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“Father is here,” he reminded Eliza, “and he’d like to see Eleanor having fun.”
“She is perfectly content keeping me company.”
“She should be dancing,” Anton countered. “There, Hampton is a good a partner as any.” Anton motioned toward a broad-shouldered man.
Eliza tapped his arm with her closed fan. “Eleanor can decide whether she wishes to dance or not for herself.”
Eleanor skipped her gaze between her brother and Eliza as they continued their argument back and forth. Her brother had to be getting desperate if she wanted him to dance with Jules Hampton. The man was already deep in his cups and known for being more scandalous than Oliver—and far less refined in his manners. She shrunk back a few steps and they paid no heed to her retreat. Apparently they had both forgotten she even existed.
How wonderful that would be. Why did she even agree to come? If only her father had not seemed so excited at the idea of her attending. No matter how many shadowy corners or tall men she hid behind, there would always be eyes upon her. The stares were especially awful tonight because the debutantes at the beginning of the Season had also brought a flock of young men looking for brides, none of whom had seen her in person before.
But they had no doubt heard about her.
She lifted her fan to shield her face when several young, giggling women moved past. Really, she should be better than this. The girls were at least five years younger than her if not more. They were practically children. If only she had the confidence of her sisters. Even Demeter—who had appeared to relish oncoming spinsterhood as much as Eleanor—seemed more confident since her engagement to Blake. She could not blame Demeter. They were, after all, a wonderful match.
Eleanor was happy for them. So happy. But now that made her stand out even more. A different mother, no impending husband, and black skin. Her sisters could strip entirely naked and perform the waltz and probably draw less attention than she did.
“Ah, here comes Ashford. Why do you not let him ask you to dance?” Anton had remembered she existed it seemed, and both he and his wife came to her side to corral her closer to the dance floor.
Eleanor glanced over at him without thinking. Viscount Ashford stood quite a bit taller than much of the room and he looked directly at her. Dropping her gaze sharply, she stared at the glossy tiled floor intently. Maybe one of the slender lines between the tiles might split open and save her? Why had she even looked and why had she made eye contact with the man? She could not care less what he did, and she most certainly did not wish to dance with him.
“He’s such a charming man, and an excellent friend to Demeter,” Eliza commented.
“Charming,” Eleanor muttered.
He’d never tried to charm her. Goodness, he didn’t even try to hide the way he stared at her, unlike many. The fact was, Oliver treated her differently to her sisters and she knew full well it was for the same reason as everyone else. If he offered to dance with her, it would likely be for his own amusement or as some sort of dare. Well, she wouldn’t say yes, even if he asked.
Which he would not.
Oliver and Anton greeted one another before Oliver turned his smile upon Eliza. Even her sweet sister-in-law simpered a little. Eleanor could not keep the disgust from curling her upper lip. Why was everyone so taken in with this man?
“How is your hand?” Oliver asked, lowering his head slightly to meet her gaze head on.
His eyes were a pale blue, and she knew from experience they were utterly piercing in the bright light of day. At least the candlelight shimmering from the wall sconce behind her diminished a little that ability to make her feel breathless under his attention.
“Your hand?” Anton asked. “What have you done now?”
“Nothing at all,” Eleanor protested, waving the hand in question in front of her brother’s face. “It was but a minor cut.”
Oliver’s lips tilted. “So you are well enough to dance then?”
“A little cut would not stop me from dancing.”
“Good.” He tugged her dance card and jotted his name down in the next, exceedingly empty spot before she could summon a response.
She opened her mouth, shut it, and lifted the card to eye his scrawled name. Her heart gave the strangest little jolt. He’d claimed her. He’d etched his name across the barren evening and staked his claim. A flutter worked its way down to her stomach and she swallowed hard before lifting her head to meet his amused gaze. No. She would not fall for it. Not like everyone else.
“I had not planned to dance.”
“We should take our positions,” he said, ignoring her.
Anton gave her another nudge, this time sending her colliding into one of the already positioned dancers. Cheeks warm, she apologized, and found herself as if in a dream, floating toward a spot opposite Oliver, where she would be unable to escape his scrutiny.
Why did she not simply turn around and go back to Anton or find somewhere quiet to spend the evening? If Oliver were a woman, she’d be inclined to accuse him of witchcraft. Perhaps that was it—he cast a spell on everyone around her and now he intended to lure her in too.
She’d stay firm. She had to. Any slip and she’d subject herself to awful gossip once again. Eleanor couldn’t bear to suffer such humiliation once more, and what better way to expose herself than to spend time with one of the most eligible men in London?
One of the most handsome too.
