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Chin lifted, she set her jaw. “That is hardly an apology, sir,” she said firmly. “You have torn my slippers asunder. I should think you owe me, at the very least, a proper apology.”
∞∞∞
Valentine scarcely held back a smirk. Christ, she probably owned a hundred pairs of slippers and would likely have forgotten all about this pair had he not trodden on them.
The woman stood a good head shorter than him, barely reaching his shoulders, but the firm gaze and determined point of her chin gave her an air of cool authority.
Valentine did not doubt the substance behind it. He knew well with whom he was speaking. Chastity Whitaker, eldest daughter to the Duke of Daventry. Though only thirty, she had been widowed for some time. He might avoid Society and all its trappings, however, as an earl, he could not avoid knowing a little something about the high-ranking members of the ton.
And this lady was one of the highest. Though she had lost her title upon marriage, it did not change the pedigree of her lineage. Lineage that dripped from every earlobe and wrist in the form of sapphires and diamonds—no doubt carefully chosen to match the deep blue of her evening gown.
He pressed his lips into a thin line and eyed the damaged slipper in question. Pale blue, trimmed with gold, and decorated with a faux flower of some kind. He didn’t need to know much about women’s shoes to know they would be worth a sizeable fortune.
A waste of a fortune to his mind. Ladies dancing shoes were always made from the most impractical of fabrics and even had he not trodden on them, they might well have been ruined from vigorous dancing by the end of the evening.
“It was hardly my fault you ran into me,” he pointed out.
Her mouth opened and closed, bringing his attention to plump lips, perfectly formed into a cupid’s bow that made one’s fingers itch to trace the outline of them.
“You should have been paying attention.” Those intriguing lips twisted.
“As should you.”
He wasn’t going to admit that his focus had been on the open doorway and escape from the claustrophobic ballroom and the wretched event that was this wedding ball.
“Will you not even apologize?”
“I believe I just did.”
She folded her arms. “That was hardly an apology. You did not mean it.”
“I do not believe we are acquainted, so how can you know what I do and do not mean?”
Her cheeks turned rosy. No doubt she was not used to anyone—even men—speaking to her so.
Well, it was about time. He’d met plenty of women like Mrs. Whitaker in his previous years in Society.
Rich, spoiled, with an air of arrogance that accompanied their good looks and fine figure—as though they themselves somehow had a hand in what God had dealt them.
Admittedly, not all the women had been quite as handsome as Chastity Whitaker. Her tightly coiled hair offered varying shades of brown and gold that glimmered in the lamplight. He preferred fair-haired women usually but there was something intriguing about the way hers seemed to change color with the flickering light. What would it look like in daylight?
Valentine frowned and shook away the thought. Who cared? He’d likely never have a conversation with her again after today. As soon as he escaped, he would return to his townhouse then back to the country and wait until the next invitation that he dare not refuse. With any luck, it would be several years, as he was excellent at avoiding conversation with anyone in Society.
“I am no fool, sir, and I know what a real apology is.” She took a step closer, drawing his attention down toward her decolletage.
He was no monk. He had all the desires of any other man, and he knew well why Mrs. Whitaker never lacked for admirers. Her generous curves were the sort that portrait artists salivated to paint.
And no doubt, many a man salivate over her, artist or not.
While he might not like brunettes, he loved curves, loved soft thighs, and his fantasies often included the give of a waist as he pressed his fingers into a woman’s flesh.
Tightening his jaw, he forced his gaze upward. If she noticed him drooling like a whelp, it would only increase the arrogance he saw in her firm gaze and determined stance. This woman would not let up until she had him groveling at her feet.
Well, she had a long wait ahead of her. He did not care what she thought of him or his apology. He didn’t care what any of the ton thought. They could all go hang as far as he was concerned.
He took another step forward and pulled his shoulders straight, affecting his most overbearing posture, and peering down the length of his nose. He ensured he remained expressionless, with only the tiniest arch of a brow. A look that said—I am a peer of the realm and woe betide anyone who gets in my way.
When she did not shrink away, the tiniest pang of admiration speared through him.
