Page 4 of An Enchanting Dare

I miss you too, though I do not miss the mayhem you cause. I could use you at my back now, I think, for I have the strangest notion I am being watched. You are certain all our enemies were vanquished? For sometimes I get this sick sensation in my gut and—but I become fanciful. Ignore my foolishness.

For now, perhaps you should follow our example and find yourself a wife. Perhaps she could tame what I only ever held on a leash. Nic sends his best regards too and promises to visit you again soon. You are neither forgotten nor abandoned, petit loup, by either of us. Try to behave yourself for our sakes, and we will make it up to you.

―Excerpt of a letter to Wulfric ‘Wolf’ De Vere from Louis César de Montluc, Comte de Villen.

5th May1841, Lady Drummond’s Spring Ball, Mayfair, London.

Aisling tapped her feet to the music, edging further behind a large potted palm. Her fingers curled about a glass of cool lemonade, welcome in the stifling room. She sipped it as she hummed to the music and watched the ladies and gentlemen swirling around merrily… and wished she were back at Trevick. Not too much longer, she promised herself. It would be summer soon and even the most determined of the ton would surely be gone by July. She could keep up the pretence until then. Even her brother Conor would champ at the bit to leave by June, so it might be earlier with luck. It was easier on nights like this when her brother escorted her to the dance instead of her parents. Mama would have noticed she was hiding by now, but Conor was too busy with his friends. Not that he wasn’t an attentive brother. He was, but she could evade him in a way she would never have managed with her mother. Aisling leaned closer to the fern and gently bent one long frond down so she could get a better look at the dance floor.

“Are you a keen pteridologist, my lady?”

With a muffled shriek, Aisling jumped, launching her lemonade from her glass. A deal of it splashed over her gloves and narrowly missed staining the skirts of her gown.

“Oh! You blithering idiot. What do you mean by creeping up on me like that?” she said, huffing with irritation.

“My apologies, Lady Aisling though I did not creep to be fair. I called to you, but you were so taken by the music you must not have heard me,” Mr Cootes replied, passing her his handkerchief. “And if you will lurk in dark corners, a fellow must take desperate measures to gain your attention.”

Aisling took the hanky and mopped her gloves, which were damp and unpleasantly sticky. “Hold this,” she said, thrusting her glass at him whilst she peeled them off and draped them over the side of the plant pot. “And no, to answer your question. I have no particular interest in ferns, other than their usefulness in offering me a hiding place. Sadly, this one is not as efficient as I’d hoped.”

“I came to ask you to dance with me,” he said, returning the glass to her when she reached for it.

“No, thank you,” she said, sending him a dazzling smile and making little shooing motions with her free hand. “There you go. You have your answer and can run along now.”

“Hmmm.” To her annoyance he did not shoo as she had suggested, but leaned back against the wall, regarding her with that placid expression he always adopted. “But what would your mama say if she knew you hadn’t danced all evening?”

“I danced!” Aisling objected, knowing better than to return home without having danced at all.

“Ah yes, with your brother, with Ashton Anson, and with Hart De Beauvoir, who looks like he wants to be here even less than you do.”

“Are you spying on me?” she demanded.

He laughed at that. “In full view of the ballroom, yes, I suppose so. Come, give me your dance card. I wish to see how many of your other dances are spoken for.”

Before she could protest, he’d caught hold of the little notepad dangling from her wrist, effectively trapping her hand too.

“My lady, tut, tut,” he scolded her, giving a sad shake of her head. “Not one. Not one dance taken. Just how long have you been back here?”

“Not that long,” she grumbled, tugging her hand free.

“Nonsense. If you’d been in plain view, you’d have to beat the fellows off with a stick.”

“No, I should not,” she returned coldly. “I am not popular, Mr Cootes, nor have I the desire to be.”

“Why not?” he asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “You’re beautiful, funny, and clever. Why would the men not flock to you?”

Aisling stared at him, an odd fluttering sensation in her belly in response to his words. He thought her beautiful and funny and clever? What nonsense. It was just the sort of thing men said to get what they wanted. He might look sincere, but men lied often and with ease. She’d not forget that in a hurry. Standing with him in this secluded spot was inadvisable too, for all they were in a crowded ballroom.

“Because I am not easy company, Mr Cootes.”

“Ah, yes. Shy Lady Aisling, who becomes tongue-tied and stutters and blushes and can barely hold a conversation with a young man.” His eyes glinted with humour.

Aisling clamped her lips together instead of uttering the crushing set down she wished to give, because it would only prove his point. She was neither shy nor stuttering with him.

“Young men of today are fools, my lady. They simply do not know how to go about bringing a timid young woman out of her shell. Whereas I have a singular knack, it appears.”

“Oh, yes, to vex the poor creature so badly, she’ll lose her temper and forget she was shy at all,” Aisling retorted.

“Exactly.” He beamed at her, looking as if he thought he deserved a reward for his cleverness.