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Oh, and there was no neglecting her favorite part: the tassels. Shining, swishing, drapery-sized tassels.
Chloe pressed a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. Here it was, after weeks of waiting: the best Christmas present imaginable.
No one could be serious in that waistcoat. Not even Justin String-of-Obsequious-Middle-Names Montague, the fifth Earl of Cheverell. Once he realized he’d been made an unwitting party to a joke, the man’s impenetrable shell wouldhaveto crack. His stern demeanormustbe vanquished. She expected him to bow gamely, perhaps even chuckle. Everyone would have a good laugh. They’d appreciate his sporting nature, welcome him with brandy, and this incident would become one more bit of the family Christmas lore.
She’d apparently misjudged.
No one in the room dared to laugh. Instead of softening, the earl held himself as stiffly as ever, looking over the assembled guests with a gaze so cold and penetrating, it froze the room. They might need ice skates for the dancing.
And then he locked eyes with Chloe.
She was accustomed to his annoyance or disapproval. This was different. There was something ominous in his gaze. Her whole body prickled with awareness, and her pulse thundered in her ears.
Lord Cheverell knew what she’d done. He was furious about it.
And he meant to exact revenge.
She gulped the remainder of her punch in one go.
Thank heavens for the musicians. They struck up a bit of light music, announcing the imminent start of the dancing. The spell was broken, and the guests began to talk amongst themselves again.
When Lord Cheverell approached their corner, Mama greeted him warmly. “We are so glad you’ve joined us, Lord Cheverell. You are always welcome.”
He made a bow and offered his greetings, as proper—the man was nothing if not proper—and then he turned to Chloe and extended his gloved hand. “Miss Chloe. Will you do me the honor of this dance?”
Oh dear.
What were those excuses other ladies used to avoid dancing with a gentleman? Weariness, feeling faint, a turned ankle... “Look over there, giant spiders”? She’d never bothered to practice them. She danced every time she was asked.
Mama took the empty cup from her hand, freeing her to accept. She could not refuse his invitation.
She cautiously laid her hand in his.
His fingers clamped over hers like a vise.
As he led her to the dance floor, he jingled with each step. Good Lord, the bells. She’d forgotten she’d sewn them into the lining.
The dance was one of those country dances that drew a couple together, then parted them to circle or curtsy to another, and so on. Conversation was possible, but only in short volleys.
“Why so churlish, Lord Cheverell?
“You know very well the reason. Or shall I spell it out for you in glittering beads?”
Chloe turned to curtsy to the gentleman at her corner. It was a brief reprieve from Lord Cheverell and his resentment. Alas, the escape was temporary.
“Someone informed me,” Cheverell said in a low, dark voice, “that this event was an annual Garland family tradition. The ugly Christmas waistcoat party.”
“No doubt it will become a tradition now.”
“I was told there were prizes.”
Chloe forced a light smile. “Well, you’ve come first place. No competition whatsoever.”
His only reply was a clenched jaw.
She studied him. It would seem a bit of emotion was seeping through the seams of that horrid waistcoat, even if it wasn’t the sort she’d anticipated.
She couldn’t puzzle him out, however, because she was too busy sorting through unexpected feelings of her own. He led her through the dance with impressive physical command. His motions were not merely elegant, but strong.
