Chapter 13
“You do know, don’t you, the one aim of a ball,” he said, “is to see and be seen? The latter, more so than the former. It may sound simple; but there’s an art to it that some are born with, and some aren’t.”
Adelaide, Chapter 9
When Noelle walked into the ballroom, she was ensconced in a hug by Margot.
Her oldest friend’s smile was as appreciative and comforting as her hug had been.
Noelle’s heart beat still didn’t slow as musicians had started playing, lively conversation and drinks flowed.
Eyes trained on her with fascinated interest, rather than boredom or cold curiosity.
After months with only her immediate family for company, the breadth and width of the crowd, the extent of all the sensations and happenings around her flooded her every sense.
Margot squeezed her hand to recapture Noelle’s attention and she felt steadied. “I was at the back of the line so I didn’t see your debut, but I heard. You were magnificent.”
“What…exactly… was I magnificent at?”
“Capturing our attention,” came a voice from over her shoulder.
Without turning she knew who it was. The interloping Viscount, as promised, cavalierly inserting himself into a conversation mid-speech as was his wont.
And there he was, just as resplendent as he’d been earlier, now burnished in the light of a massive candelabra. Now, instead of being flooded with the sensations of the packed ballroom, she was overwhelmed by all the sensations his nearness caused.
She placed a gloved hand to her chest, “Oh god, usually when I do that it's not for a good reason.”
Viscount Ludlowe bowed to her, taking her hand in his; and placed a gentle, tasteful kiss on her gloved hand. A kiss that felt like a sample of goods on offer, if only she were to ask. He took his time giving said hand back to her, leaving a trail of heat she felt through the satin of her glove.
“Trust me, you made an impression. I don’t believe I’m merely speaking for myself when I say that it was all most of us could do to take our eyes off of you.” The words curled inside her like smoke that refused to clear.
Miss Wimbley parried. “Careful, Lord Pomfrey; or you will give us all another reason to be envious of Lady Noelle.”
Noelle shot her a look. Fitz raised an eyebrow. “I suppose you’re right, Miss Wimbley.”
He was silent, pensive for a moment. Then he seemed to reach a decision.
“I suppose I should really commit, then. Leave the entire ballroom with many reasons to envy Lady Noelle.”
A quadrille started playing.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
Her eyes widened, her breath caught, and she wasn’t sure that he noticed.
He casually abandoned his tumbler of dark liquid on a nearby table and turned to her.
She had watched him dance with Moria as she had entered the ballroom, wondering whether he remembered telling her that her first dance of the season was to be his.
It seemed he hadn’t forgotten the bargain.
Did it have to be a quadrille? Of course, it would be.
Her eyes pleaded with him. He didn’t retreat. He stepped forward and, bowing, took her hand. Noelle looked to her friend for support only to see her bursting with poorly contained excitement.
Even if it was a quadrille, even if the whole ballroom turned to gawk, she decided to place her hand (and her fate) in his capable palm.
“Trust me,” His words were a goading whisper somewhere near her ear.
As though the heavens had looked down and fortune had smiled upon her this night, the band paused their playing for a moment. She heard the brisk sound of pages turning. And the song turned slower in measure…to a waltz.
He laughed good naturedly at the relief that was surely evident on her face. The effect was like smoke vaporizing from the clouded room of her mind.
“I told you to trust me.”
“You,” she breathed, settling in front of him on the dance floor, feeling his hands slip around her waist and her shoulders reflexively like something valuable to keep close. “You asked them to play a different song. You clever, wonderful man.”
He tilted his head back and laughed, and he pulled her closer. Closer. Closer still. His hands rested at the small of her back and occasionally he tightened his grip on her. His expertly carved thighs grazed her skirts, she felt her heart beating as fast as the lively tune they were dancing to.
A thousand pairs of eyes seemed to turn on them then, more pointedly on her. They were no match for the eyes that held her in their thrall, guiding her every step and supplying her with assurance.
He marked her with his intentions by standing so close; proclaiming to the world that this was no ordinary, dutiful dance claimed by the sister of a friend.
She had watched him dance with Moria earlier.
They had seemed to enjoy themselves, and Noelle had felt reluctant jealousy; but she had understood.
Moria was lovely, graceful, and curvaceous in all the right places.
Somehow, she realized…. he hadn’t held Moria this close.
She hadn’t said things that made him laugh.
He hadn't looked at Moria like he saw into, around, and through her.
Hell, she doubted he’d gone to the trouble to arrange a song solely for her.
Her chest felt tight. She realized he was staring down at her. He noticed her noticing him noticing her…assets. He cleared his throat, but his grip on her did not relinquish. “Are you enjoying yourself, Princess?” he asked.
Princess. The word affected her, and she missed. Blast. With ease, he readjusted, and the effect was entirely unnoticeable.
“That depends. Do you mean to inquire whether…I am enjoying the ball…. or whether I am enjoying dancing with you?”
He seemed to take this as encouragement.
He spun her in front of him and then pulled her back.
Her back grazed his broad chest long enough for his breath to spark fronds of sensation just above the lone strand of curls at her neck that rippled across her skin, and then he spun her again.
She was dizzy, and not from being twirled like a spindle or watched by curious onlookers.
When she returned to his fortifying grasp for good this time, she landed against him a little unsteadily.
He breathed, “I have you, Princess.” His breath had ignited her skin to cinders, his words and his warm, honeyed voice leaving her in ashen ruins. One hand at her shoulder, one hand at her waist, he led her in the final steps of the dance, and she mourned the conclusion of a dream.
“I never doubted you for a moment,” Noelle smiled in return, “Rakes do often make the best partners.”
“In that case, I might as well take the next. So that the other Rakes know you’ve already found the right partner,” he requested.
Her eyebrows shot up. He had only danced with Moria once. She wasn’t keeping score, but she was definitely keeping score. She made a great production of retrieving her dance card from her tiny reticule.
“Oh, blast. I was hoping you had stashed that little object somewhere a little more…salacious.”
he said the last word closer to her ear, briefly glancing down at her cleavage suggestively before looking back at her.
If he endeavored to unsteady her, he made a great success of it.
She hit him playfully on the arm with her fan.
“Let me see,” she roamed her gloved finger over her dance card. “I have the third waltz open if you want me to pencil you in for that one?”
“You little minx,” his eyes were alight with mischief. He stepped forward and removed the dance card from her hand with a well-timed swipe.
Noelle, you might at least have made it a little more difficult for him.
She could hear her inner voice say, the inner voice chiding her sounded an awful lot like Moria’s.
Fitz cut into her thoughts with a hand tightening at her waist, and his voice low and clear, “You are toying with me, and I ought to return the favor.”
“No. It is I who am returning the favor. You’ve been toying with me for a while now,” She said, belatedly hearing the flirtatious timbre of her voice, her words, before she could put them back in her mouth one by one. Too late.
He stepped closer, she saw heads swivel to look at the two of them.
The shy wallflower, and the notorious rake.
“If you think I’m toying with you I will try harder to be clearer.”
The last word was a low, enunciated rumble that drew her gaze to his very attractive throat, his full lips, the finely honed blade of his jaw.
“Viscount Ludlowe, I take it you are enjoying your evening?” came a female voice over her shoulder. Noelle held in all her breath and closed her eyes. It was like being woken from a dream without finding out the ending.
She had dreamed of this moment with Fitz and now they were being interrupted by her governess.
The urge to stomp her foot in irritation almost overcame her when said governess suggested that Noelle speak to some old friends who were asking after her, a thinly veiled disguise for putting distance between her charge, and her would-be suitor.
Lady Noelle was taking in the refreshments table when a rather handsome man with silver streaks in his hair joined her. He stood behind her as she placed an iced biscuit on a tray, next to a few grapes and a couple of slices of cheese.
“I couldn’t help but notice you were dancing with a certain young gentleman earlier,” the man said. When he saw that he had her attention and she had met his eyes, he clarified, “My nephew, Viscount Ludlowe.”
The man had shots of silver in his thick hair, a few crow’s feet bracketing his eyes; but his physique was the picture of health.
He scarcely looked old enough to be Fitz’s uncle, more like an older brother gone gray from the responsibility of shepherding wayward Fitz.
Perhaps Fitz would look this scandalously put together and well-maintained past his own prime.
She realized she ought to say something; but decided, regrettably, upon, “Your nephew, sir?”
“Yes, my lady. I’m afraid we haven’t been introduced. Not surprising,” the man said, heaping his plate with tiny sandwiches, “My nephew scarcely makes it to the stage of making introductions to his family with his paramours.”
“I’m not-” she shook her head; but he cut her off.
“You are not his usual sort. You’re far too polished,” he gave a little snort, “Albeit a little gangly. And young. I suppose needs must under his current circumstances.”
Lady Noelle cursed her cheeks for the flush she felt sneaking across her complexion. She didn’t meet his eyes as she placed a few tiny sandwiches better portioned for dolls than humans, on her plate.
“I’m sure I am unaware of any of what you are alluding to, sir.”
He pointed with his head in the direction of Fitz, who was talking deferentially with a group of older matrons. Not at all the picture his uncle was trying to paint of him. Then the older man looked back at Lady Noelle.
“I am sure you will soon. He is running out of time.” The last sentence was said predatorily, causing a chill to titter up her spine.
What the hell was he talking about? Running out of time for what, exactly? Just when she thought she scraped back some of Fitz’s many hidden layers, she discovered there was a false bottom covering up more layers to the man.
And with that, the silver fox tipped his glass to her in salute and walked away. She wanted to call after him; but instead, stood there looking back and forth for a moment before finding her composure as Fitz made his way over to her.
“Did I see you talking to my uncle?” He asked as he took her elbow.
Without preamble, she said, “You’re keeping something from me.”
He laughed at her words as though the idea was preposterous and stole a tiny sandwich from her plate. “As if I ever could. You’re far too discerning for me to attempt that.” He scarfed down his stolen sandwich and then bared a deceptive smile at a dowager who walked past.
Noelle looked at him then, setting down the plate more forcefully than she had meant.
She saw the way that his jaw slackened, the way he cleared his throat before looking away.
He was weighing his choices, deciding how much he could tell her, whether he could lie to her altogether.
She saw the moment he decided his course, he had tightened his jaw and gripped her elbow, and nodded.
He turned away from her, his voice low enough that only she could make out the words.
“I can’t tell you here. I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
And he had taken her gloved hand to his lips, planting a kiss that felt like a promise.