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Breathing hard now, James stood rooted as her dance partner executed a courteous bow. Denton clicked his tongue, urging him to continue moving.
James finally bestowed his regard on the man, disliking that he had to lean close, but he needed Denton to hear him without others overhearing.
“Introduce me to Clara Chadbourne,” he ordered succinctly.
Flushing, Denton looked as if he’d been asked to cut off and eat his own hand. “But, but,” he sputtered, “an introduction to you is an insult!” His eyes widened, then he raised his plump, stubby fingers into the air in a protective gesture.
“No offense intended, my good man, but David Chadbourne is the lady’s brother, and I’m in hot water as it is. Right up to my neck and near to creeping up to my eyeballs. No need to add wood to the fire beneath, eh?” He looked at James hopefully.
“You’ll introduce us as soon as she finishes this dance.” James didn’t look back to make sure Denton followed.
He knew how desperate the idiot was—as desperate as he.
∞∞∞
Ready or not, Clara knew that the moment of social reckoning was upon her.
She wanted to stomp her foot in frustration—David was still nowhere to be seen. Her cheeks still prickled with nausea.
Please, not now!
Having no choice in the timing, Clara adopted an impassive regard and turned slowly, giving herself up to fate.
Oh, James!
Here he was before her, and how handsome he was. In that moment, she knew everything she needed to. His physical presence commanding, he stood in his usual bold fashion, looking at her directly and with affection, no genteel pretense about him whatsoever.
This was the man she loved— a man who didn’t, couldn’t, submit to the kinds of rules by which the people at this ball lived and died.
Despite the exquisite tailoring of his finery and the coiffing of his nearly black hair, James was clearly different. He couldn’t hide that his capable hands were rough and large. His confident bearing was almost confrontational rather than the effortless and smooth self-assurance of a man born into legacy.
His appearance at the ball resulted in a predictable effect. Some guests were hungry, others starved, forsomething—gossip, a break in the tedium of their meaningless and repetitive existence, or any source of amusement.
Their attention shifted to James and Clara, their collective salivary glands flowing.
Clara’s cheeks warmed under James’s direct stare and everyone else’s attention.
Her body was torn. It responded viscerally to his solemn handsomeness, conditioned to feel pleasure in his presence—even as she was frozen in fear of what would happen next.
She and James were already engaging in shocking behavior by standing and staring at each other in front of others.
Her circle was a quiet desert in an otherwise buzzing ballroom. She overheard snippets of one of the husbands describing James to his wife.
“Rich…factories…”
When she’d turned around, her attention inevitably centered on James, rather than the smaller man who stood with downcast eyes. With effort, she forced herself to turn to the Earl of Denton.
Clara realized immediately her error in selecting him for her plan. He was sweating profusely, and stood with the repressed anxiety of a man facing his fate at the end of a hangman’s noose.
“I hope you’re enjoying the ball, Lady Clara.” Lord Denton’s voice broke on her name.
Straining to hear, everyone around hung on every word.
The scent of Denton’s fear—ripe, sharp, and onion-like—filled her nostrils. She turned her head subtly, seeking fresh air. Her knees locked against swaying.
“Yes, my lord, thank you.” She swallowed a gag as Denton mopped his brow with a stained handkerchief. “I hope you are, as well?”
Without answering, he turned his nervous gaze to James, who failed to acknowledge him in any way.
