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Everyone waited to hear her answer.
Mélisande hesitated only a moment. “I’d be delighted.” Turning to Stamma, she took his arm. “Shall we?”
Stamma patted her hand in fatherly fashion. “Of course! And afterward I shall fetch us some champagne and we shall all retire to a quiet corner where you can tell me how the two of you met.”
Alessandro saw that her cool façade was just that. Her control was superb, but he knew better—he’d seen the telltale flare of her delicate nostrils and the way her eyes had widened slightly at Stamma’s suggestion. She was completely terrified of revealing the circumstances of their acquaintance.
“My lady, before you go, tell me, do you still dance as gracefully as I remember?” he interjected, his tone deliberately mischievous. “I remember a very determined young lady practicing in Louis’s garden. My toes remember it as well,” he laughed, inviting her to pick up the thread.
A delicate brow arched as she grabbed the rope he’d tossed her. “You and your toes will be pleased to know that my skills have greatly improved since our last encounter.” Her grin was saucy as she turned away. “Until our dance, Your Grace,” she threw over her shoulder as she passed through the door.
In the stunned silence following her departure, a bemused smirk crept across Alessandro’s face. Formidable indeed. The young lady he’d kissed in the grove had been no more than a precocious girl on the cusp of womanhood recklessly testing her wings. But the girl had grown into a seductive temptress, one quite aware of her power over men, he suspected.
He needed information. It would only be to his advantage to learn more about her and her odd assortment of friends. And the best place to obtain that sort of information was among the womenfolk.
Returning to the ballroom, he found what he was searching for: a pair of pretty young magpies chattering away.
“I cannot believe she’s dancing with him,” chirped the owner of a towering pile of flame-red curls.
Alessandro followed her gaze and saw she was staring at Mélisande and Stamma.
“It’s indecent the way she dotes on him,” the girl continued. “He’s a married man! Ever since she became countess, she’s shown a complete lack of regard for her reputation.” Her fan snapped open and she began fluttering it violently. “Look at her. No panniers, hair barely dressed, and my sister Daphne said she rides astride. Swears she saw it with her own eyes last year. Disgraceful!”
The golden-haired girl beside her let out a delicate squeak of shock. “Ride astride? Oh, I could never do such a thing. Papa would disown me—if I didn’t break my neck first. But I suppose she is a countess,” she added wistfully. “I wish I were a countess so I could do as I liked.”
“Catch an earl or a duke, and you can,” said the redhead. “But Her Foolishness is unwed and should have better care for her reputation. What little she has left, that is. Hanging about the likes of that rakehell Pelham and his appalling friends, it’s no wonder she’s without decency!” Her voice sank to a loud whisper, clearly intended to be heard at least five feet away. “I’ve heard he maintains several mistresses at once. It wouldn’t surprise me if she was one of them.”
“Oh, Lydia! Everyone knows that isn’t true,” the blonde said, plainly horrified. “And not all of her friends are scoundrels. At least one of them is quite nice.”
Alessandro followed her wistful gaze and saw that it was fastened on Stanton, standing just a few paces away.
“Don’t tell me you want to be a countess and
then swoon over a mere viscount’s son in the next breath, Angelica,” Lydia sniped, rapping her friend’s elbow with her fan to shift her attention away from the apparently unsuitable Mr. Stanton. “You were the toast of the Season even before your coming out. You have it within your power to catch a duke, you silly goose! I saw the way Herrington looked at you tonight.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Angelica responded woefully. “Herrington is the better catch. But he looks at me as if I were a—a thing rather than a person. Mr. Stanton is different. He’s cheerful, and he makes me laugh.”
Lydia snorted. “Cheerful is nice, but rich is better. You can laugh when you’re a duchess and everyone refers to you as Your Grace. Come,” she huffed, taking her friend by the arm. “If I don’t drag you away now, you’ll be standing at the altar with the wrong man.”
A devilish plan began to form in Alessandro’s mind. At least one of Mélisande’s friends would be out of his way in short order.
Turning, he watched Mélisande glide through the final steps of the quadrille with Stamma. When the dance ended and she dipped into a deep curtsy, Alessandro knew it was his cue.
Stamma grinned at his approach. “Come to take the initiative, eh? Good luck trying to capture her, lad,” he winked. “She’s no dullard. You’ll need all your wits to put her in checkmate.” He chuckled at his own clever turn of words.
Alessandro clamped his jaw, wishing his friend would shut up and disappear. He glanced at Mélisande and watched a knowing smile curve one corner of her luscious mouth. Mesmerized, he stared in silence until Stamma cleared his throat a second time. Blinking back into awareness of his surroundings, Alessandro almost laughed aloud. He might have taken the initiative, but her counterattack was something to be reckoned with! A man would have to be made of stone to remain unmoved by the look in her eyes.
He held out his arm. “My lady,” he murmured, sweeping a bow.
The sudden intensity of her gaze as they joined hands and moved to first positions caught Alessandro off guard, and his breath stilled momentarily.
At last, blessedly, the musicians struck up the prelude. Throughout the entire dance, their gazes remained locked as they wove, circled, and dipped, fingers brushing, desire mounting. The very air between them seemed almost to crackle with tension.
As the music drew to a finish, Mélisande glanced to her left, lighting on the musicians’ blind.
“You don’t happen to know the waltz, do you?” she asked.
He found his tongue with some difficulty. “I learned it in Vienna before it became popular in France.”
