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“By whose standard, I wonder?” he countered. “One man’s idea of perfection might not be the same as that of another. But tell me, what does small, dark, and irreverent enjoy for entertainment? Painting? Poetry? Music? Or is embroidery your secret passion?”
A snort of derision escaped her, and her cheeks heated. So much for portraying a delicate, polished female! “Amelia excels at such things, but I prefer riding my horses,” she said boldly, watching him closely for signs of disapproval. “When the weather prevents being outside, I enjoy playing at cards. I’m learning a new game called whist. It’s somewhat similar to ruff-and-honours.”
A crease formed between his brows. “You don’t like music or art?”
“Oh, I do,” she insisted. “But I’m afraid I simply haven’t an artistic bone in my body. My efforts to become proficient at anything requiring an ear or a steady hand have always resulted in disaster. As such, I prefer to admire the talents of others, like my sister. She is quite the accomplished—”
“I’m not interested in your sister.”
Something in his voice made the region just below her navel feel all queer again. “I—I suppose I do speak of Amelia rather often. It’s just that she and I are very close,” she lied. “She is the only family I have besides Papa and a few distant cousins I’ve only met once or twice. Ever since Mama died, Papa has been reluctant to let us out of his sight. In fact, tonight is the first time I’ve been allowed to attend a ball without being tied to his coat skirts.”
She winced and turned away, pretending to watch the lamplighters as they progressed along the path. Damn, but she’d made it sound like she’d only just come out of bloody pinafores!
“Forgive my harshness,” he said, coming to stand behind her. “I only meant to compliment you, not bring you distress.”
If she was distressed, it was for an entirely different reason. Her body was thrumming in the most peculiar manner. It was terribly difficult to think with such strange sensations running amok. I do wish he would not stand so very close…
She turned with every intention of telling him she was ready to return to the ballroom, but when she looked up, the words refused to come out. His leaf-green gaze bored into her, and a melting, paralyzing heat began to infuse her as a vision arose in her mind’s eye—a shocking vision of herself in his arms.
“Lady Victoria? Are you well?”
No. She was not well. Not at all. The corset she’d thought not tight enough earlier now did not allow enough air into her lungs, and all throughout her body the gentle thrumming had risen to a steady hum.
“My lady?”
With great effort, she forced her mouth to move. “I’m terribly sorry, my lord. I don’t know what came over me. I think it—it must be the champagne. I’m not used to it.”
“I’m sure it’ll pass in a few moments,” he said, a smile creasing his lips. “Perhaps we should find a place to sit and rest.”
She nodded and, without thinking, took the hand he extended. As his warm, dry fingers touched the bare skin of her palm, something like lightning ran from the point of contact all the way down to her toes. Before she could so much as blink, however, he’d tucked her hand beneath his elbow to place it on his arm.
Really, champagne had the most unsettling effect. Now she knew why Papa had forbidden it.
They returned to the ballroom, and Cavendish led her to a relatively quiet corner. With the wave of his hand, he summoned a footman and in short order two chairs were brought over, as well as a glass of water.
Victoria sipped the cool liquid, grateful for the relief to her parched throat. She’d just begun to feel composed again when a face appeared over Cavendish’s shoulder—a mischievous face topped by a mop of sandy hair. It was the same fellow he’d been conversing with earlier, Withington.
“Julius?
Thank God! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Small wonder you’ve hidden yourself away,” he murmured to Cavendish while staring at her. “I would’ve done the same, had I managed to capture the attention of the prettiest young lady in the room.”
In spite of herself, Victoria felt her lips begin to quirk. This one was a practiced flirt, and no mistake.
“Allow me to introduce Marquess Withington,” said Cavendish, his distinct lack of enthusiasm bringing forth the smile she’d been struggling to hide.
Withington stepped around him to bow before her. “A pleasure, Lady…?” He looked askance at Cavendish.
He answered with resignation, “Lady Victoria Lennox.”
“Lady Victoria,” said Withington, speaking slowly as though tasting the words. “How enchanting.”
Cavendish cleared his throat. “You were saying?”
The other man’s eyes widened. “Ah, yes! Chadbourne is waiting for you in the library. He thinks you’ve backed out of your little wager, but I told him you would never do such a thing. In fact, I told him that you’d probably just lost the time whilst wooing some incredibly beautiful woman.” His merry brown gaze slid over her. “Apparently, my fabrication was prophetic.”
Cavendish snorted. “Yes, well perhaps you ought to begin charging for your predictions.” A pained expression crossed his face. “I’m afraid I must excuse myself, my lady,” he told her. “Necessity requires my presence elsewhere.”
A confusing mixture of relief and reluctance washed over her. At least she’d have an opportunity to gather her wits before Amelia or Papa saw her. And a chance to more carefully plan out her strategy—which would definitely not include imbibing any more champagne. “Please don’t let me delay you, my lord. I am perfectly well.”
