Chapter Fifteen #2
Halfway through the dance she realized she needn’t have worried.
Her partner required no conversational response other than a nod of the head every now and then.
Every time they met in the dance, he advanced a bit further along the scintillating topic of his personal snuffbox collection, sprinkled with equally stirring observations on the weather (which, he posited, might indeed become more rainy than not at a date not too far in the future).
He may have a vast fortune and many grand estates, but his conversation was as sparkling as a bowl of porridge.
Ana suppressed a yawn as he droned on and on.
The duke had followed her command and left her alone.
He’d left the ballroom entirely. Where had he gone?
There were sure to be dark billiard rooms for the gentlemen to gather in, where they could hide and drink brandy.
She mused appreciatively on that delicious beverage, the spicy caramel warmth of it sliding down her throat.
She was developing quite a taste for the stuff.
“Do you like brandy, my lord?”
“Rarely touch the tipple.” He looked as if he found the question shocking. “Find it makes my mind dull.”
She pondered this skeptically. How could his mind possibly become any duller? Mutinously she raised her chin. “I do like a glass of brandy of an evening.”
The look he gave her was one of surprised disdain. “Ladies don’t drink brandy. They sip sherry, or a ratafia.”
“This lady does.”
“How unfortunate.”
She wasn’t likely to write a character like Lord Chetwynd-Ellerton—he’d bore a reader to tears. She must find someone more exciting to dance and flirt with.
She caught sight of a gentleman with a veritable thicket of chestnut curls atop a square-jawed visage.
Had she seen him at the Thunderbolt Club?
He was holding a crowd of young females captive with an obviously stirring tale that required many broad gestures, the better to display his well-muscled arms in their well-cut jacket sleeves.
“Who’s that gentleman there, who is causing such a commotion among the ladies? ”
“That’s Sir Michael Somersby. He’s accounted to be quite the rake.”
Perfect! Her very first rake. She must find a way to dance with him, if only to see what seductive techniques he employed.
“I do hope you’re not thinking of dancing with him,” the earl said disapprovingly. “His reputation is dreadful and may well taint yours.”
“If he asks me, I must dance.”
“No, then you feign an ankle injury, or a fainting spell, or a trip to the retiring room, or anything that will keep you away from him.”
Ana wished she’d thought of feigning an ankle injury to keep from dancing with Lord Snuff Boxington.
The interminable dance finally concluded and Ana curtsied, eager to escape.
Lord Chetwynd-Ellerton was similarly disenchanted. She had obviously not fit his idea of a safe, suitable dancing partner. He left with the briefest of bows and she sighed with impatience and relief. Now to find a dangerous rake to dance with.
“How did it go?” Lady Glynis appeared at her side with alarming speed. “What did you speak of?”
“I could scarcely get a word in, but Lord Chetwynd-Ellerton spoke of the merits of ivory versus metal for housing his tobacco leaves at the greatest of length.”
“And you didn’t say anything to discourage him? I thought I detected a cold note as he made his bow.”
“I don’t think so.”
Lady Glynis regarded her suspiciously. “You’re shockingly frank of conversation. I do hope you said nothing to offend him. He’s really the best match you could hope for.”
“Analise, can that really be you?”
Ana turned to find Lady Lydia Seddington, her former nemesis at Miss Pincheon’s finishing school. “Lady Lydia.” Blast. She should have known her former schoolmates might be here. Lady Lydia and her group of fashionably garbed friends flocked to Ana’s side.
Lady Glynis, seeing her charge swallowed up by a group of unobjectionable young ladies of noble birth, decided to take the opportunity to go and speak with Lady Chetwynd-Ellerton.
“What happened to you?” Lady Lydia asked. “Why did you disappear from school so suddenly?”
“My father went missing in Belgium, and I accepted work as companion and secretary to Lady Claridge.”
“The authoress?”
“Yes.”
“You were working,” one of the ladies said, giving her friend a significant look.
Working was a cardinal sin in their eyes. To have been forced to accept employment was tantamount to declaring spinsterhood.
“And how did you come to be Warburton’s ward?” Lady Lydia asked, linking her elbow with Ana’s in a show of friendship that she’d never exhibited at school.
“My father requested it of him. On the battlefield.”
One of the girls clasped her hands together in front of her pink silk sash. “How thrilling!”
“His Grace is never seen at society events,” Lady Lydia continued. Ana surmised that she cared nothing for renewing what had been a contentious school relationship. She was intent on news of an eligible duke.
“Tell us about him,” Lady Lydia commanded. “Is he thinking of marriage finally? I could certainly ignore those scars if I had thirty thousand and a castle in Surrey.”
“Yes, indeed, who cares if he’s no longer a handsome young buck,” one of the other ladies agreed. “He can take care of me any day.”
Not handsome? How could they say such a thing. They hadn’t seen him bare-chested, going a round in a boxing ring. They hadn’t observed him in a dark alleyway, intimidating ruffians into fleeing like frightened schoolboys.
“Those scars of his, though . . .” One young lady, with wide blue eyes, shuddered delicately.
“His scars make him interesting,” Ana said. They were a visible reminder of battles, of strife, suffering. Each one had a story, each one held his past and his future. She hoped he might open up to her someday and tell her those stories. It would bring her closer to her father.
And closer to the duke.
“If you say so,” the young lady simpered.
“I don’t give a fig about his scars,” said Lady Lydia. “What does he like to converse about? Surely you know that.”
“His speech is curt. He speaks in short, terse sentences.” But his eyes. Those gave him away. She saw whole novels being written in the gazes he gave her. “He was a cavalry commander and now he’s a member of the Thunderbolt Club, so I’m certain if you ask him about his stables he’ll be gratified.”
“Stables. Noted,” said Lady Lydia. “Why hasn’t he danced yet?”
“He told me that he never dances.”
“Such a pity. Dukes are thin on the ground this year, and my mama says I must marry a duke or a marquess, nothing less will do.”
“Ladies,” a deep voice spoke. They all turned to look at the intruder. It was Lord Somersby—the rake!
“Lord Somersby.” Lady Lydia swatted his arm with her fan. “What manner of mischief are you getting up to this evening?”
“I was watching your friend here dance with Chetwynd-Ellerton and thought that someone should save her from expiring of boredom.” Lord Somersby bent over Ana’s hand, kissing her knuckles lightly. “Introduce us, won’t you, Lady Lydia?”
“If I must. Lord Somersby, this is Miss Analise Crewe. Warburton’s new ward.”
“Didn’t I see you yesterday in the club?” he asked, staring into her eyes in a most impertinent manner.
Ana pulled her hand from his grasp. “I don’t think so.”
“I could have sworn I saw you.”
The ladies gave her curious glances.
“Why should I be inside a gentleman’s club?”
“That’s precisely what I was wondering. I was also wondering if you would grace me with a dance?”
She didn’t much care for Lord Somersby’s mocking manner, but in the name of researching rakes, she was duty bound to accept his offer. She inclined her head and allowed him to take her arm and lead her into the exact middle of the floor.
“Do you like to be the center of attention, Lord Somersby?”
“Always,” he said with a seductive smile. “Especially when I have such an enchanting creature on my arm.”
She smiled, remembering to make it demure just in time. “I’m hardly enchanting.”
“Have you looked in a mirror tonight? Your hair is the color of sunlight dancing on a field of marigolds, your eyes sparkle brighter than any emeralds, and your lips . . .” He paused, staring intently at her mouth. “I could write a sonnet about your lips.”
“Then by all means, write it!” she cried, delighted. Finally she would make some progress on her novel. “This is wonderful dialogue.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I meant compliment. That is a wonderful compliment.”
“There’s more where that came from, my lady.”
He twirled her by the waist, his hand pressing harder than it needed to. She found herself breathless, but mostly from the twirling. He was incredibly good-looking, and he was well aware of it.
A rake was a curious beast. He was very handsome, there was no disputing that, but he was vain to the point of staring at his reflection every time they passed the large mirror on the wall, gazing into his own eyes with apparent satisfaction.
His waistcoat was embroidered with a pattern of orange-striped tigers, and he wore gold rings on nearly every finger.
“Why do you have tigers embroidered on your waistcoat, my lord?”
“All the better to devour you with, Miss Crewe,” he said with a lascivious wink.
He did say the most shocking things. She should at least pretend to be scandalized. As he spun her in his arms, she noticed that the duke was back in the ballroom. He stood against the far wall with his friend Patrick. They were both watching Ana and Somersby dance.
His watchful gaze made her tilt her head back to laugh, even though Somersby’s conversation was more outré than witty.
The duke’s expression turned positively thunderous. She did enjoy needling him, making him growl. He looked as though he wanted to stalk onto the dance floor and rip her from Somersby’s arms.
Lady Lydia wanted to convince the duke to dance with her. It would be easier to convince a mountain to become a valley.