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Eleanor closed her eyes briefly when she spotted her aunt’s mischievous smile. She’d have to remind her aunt that she and Oliver were investigating this woman and nothing more. Lord, if her aunt knew about the kiss...
Well, no one ever would, and they had not even discussed it, so Eleanor might as well pretend it never happened. That seemed to be what Oliver was doing anyway.
“Might we dance?” Oliver asked, sending a quick glance over his shoulder.
She nodded and lifted her empty dance card. “I have no prior engagements at all.”
His gaze darkened slightly when he lifted the card and scrawled his name across the entire thing in pencil. “Now you have many.”
“We cannot dance that many times. People shall think you have intentions toward me, and we both know how you feel about marriage.”
“You feel the same way if I recall.”
“Yes,” she agreed because she did, did she not?
“But we can make this one long dance, can we not?” Oliver leaned close, making her feel warm. “And if there were no foolish rules about numbers of dances, I would happily dance with you all night.”
She eyed him. He had to be jesting. “I think your toes would regret that very much.”
“Perhaps.”
They made their way to the roped off dance floor and a quadrille began. Eleanor smiled to herself when she saw several of the older ladies flutter their fans swiftly to cover their annoyed expressions. Though the quadrille was danced at almost every ball these days, many of the more old-fashioned members still disapproved.
For once, Eleanor did not care if she stepped on Oliver’s toes or mis-stepped. By the end, she found herself out of breath with a wide smile upon her face. Her attention had not been on those around her nor on those who might be looking at her with disapproval. She realized now it hardly took much for such people to be frothing at the mouth with annoyance so why should she care? And Oliver made a welcome distraction.
Too welcome really.
As they moved past the ropes, he took her elbow. “Quick!” he murmured, tugging her into the supper room.
“Oliver?” she asked when they stopped by the fireplace. Offered a few seats and as barren a fare as she’d expected, only a handful of people mingled around the room, most likely preferring the atmosphere of the hall.
“My mother,” he explained as he handed her a glass of lemonade. “I do not think she saw me.”
Mouth dry, Eleanor took a long gulp of lemonade, then grimaced.
Oliver laughed. “I think they make it more and more sour every year.”
“They really do.” She took another experimental sip, regretted it and set it on the table. “Remember when you said I should not run from those who wish to insult me?”
“My mother wishes to do more than insult me. She will hound me into an early grave if possible.” He shook his head.
“Surely she just wants the best for you?”
“I do not think she understands what is best for me. Or any of her children. She cares only for how things appear and, believe me, however good things appear, it is never good enough for my mother.”
“If you are not good enough for her, how could anyone be?” Eleanor gestured up and down him. “You are handsome, and charming, you have impeccable manners. What more does she want?”
“My soul perhaps,” he replied with a smirk.
“Oh dear.” His mother entered the supper room, her gaze landing triumphantly on Oliver, and Eleanor ducked behind his shoulder. “I’m afraid you are about to find out.”
∞∞∞
Turning in time to find his mother marching toward him, Oliver threw back his glass of lemonade and winced. The liquid was still less sour than his mother’s expression, however.
She took his arm in a painful grip and barely glanced at Eleanor. “Excuse me, young lady, but I crave a word with my son.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Mother.”
