Page 19 of Sinfully Daring

“Ach, I don’t know about that, but Da said I scrub up well enough, so I guess it’s fine. Am I too late to secure a dance with ye?”

“Oh, no. I only arrived a moment ago so you may have the next if you like?” Rosamund found the space upon her card and took up the small pencil attached. “Does this mean Evie is back?”

“Ah dinnae ken,” he said, watching as she wrote his name in for the galop, an exuberant dance that ought to suit him nicely. “I was hoping you might know. Her family left Scotland before I did but they were visiting friends on their way home. Is she nae here tonight?”

Rosamund studied him, noting with interest that he looked disappointed. Ah, so that was how the wind was blowing.

“I don’t know. Shall see if we can find out before the dance begins? I see Lady Balderston there and she has been busy gathering the latest gossip ever since she came to town.”

Muir agreed with this plan and so they made their way towards where Rosamund had glimpsed Lady Balderston’s shock of thick white hair, which had been elegantly arranged with diamond hair clips and deep purple feathers which matched perfectly the stunning evening gown she wore. As they drew closer, Rosamund smiled to see her nephew Mr Godwin was there too with his friend, the Comte de Villen. As ever, the Frenchman looked like a fallen angel, almost too beautiful to be the same breed as the other mere mortals about him. His dark hair glinted in the candlelight, and though he wore the same outfit of fitted black coat, black trousers, and white waistcoat as every other man in the room, somehow he made everyone else look as though they had either slept in their clothes or were trying far too hard.

“Good evening, my lady,” Rosamund said, giving her a curtsey before greeting the two men. She turned back to Lady Balderston “How wonderful you look tonight. That gown is simply divine.”

“Thank you, my dear, but divinity certainly had nothing to do with it,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. Her mouth quirked, and she glanced at the comte, who met her gaze and inclined his head slightly. Not understanding the exchange, Rosamund carried on.

“Might I introduce my friend to you, my lady?”

The lady snorted and extended her hand to Muir. “No need. Barnaby and I know this scoundrel. Good evening, you young scamp. My, you look almost civilised this evening.”

“Thank ye kindly, my lady. Good evening, Mr Godwin. It is good to see ye both again, and almost civilised is exactly what I was aiming for. There’s nae need to get overexcited, aye?”

“Hmmm,” the lady said, considering this. “That rather depends on your point of view, I fear, but you look very well, very much like your father. Is he here?”

“Na, Da can’t abide London, ye ken. Ma’s here, though, catching up with all her old friends.”

“Excellent. Tell her to call on me when she has the time. I’m at Beverwyck for now and I should be pleased to catch up with her.”

“I will do.”

“I suppose I ought to introduce you,” Lady Balderston said, and it was only now that Rosamund noticed the slightly odd atmosphere as Muir and the comte faced each other. Mr Godwin was obviously aware of it too, as his gaze darted nervously from one man to the other.

“Monsieur Le Comte, would you allow me to introduce Mr Muir Anderson? Mr Anderson, Louis César de Montluc, the Comte de Villen.”

The two men faced each other, and Rosamund shivered as she saw the look in the comte’s brilliant blue eyes. They seemed to burn, as though lit by an azure flame under the bright light of the ballroom.

“Monsieur,” Muir said, and bowed, interest flickering in his tawny eyes.

The comte inclined his head very slightly, saying nothing. To say the atmosphere had plummeted to arctic temperatures was an understatement.

Mr Godwin cleared his throat, looking ill at ease and like he was desperately racking his brain for something to say. Whilst he was floundering, Rosamund did her best to step into the breach.

“We were wondering if Miss Knight was here this evening, my lady. Have you heard if she has returned from Scotland yet? She was a guest of Mr Anderson’s family, and he was hoping to speak to her this evening.”

Rosamund wondered if she imagined the temperature plunging another several degrees, or the way the comte appeared to seethe with repressed energy. She had always found him a very calming and relaxing presence in the past, so this seemed most peculiar. Lady Balderston was obviously aware of it also, her eyes alight with interest as she gave Muir another contemplative once over before glancing back at the comte. Whatever the issue was, he seemed to have himself back under control now, his expression as bland as his beautiful countenance could allow.

“I believe they are back in town, yes. I noticed the knocker back on the door this morning as it happens. As to whether Miss Knight is attending tonight, I’m afraid I cannot say.”

With some relief, Rosamund realised people were taking their places for the next dance and looked expectantly at Muir.

“My dance, I think, my lady,” he said with a warm smile, before offering her his arm.

“If you would excuse us,” Rosamund said, and allowed Muir to escort her onto the dance floor.

3rd July 1842, Mrs Palmer’s Summer Ball, Piccadilly London.

Sebastian watched Rosamund and the handsome young man she was dancing with as the energetic galop had everyone flying about the ballroom at speed. Full of life and energy, her complexion pink with exertion, her mouth curved in a smile, she was a delight to watch. He smothered the niggle of jealousy that made him wish he might be the one dancing with her. Sebastian knew the Earl of Morven and his sons were decent men. Certainly, he’d heard they got into the usual scrapes and difficulties all young men experienced but that was only to be expected, welcomed even, for a few humbling mistakes at that age saved you from making larger ones later on. It would not be a brilliant match. In terms of wealth and status, she could do better, but he felt certain that was not what Rosamund wanted or cared about.

The dance ended, and he watched with amusement as Rosamund struggled to leave the dance floor, accosted at every turn by young men demanding she write their names upon her dance card. A pity he could not do likewise, but he was not so foolish as he once was. Admiring her from a distance was one thing, a pleasant conversation unexceptionable, but dancing with her, holding her in his arms …. A strange sensation coiled about his heart, as though it were being squeezed within his chest. Stop it, damned fool, he told himself severely. No. You will not think of it.