Chapter Three
Eleanor could feel Lydia’s concerned glance as they made their way to the refreshment room.
She was grateful that her astute cousin wouldn’t demand an explanation for Eleanor’s desperately murmured plea for escape.
Because if she did, Eleanor would have no response since she herself couldn’t comprehend what had just happened…
Risking a glance over her shoulder, Eleanor saw the Viscount Waring only a few paces behind them despite their swift progression through the ballroom. And instantly, that same sensation washed through her like a tidal wave, closing off her ability to breathe, jolting her heart into a reckless pace.
Up until a moment ago, she’d actually started to believe she might make it through this Season without unduly embarrassing herself.
Though the evening had been filled with awkward, painful, tense, and silent moments, she’d survived them.
It helped, of course, that many people recalled how unpopular she’d been last year and very few had approached or attempted to engage with her directly.
And having Bridget as an enthusiastic distraction was honestly a godsend.
But then…she’d been introduced to Lord Waring. And every bit of self-assurance she’d managed to convince herself of had gone up in a whoosh of icy flames.
The second she’d met the man’s bold, bright, and penetrating stare, a blast of intense awareness claimed her, altering the flow of her blood and heightening the sensitivity of her nerves.
More than her usual discomfort at being under someone’s assessing stare, this had been distinctly different…
undeniably more. More acute. More sharply intimate.
More panic inducing. For a moment, it had felt as though the man could see straight through the social graces she employed like a sort of armor to the truth at the center of her very soul.
A ridiculous notion. But the physical sensation had been quite real all the same.
All that without even acknowledging the man’s unusual handsomeness or his blithe demeanor.
Even at a glance, it was clear that he did not possess the proper airs of a typical British gentleman.
His expression too easy—too relaxed. His dark–golden hair too carelessly styled, as if it hadn’t been styled at all.
And his posture, his movements, his overall manner were just so… subtly unrestrained and unceremonious.
In an instant, Eleanor knew he was blatantly unlike any man she’d ever met. And when experienced all at once, the gentleman’s effect upon her carefully maintained self-control was devastating.
Thankfully, Lydia’s decisive nature had come to her rescue, only to be thwarted by whatever terrible luck or awful fate had inspired the Countess of Byrne to suggest the viscount escort them.
Dread and rising panic still mingled in her bloodstream as they reached the refreshment room and she realized she would find no reprieve there.
It seemed that half the ballroom was suddenly clamoring for a sip of lemonade on such a warm evening.
Distracted by her internal distress, Eleanor nearly became engulfed by a group of giggling young ladies passing in front of her.
She brought herself to a sharp halt to avoid the collision as they continued merrily on their way.
But before she could shift to continue past them, someone jostled her from behind, sending her stumbling forward into another near collision with a portly older gentleman who glowered disdainfully at her as he strode across her path.
Numbing panic gripped her before she could prevent it.
An icy trickle of terror crawled up her spine and a clamminess spread on her palms. Her gaze darted about, seeking Lydia who she finally spotted some significant distance ahead with at least a dozen people in between.
In her typical focused manner, her cousin was intent on maneuvering the many obstacles to reach the punchbowl and hadn’t realized that they’d been separated.
Her alarm flared even higher, squeezing her chest and shortening her breath as she stood stiff and inmoving.
A deep blush heated her cheeks and a queasiness swirled in her stomach.
It was a feeling with which she had a great deal of experience, and though she tried to hold it at bay, her already vulnerable state made it impossible.
The panic came on swiftly. Everything around her suddenly seemed to move in slow motion.
With painful clarity, she saw the judgment and disdain flickering in the glances of those who passed by.
All she could do was stare back with darting eyes as she forced herself to continue breathing.
And then, a rich voice cut through the din of whispered murmurs surrounding her.
“I’m here, my lady,” Lord Waring said simply. “My apologies for falling so far behind.”
Eleanor didn’t know if she should be relieved or even more alarmed.
The viscount’s sudden presence was unsettling in the extreme and his voice seemed to roll through her with the oddest intimacy.
But he was the only anchor she had available within the tempest in which she currently floundered.
Though she knew she should, she couldn’t manage to turn and look at him or form any words in reply.
All her willpower was consumed by her attempt to keep herself from succumbing to the panic inside her.
The gentleman beside her, however, didn’t seem to notice.
“It’s as bloody chaotic as the markets of Marrakesh,” he muttered in amusement before adding in a dramatic tone she supposed was meant to be humorous. “Stay close and I shall endeavor to see you safely to the punchbowl.”
Unfortunately, his attempt at making light of the scenario was lost on her. As Eleanor stared at the crush ahead of them, her insides clenched painfully. Panic forced a single word from her lips. “No.”
She felt him hesitate before he released her elbow and stepped around to face her. His tall form and broad shoulders and querying expression filled her vision, forcing her to meet his gaze as he bent his head toward her.
She instantly felt the piercing effect of his bright eyes. His stare angled straight to her center, triggering a flood of sparks and tension. Catching a hard breath, she looked away again, only to notice that their interaction was inspiring a flood of curious glances.
The heat of embarrassment built inside her, mixing with the icy panic.
Hold it together, an inner voice ordered.
“Are you alright, Lady Eleanor?” the viscount asked, taking a half step toward her.
Her entire body tensed and tightened as she lifted her chin. Though her fingers were numb and her heart bounced wildly against her ribs, she forced a reply through clenched teeth, “I’m fine.”
But fate once again saw fit to intervene and prove her statement false as another rush of guests flowed into the room, pressing at her back, causing her to stumble forward.
She flinched, expecting Lord Waring to reach out to grasp hold of her.
But he did not. To her surprise and gratitude, he simply offered his hand should she need it and remained stalwart before her.
Even as the crowd also pushed at his back, he held space for her to regain her footing on her own.
His expression was gently curious, with one brow arched slightly higher than the other, a soft curve tilting his mouth, and an intent focus in his sparkling stare.
Despite his casual kindness, panic continued to filter through her like icy tendrils that quickened her breath and made her heart feel like the banging of an anvil against her ribs.
She had to get out of there. Now.
Turning with the intention of going back the way they’d come, she was brought up short when she saw the path was blocked by the press of people trying to enter from the ballroom.
Swiftly altering direction again, this time, she was forced into Lord Waring, who’d also been pushed closer by the flow of guests at his back.
Though she flattened her hand against his chest to keep from tumbling into him, she still found herself pressed indecently close.
She refused to look up at him even though she had no room to step back.
Intentionally locking her gaze on his elegantly knotted neckcloth, she heard a low sound roll through his throat as he seemed to be scanning the area around them.
Their intimate position didn’t seem to bother him nearly as much as it bothered her—tripling the panic flowing through her as her skin flushed and an uncomfortable swirling stirred low in her belly.
“Fresh air suddenly seems far more desirable than lemonade,” he said simply. “Would you agree?”
Thinking only of her sudden desire to escape the precariously shifting crowd and sideways stares, Eleanor nodded.
The viscount immediately curved an arm behind her in a protective position but didn’t actually touch her.
Somehow, he managed to clear a swath through the crowd in front of them as he guided her out of the refreshment room.
It amazed her how easily he traversed through the constantly shifting crowd, his stride long and confident despite having the burden of her stiff, graceless form beside him.
Once in the less crowded ballroom, he allowed more space between them as he continued toward a corner where an arbor of ferns nestled between two great windows.
Though a steady rain fell outside, the windows were open to allow access to the cooling night air.
“Better,” he murmured as he leaned a shoulder against the window frame. His sigh was warm and deep.
Eleanor wasn’t so certain.
She was free of the crowd, but the viscount’s effect on her was still a crucial concern.
The whole way there, she had to fight against the increased stirring in her body and the oddest desire to tuck herself against his solid form.
She could just imagine the stares and murmured comments that would have invoked.