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Her pleasure dissolved as she spied Chadwick, who appeared to be anxiously searching for someone.
Please don’t see me! she thought, trying in vain to hurry her mother along.
No such luck. He managed to join them just before they were announced, making them appear a trio. Mortification filled her at the resulting flurry of whipping necks and wagging chins. She wanted to run and hide. Instead, she forced herself to walk on with head held high, looking everywhere but at her impromptu escort.
Inadvertently, her gaze lit upon Lord Montgomery. Impotent rage swept through her at the sight of his knowing smile. She turned to look elsewhere, anywhere but at him, and caught sight of Miss Bidewell and her mother. Both were staring at her and Chadwick with naked hostility.
Lady Bidewell’s flaring nostrils made her look like a bull ready to charge. Before she could stop it, a smile spread across Sabrina’s face.
Lady Bidewell’s ample breast heaved and her cheeks darkened further.
Damn! thought Sabrina. Why, oh why couldn’t she behave herself? What devil prodded her to such constant impertinence? Forcing a neutral expression to her face, she looked at Chadwick out of a desperate need to find something safe upon which to rest her gaze.
Fortunately, Chadwick appeared not to have noticed. He was too busy strutting at her side like a bloody peacock, nodding to passersby as if he were King George himself on promenade.
The nightmare worsened as she caught sight of Fairford—staring right at her.
The bottom fell out of her stomach.
At that same moment, Lord Montgomery appeared before her. Faint strangling noises issued from her escort as Montgomery bowed and made a display of taking up and kissing both of her hands. “My lady, such loveliness as yours must make the stars themselves grow dim with shame,” he said—loudly.
She froze, her gut immediately tying itself into a complicated knot. Whether the reaction was due to mortification or because his thumb was grazing her palm, she could not tell. Somewhere amid the half-formed thoughts flitting through her mind, she registered the fact that his thumb bore a callus. The slight roughness felt rather oddly pleasant as he traced small, slow circles, filling her palm with liquid fire.
Chadwick was not to be put aside so easily. He shot Montgomery a sour look. “Indeed, my lady. One can only agree, and add that such beauty as yours inspires neither rest nor peace in a man’s heart. Yet, one smile from your lips, and I am instantly restored. I long for your smiles, as one longs for the sunrise after a long, dark night.”
The reference to his own awkward prose fell on deaf ears, however, as Montgomery came closer. “If your beauty disturbs one’s repose, my lady, it certainly doesn’t make one long for the sunrise.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and her pulse began to hammer. “And though it is indeed a most potent restorative, no smile can cure that with which you have afflicted me. I believe I would require something far more tangible from your lips to cure my ailment.”
The scathing retort she’d been formulating dried up. His lazily circling thumb now grazed the base of her wrist, sparking feather brushings of unspeakable heat between her legs.
“Would you care to dance?”
“I would be delighted,” she answered automatically, the huskiness of her own voice surprising her as much as the speed of her response. Why did I agree to dance with him?
Leaving a dumbfounded Chadwick behind, she let Montgomery lead her away.
LOUNGING AGAINST THE mantelpiece, Henry reflected upon his good fortune. Obliging Sabrina’s urgent request to leave the ballroom immediately after their dance, he’d led her here, to Somerset’s library.
Somerset’s otherwise unoccupied library.
After visiting Aylesford, he’d made a decision. Sabrina interested him. She was by far the loveliest woman he’d ever seen, but it was more than that. Being near her made him feel…different. It made him feel as though something that had been asleep in him had awakened.
She had matured into a fascinating woman. Intelligent, outspoken, a bit impudent. He didn’t mind. Too many times he’d been introduced to women trained to meekly agree with every word that came from his mouth. Not Sabrina—or at least not with him.
She paced the room, picking up figurines and replacing them, poking about in the corners, looking at the books on the shelves—anything to avoid looking at him, it seemed.
He walked over to where she stood fiddling with the bric-a-brac. “It’s been ten minutes and you’ve not said a word.”
She fidgeted with the little porcelain shepherdess in her hands and glanced at him apprehensively. “I’m not a gifted storyteller like you,” she snapped.
“In order to tell a good story, one must have an interesting subject. I could tell a hundred stories about you, Pest,” he said, chuckling. He knew he ought not to goad her—but he just couldn’t seem to resist.
Her brows lowered. “Yes, well, I would appreciate it if you didn’t. And don’t call me that.”
“Oh, come now. You cannot possibly still think I mean it as an insult,” he said. Still, she did not soften. “Why are you so angry with me? I just rescued you from that buffoon out there, after all.”
“Rescued me?”
“Were you not happy to be rid of your escort?”
