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Instead, he said softly, “Ah, of course … which you mean to repay, do you not?”
“I do not go back on my word.”
He delivered her to her aunt, bowed, and walked away.
Her aunt hugged her and asked, “Darling … your season is made! However did you get him to lead you out for the first waltz? He has never done so with any debutante ever before, I do assure you.”
“Of all the absurd things…” Taffy shook her head. “That anyone should look my way because Tarrant danced with me…”
“It is the way of the world,” announced her aunt happily. “You would have taken the haute ton anyway, my dear—why, just look at you. You are a wealthy beauty and sister to an established dukedom, of course, you would have been taken, but now…”
And right on
cue, two young gentlemen came to add their names to her dance card. She sighed, for now there was yet another thing she would be indebted to his lordship Hotspur for—her popularity. Grrr.
~*~
Tarrant had a nagging thought as he returned to his group of cronies and watched Lady Taffeta as imperceptibly as he could manage. The lady actually seemed to be waiting for him to call in his marker. For some unknown reason this irritated him. Was she then no more than a thrill seeker? And had she been with other men? He couldn’t believe this, there was too much of the innocent about her to be ignored. But, she had plenty of freedom at home—had she been with the local gentry lads? When he thought of her in someone else’s arms, he felt like he could put a fist through a wall … and that annoyed him further. Why should I care? Because … because, he liked her. Damn if he didn’t like the little vixen!
And liking her, he had begun to know her. Knowing her, he rather thought she was the sort who believed in ‘love’. She just didn’t have the ‘look’ or the demeanor of a woman experienced in the art of sex. Even her style of flirting was fresh and light. Yes, she looked an innocent, and yet?
And then he saw her being led into the second waltz of the evening by the Marquis of Bruton—his enemy and rival in so many pursuits. He felt bile begin to form in his throat, and he had a sudden urge to tear him away from Taffy and throw him out the window. What the deuce was wrong with him? He felt violence stir up inside of him and couldn’t imagine where it had come from. He had seen Bruton ruin young maids…
He watched Taffy throw her head back as she laughed with obvious pleasure while Bruton twirled her round the floor. He watched Bruton’s hand on the small of her back and felt an agitation shake him to his core. Damn the man’s soul! She conversed with Bruton, easily, sweetly, and looked comfortable with the charmer. He recalled she had not looked happy when he took her to the floor.
Tarrant moved toward the musicians, and a notable sum was exchanged. The waltz ended sooner than it normally would have and when it did, Tarrant stood ready to take up Taffeta’s hand. She turned toward him—and he knew a moment when all air left his lungs. Her eyes, those bright laughing eyes, looked askance as she regarded him, and he swept her with a quick glance, feeling heat beat a rhythm that pounded out her name in his blood.
Her voice held surprise. “My lord…”
He smiled enigmatically and took up her gloved hand, turning for a moment to the marquis, “Bruton … didn’t think you would be back in London already.” This was calculated to sting, for it had been Bruton who had tried to sway a race in his favor by using his henchman to throw a tree branch in his way when he rounded the bend in the route. Thanks to Tarrant’s quick witted and faithful groom, who had noticed Bruton’s man and followed him in time to stop him and retrieve the long many limbed branch from the road, he had won the race against Bruton and left him, once again, red faced and out for payback.
Bruton inclined his head a moment, but as he withdrew, his smile was all for Lady Taffeta. Tarrant was annoyed. He had apparently and unwittingly brought Taffeta to Bruton’s notice by leading her out for the first waltz. He bent and said softly, “Now, don’t be setting your cap on that one; he is a rake of the first order.”
“Faith!” snapped the lady. “I have sworn to keep my handkerchief out of your path, and if you forbid me rakes and rogues … la, who is left here in London?” Her eyes twinkled at him, and he wanted to take her up and away…
“Naughty puss,” he said flirtatiously.
“Answer the question, my lord—who should I set my cap for?”
He decided to play along with her game. “That young dasher there seems a catch, and a nice chap.”
“Hmmm, not my sort. He would not approve of my antics, which I must confess to the man I marry.” The light in her eyes was dancing.
“Must you? Why is that?”
“Oh, if love is to survive the rigors of marriage … secrets have no place between a man and a woman … at least, not important secrets.”
“And so this chap must know your foibles and still want you?” Tarrant teased her.
“Of course … in fact, he must want me because of my foibles. They will never go away. They might ease up with time and circumstance, but we are who we are.”
“And you? Will you want a man in spite of his baggage?”
“Oh but baggage makes us who we are. Of course, when I fall in love, it will be with my eyes and heart open.”
“Yet … you would give yourself outside the marriage bed?” he asked frowning.
“If I must…” she said with a slump of her shoulders. “I … keep my promises.”
