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Laurence chuffed. “You’re just used to Bea. Most ladies hold their opinions to themselves around an eligible gentleman. Miranda informed me it’s how they trap you before you realize what they’re really like.”
Timothy snorted a laugh. “Our sisters are a pair, are they not? If only all women could be like them.”
“Hmm.” Laurence nodded. “Speaking of . . .” Laurence straightened to attention.
Timothy followed his gaze.
Ah, there.Across the room, Bea had finished dancing with a tall, blond gentleman Timothy suspected was the duke. No matter what he did, Harry seemed to stand out in a crowd. Of course, it could also be that he was one of the first to seek Bea out for a dance.
“Go on, then,” Timothy said. “Abandon your poor old friend in order to dance with your wife.”
Laurence didn’t answer, but made a straight path toward the spitfire redhead Timothy claimed as the best sibling.
Left alone, Timothy felt exposed, as if all feminine eyes were upon him. As if each woman took it as a personal challenge to make sure a man didn’t have a moment’s peace.
“A lord and a lady,” the footman announced—the standard introduction at one of the Duke of Ashton’s masquerades. Titled or not, the footman announced everyone in the same manner, with no names ever mentioned.
Timothy darted a glance toward the entrance, ready to dismiss yet another pair of society nobs. The glass of ratafia hovered halfway to his lips as the air in the room seemed to press in around him. Everything moved in slow motion as the woman entered the ballroom.
He pressed a hand to his chest, checking to ensure his heart still beat.
Breathe, man.
Something about her seemed so familiar—and so alluring. The way she moved with such grace, her blond hair fashioned softly, the swell of her bosom as it peeked boldly from her gown—all tickled his mind, taunting him as if he shouldknowher.
Pulled like the gravitational force Bea had waxed poetic about, he drifted unbidden across the room toward her. The man with her—who knows if he was actually a lord—appeared some years her senior, providing Timothy the courage to presume she remained unattached.
The pale blue satin of her gown draped elegantly over her form, the color complementing her coloring to perfection. The lower waistline, keeping with the latest fashion, accentuated her tiny waist.
He imagined placing his hands around her, wondering if he could make his fingers meet. Tiny pearls decorated her hair, and he wished to pull them, one by one, from her tresses.
He pushed aside the guilt poking at his brain, telling him he should seek Lady Honoria. With his quickened pace, his weakened ankle gave way, and he stumbled, albeit briefly, as he approached the mysterious woman.
Her head turned his way, and she gave him a bright smile, which immediately vanished the moment his steps faltered.
Buffoon!Had his clumsiness ruined his chances of requesting a dance?
The man with her smiled in greeting, and Timothy dipped in a bow.
“May I have the pleasure of the next set, my lady?” He turned toward the man. “With your permission, of course.”
The man smiled warmly, supporting Timothy’s suspicions he was the father rather than an aged husband or suitor. “You have it, sir, but it will be up to my daughter if she agrees.”
Color rose to her cheeks, barely visible underneath her white demi-mask, and she squeaked out her answer, “Yes.”
He held out a hand to escort her to the dance floor, and as she slipped her gloved fingers into his, a familiar energy shot through him, once again nudging his brain, demanding recognition.
Masquerade balls had always been a double-edged sword. Anonymity proved useful when faced with a partner with whom you no longer desired any further acquaintance, but a detriment when meeting someone with whom you made a strong connection.
Again, he reminded himself, although they were not officially engaged, he had an understanding with Lady Honoria, and the wicked thought of enjoying a night of pleasure before settling into dull married life both tempted and shamed him.
A simple country dance was hardly a reason to feel guilty. It wasn’t as if he planned anything scandalous with his blond dance partner.
Yet.
CHAPTER 11—THE PRICE OF EAVESDROPPING
Priscilla’s heart skipped a beat as the handsome man approached her. She practically vibrated from the thrill of being back among society and at an elegant ball. She’d barely walked into the ballroom and had already gained the attention of a dance partner.
