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The two no doubt conspiring about something or other, a thought confirmed when his hearty laugh rang out with something her grandmother said. Neither of them gave so much as a backward glance, and the bitter taste of fear coated her tongue. The enemy of an enemy was a friend, which meant the Dowager and the Marquess would soon be inseparable.
“Kitty, what in heaven’s name was that all about?” Georgiana hung on one elbow, and Amelia was quick to cling to the other.
Amelia grabbed up the card and inspected it, her eyes raising to Kitty’s in shock. “He’s claimed two waltzes? Kitty, do you know him?” Amelia’s eyes narrowed, the energy from before vanishing without the slightest trace as she waited for her answer.
Before the matter could be discussed further, the music started and Amelia’s partner claimed her for the dance floor, leaving Kitty alone with a suddenly sober George.
“Kitty?” The cautious question came as George laid her hand over Kitty’s upper arm. It was loaded with so much more than just her name. An accusation more than anything, and not one Kitty had the energy to refute.
She turned to Georgiana, the dirty secret no longer hers alone. “You knew exactly what would happen if I went.”
“Women shouldn’t go into marriage blind, and Tristan is very selective of whom he allows to attend.” George had the grace to look guilty momentarily, but it was gone as quickly as it’d come. “He didn’t hurt you?”
Kitty shook her head, her body still warm with memories he’d given her she wouldn’t ever forget. There was no way she could dance with him hot and flush from thinking about their evening. There were three dances before he claimed her for the first waltz, three dances to get herself under control and build an unbreakable facade.
If she stood any chance at all, she needed out of that ballroom. Out of the crush, and to a space where she could clear her head, splash some water on her face, and remember who she was. Lady Katherine Mandeville. Only daughter of the Viscount of SOMETHINGOROTHER, and one of the richest heiresses of the season.
She could face the Marquess, maintain her identity, and escape with her dignity and identity intact. So long as she could pull herself together. One dance, she could manage. “I need to freshen up.”
“Shall I come with you?”
He turned back, meeting her eyes and flashing a brief smile before returning to his conversation. A smile that hinted he may know far too much. Or, at the very least, suspect far too much.
“No.” She needed a moment to think. To plan escape, because there was no possible way she could waltz twice with the Marquess of Claireborne.
