without thinking of their earlier heated kisses, the brush of lips against her skin. She feared fainting or melting at his feet.

It was as she’d dreaded. Her passionate nature was rearing its ugly head.

At last, her parents led her away. Her father wasted no time in joining Lord Delmont and a group of country gentlemen. Her mother led Phoebe to where the sisters, Clarice and Elaine, were standing with the rest of the young women.

A liveried servant passed by with a tray of sparkling champagne. Phoebe swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Her gaze darted to the champagne, and she longed for a flute. She knew her mother would disapprove and point her to the lemonade at the refreshment table.

Just then, Willard approached. Smartly dressed in a deep purple coat and matching striped waistcoat, a diamond pin in his cravat winked in the candlelight. “May I have this dance?”

“Yes, you may, my lord,” her mother was quick to answer for her.

Phoebe obediently placed her hand on his arm as he led her to the dance floor. To her dismay, the orchestra struck up the waltz.

She slipped her hand in his and he placed his on her waist. They moved to the music, along with other couples on the dance floor. As she swept by, she sought out Landon, his tall frame standing out from the group of gentlemen. He turned, his gaze meeting hers. It was a brief moment. Mere seconds. The flash of anger in his gaze was unmistakable. As was the flash of possession.

A wild swirl settled in her stomach that had nothing to do with the exuberance of the dance.

“All eyes are upon you, my dear, and I’m pleased to have the most beautiful woman in the room to soon be my wife.”

Her gaze tore from Landon’s and returned to Willard’s. “Thank you.”

“You are breathless,” he said.

“It’s the dance.” A lie. “I could use refreshment.” The truth.

She was parched and needed a drink to calm her racing heart.

At last, the waltz came to an end, and he escorted her to the refreshment table.

“Is there champagne?” Phoebe didn’t spot any on the table. Surely, he could—

Willard picked up a glass of lemonade and handed it to her. For a man who often had a drink in his hand, she thought it hypocritical.

She sipped the lemonade. It was overly sweet.

Just then Malvern and Roxborough waved him over. Willard’s face lit and he nodded at his friends.

“If you don’t mind, I see my cousin, Beatrice.”

“What?” He turned from his friends to acknowledge her. “Oh, yes. Save me another dance later this evening, my dear.” Willard departed to join his friends.

Phoebe set down the lemonade and made a pretense of heading toward the ladies. But once Willard’s back was turned, she changed course and slipped out the French doors and onto the terrace.

…

Landon watched Phoebe. Jealousy, hot and dangerous, had pierced his chest when he’d seen Willard escort her onto the dance floor. When his cousin had placed his hand on her waist and swung her into his arms on the dance floor, his fingers had tightened on the glass he held. The fine whisky did little to take off the edge.

She was his, dammit. He wanted to waltz with her. Hold her. Show her off to all the guests as his special lady.