Chapter One #2
At that moment, Neville turned. Their gazes locked, and a wave of heat licked upward from the valley between her hips straight into her cheeks, a startling connection that thrust her back into the twilight, back to last summer and to the very moment she’d vowed to forget.
Millie had only followed Neville into the maze to prevent him from interrupting Lenora’s secret meeting with Asquith.
But then a giant, black raven had burst from the interior of a hedge, spreading wide, chillingly onyx wings.
As the bird took flight, Millie had leapt away, and Neville had swiveled.
Then, with a hideous thud, she’d landed against his chest.
She still didn’t know why she hadn’t immediately pulled away.
She did recall, however, that Neville had smelled of leather, bergamot, and clove—an unexpectedly heady combination. And she remembered how his heat and scent had radiated from a compellingly solid form.
Right now, she didn’t have to ponder how those hints of heat and scent had made her feel, because the same warm and prickling sensation was springing from the same mysterious, internal place.
Lud.
She refused to relive another second of the disastrous encounter. Instead, she exaggerated her fanning motion, hoping the increased flurry of air would dry the sheen cooling her temples.
Across the room, Neville set his lips in a firm line. And then, with grim determination, he began striding in her direction.
She stared in horrified fascination. He couldn’t mean to ask her to dance, could he?
Here? Now? Why?
Had she been the bet’s subject?
Oh, Heavens! It would be just like those useless bucks to have been casting lots to decide who among them must sacrifice themselves to “rescue” her. None of them could conceive that an unattached young lady might choose not to dance.
Attempting to conceal her panic, she glanced first to her left, and then to her right.
Ugh! She was the only young lady in Neville’s path.
Whatever the reason behind his gesture, she could not bear to be the recipient of anyone’s condescension, especially Neville’s. A single, accidental stumble into the man had been as close as she ever meant to come to him.
Bother that raven!
As for his part, after showing a rather alarming initial interest in her when they’d first arrived in town over a year ago—something she’d swiftly discouraged—he now had no use for her at all.
In fact, he’d confirmed those sentiments in the yew maze when he’d thrust her away from him with a disgusted growl.
And yet, he was approaching her with one purposeful stride after another, all bluster and power and breath-stopping, striking physique.
His destination was unmistakable. Conversation around her hushed, and she realized Lady Asquith had taken note.
Everyone, including the patroness Lady Jersey, had taken note.
What could the clod be thinking?
To move at such a rapid pace simply wasn’t done. Moreover, during every recent interaction, they’d barely managed civility. And those occasions had been within the confines of a private home! Neither could perform the pretty in public.
She had to rescue them both from whatever unwelcome “magnanimity” had infected his mind. She had to find another dance partner.
Any partner.
She cast a panicked gaze for the closest potential mark and met the bemused expression of Viscount Willard, Lord Eltenham’s eldest son and heir.
No. Not any partner.
Neville was infuriating. Lord Willard, on the other hand, was dauntingly powerful and deeply influential, both in and out of the ballroom. One nod from him could make an aspiring hostess’s reputation; a cutting remark instantly cast her from grace.
Lord Willard assessed Neville with a dark, unreadable glance. Then, to her shock, he turned. He made her chaperone a formal bow.
“My good Lady Asquith, may I have your permission to ask Miss Millicent to dance?”
Millie waited, breathless, as Lady Asquith raised her quizzing glass.
“If Miss Millicent has no objection, I can make none.”
Lady Asquith’s “permission” had hardly been enthusiastic. In fact, she’d been unchristianly rude, although no one, not even Willard, would dare criticize the battle-axe dowager.
But Millie had no time to ponder why Lady Asquith had been so abrupt, because Lord Willard’s intelligent, penetrating green gaze shifted to hers. His eyes—exceptional in a way she could not define—glittered with dizzying effect. For once, she found herself at a complete loss.
“Well, Miss Millicent?” he asked, white-gloved hand aloft.
To decline would be to shame Lady Asquith. To accept was to place herself in too-close proximity to a man whose picture might as well illustrate the word “Corinthian.”
Lord Willard was tall and handsome with perfectly pomaded blonde locks. His unparalleled aristocratic bearing suggested he was a man who demanded nothing less than a lady’s full attention. Still, as she took his hand, her mind raced through possibilities.
Perhaps Lord Willard’s gesture was not a disaster, but an opportunity.
Could he be the solution to getting her back to the country where she belonged?
The sale of her childhood home had left her with an impressive dowry, but certainly nothing to tempt a man of the viscount’s wealth. And Willard was known to be far too high in the instep to ever seek a mere squire’s daughter as a bride, even if she was the granddaughter of an earl.
However…
If she became Willard’s flirt for a time, she could plead a broken heart when his interest inevitably turned elsewhere. Which would then give her a reason to withdraw from Society, a reason that would not damage the reputations of either of her younger sisters.
Not a scandal in the truest sense, but, still, a solid scheme.
Gathering her resolve, Millie fluttered her eyelashes at the viscount in a way she’d seen Lenora do when mimicking the more flirtatious ladies of the ton. Then, she treated him to her most dazzling smile.
Lord Willard didn’t even blink. He simply stared. Never had anyone assessed her with such hawklike intensity. What could be his purpose? And did the current pounding of her heart indicate pleasure?
Or fear?
Vise-like, his fingers clamped down over hers. Mine. He might as well have spoken the word aloud. Flattering, in a way. She knew many a young lady would beg or bribe for the chance to catch his notice.
She had not been one of them. And yet, as he led her toward the now-forming lines, two startling words burst as a question into her mind.
Until now?
*
Neville froze, certain every pair of eyes in the room was oscillating between his awkward halt and the handsome couple’s progress. The ton’s collective interest became a swarm of invisible beetles burrowing beneath his buttons, scuttling over his skin.
Willard cast a brief, pointed smirk over his shoulder, and Neville’s peripheral vision turned red. His eyelid twitched. His mouth quirked. A volatile mix of fury, embarrassment, and rage sent that battery of beetles rushing up his neck.
He could no longer dismiss the possibility Willard had chosen Millicent as a direct, intentional dig. But was the insult simply another subtle public taunt of the kind they’d been trading ever since their school days, when Neville had taught Asquith to stand up to Willard’s bullying?
Or had Willard just sent a more pointed warning?
In either case, Neville had just taken a vow to protect Millicent Wainwright and had, instead, pushed her into the enemy’s arms.
For six months, Neville had been searching for proof Willard was the blackguard behind a plot against his brother John.
Now that Neville had found a witness that linked Willard to the woman who’d made accusations against John—accusations the witness suggested were false—he was one step closer to clearing his brother’s name.
Had Willard sensed a threat? Was Willard using Millicent to warn Neville to stand down?
Neville couldn’t possibly know.
He only knew his heart thundered so loudly, he couldn’t hear the dance’s opening bars. Slowly, he lifted his chin, adjusted his waistcoat, and then headed toward the relative safety of his friends.
Mad, perhaps, to have taken part of Blackwell’s bet given all he had on his mind, but Blackwell had been right, Millicent must be shielded from her worst inclinations.
Her lavender silk frock, merely her most recent flirtation with infamy, had every man present drooling.
And Asquith, her formal guardian, had proven himself unable to comprehend the extent of her charms. But the danger she faced with Willard was far worse than the kind courted by a scandalously tight bodice.
Across the room, Asquith held his gaze. Neville read questions in his friend’s eyes—questions he could not answer.
Why, when Neville was ordinarily prudent and strategic, had he not foreseen that his sudden stride across the hall would make his intentions as obvious as his execution had been ill-mannered?
And why had he chosen to begin his campaign to keep Millicent safe immediately and in such a crowded forum? His actions made little sense.
Oh, but they did, didn’t they?
Because the mere sight of Millicent Wainwright deranged his mind enough to bungle every interaction they’d had from the start.
“Back so soon?” Blackwell didn’t even try to suppress his smirk.
“Leave off, Blackwell,” Asquith admonished. He turned to Neville. “You realize she couldn’t refuse Willard, don’t you? Not after he approached her so blatantly.”
Neville heard Asquith’s soothing explanation, though his friend’s unspoken accusation echoed far louder. Your approach was blatant as well.
Neville agreed.
He’d brought Millicent to Willard’s notice, and now he couldn’t rip her away without shaming them all. He might have interceded despite the shame, if he believed Millicent would have chosen him. But he knew that wouldn’t have been the case.
He’d prior proof she would disregard any warning he’d give.