Chapter 6 #2
A pity he couldn’t tell Emily that Miss Taylor was Lord X. It would serve the loose-tongued creature right to be exposed. But he wasn’t ready for open war. Yet. “I merely meant that she isn’t what she appears.”
“Then you’re the only one to think so,” Emily retorted, obviously disappointed by his refusal to reveal more. “No one ever speaks ill of her.”
That was precisely why Miss Taylor moved with impunity through society.
She needn’t be a member of Almack’s. Championed by those of Lady Brumley’s ilk, she need only be the daughter of the dashing Algernon Taylor to gain access to prestigious routs and balls and thus to all the gossip she required for her column.
Secure in her anonymity, she dug up old gossip, then passed judgment without ever suffering society’s censure. If she’d once been the subject of speculation and gossip herself, he doubted she’d be so bloody self-righteous.
Ian stilled. What an intriguing thought—Miss Taylor the subject of gossip. The strains of a waltz reached his ears, and he began to smile. Perhaps it was time the self-righteous Miss Taylor learned firsthand how easily a situation could be misconstrued.
Without giving himself a chance to question his motives, he excused himself to Emily, then strode purposefully across the room. Ah, yes, he knew exactly how to teach Miss Taylor a much-needed lesson in humility, especially if her reputation was as “spotless” as Emily implied.
As soon as Felicity saw Lord St. Clair heading toward her, she braced herself for trouble. Devil take Katherine! Felicity had risked discovery to prevent her friend from marrying a degenerate, and the woman had run off with her family’s steward instead!
If she’d known Mr. Gerard was the object of Katherine’s affections, she would never have encouraged it. But she’d naively imagined some squire’s son with less fortune than Lady Hastings wished. Not a servant, for pity’s sake, who was doubtless a fortune-hunter! Drat it all!
Katherine was supposed to turn St. Clair down flat, then marry a man at least marginally suitable to her genteel class. The foolish girl.
Now, for all her trouble, Felicity had a hornet on her tail.
No wonder Lord St. Clair had spent luncheon baiting her—he must be furious!
She watched him approach with growing unease.
The man had an uncanny ability to keep his true feelings buried ten feet under, and that made him more difficult to manage than a man easy to read. If she had any sense at all, she’d run.
A pity she had nowhere to go.
“Lord St. Clair is coming this way, my dear,” Lady Brumley said beside her, with a nod of her elaborately coiffured head. “Shall I introduce you?”
“Thank you, we’ve met.” No doubt the marchioness would make much of that.
Lady Brumley hadn’t reached sixty without learning how to turn the sparest comments into fodder for gossip.
Felicity relied on the Galleon of Gossip for half her column.
She sometimes wondered if Lady Brumley had guessed who wore Lord X’s pants.
God knows, Felicity wished it were anyone but herself just now.
Then the troublesome viscount was upon them, wearing a smile so alarming she could barely manage one in answer. He nodded briefly at the marchioness, then bowed to Felicity. “Miss Taylor, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
The scoundrel. He wanted to get her off alone on the dance floor so he could rail at her, and he knew she dared not refuse with Lady Brumley drinking in every word.
Well, she must face his wrath some time or another. “I’d be happy to dance with you,” she lied, extending her hand. Though I’d be happier still if I’d never met you.
He showed no surprise at her acquiescence, but then why should he?
He’d planned it this way. He led her to the floor with the practiced ease of a gentleman, then settled one hand on the curve of her waist as the other closed tightly around her gloved fingers.
Oh, dear, why were they not promenading? Bowing to each other?
That’s when she actually paid attention to the tempo of the music.
She groaned. God preserve her, she’d agreed to a waltz, and waltzes were not her forte.
Her dancing in general left much to be desired, but with some figures, like the quadrille, she could follow her fellows and hide her missteps in the crowd. That was impossible with a waltz.
“Lord St. Clair—” she began, meaning to warn him. But he’d already whirled her onto the floor. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three, she chanted in her head, futilely trying to keep from stumbling or making a misstep.
“Miss Taylor—” he began.
“Shh,” she muttered, casting an envious glance at the others who so deftly managed the dance’s intricacies. Her fingers dug into his shoulder. “I’m counting.”
“Counting?”
“The measure. I’m very bad at the waltz.”
He eyed her with suspicion. “You must be joking.”
She trod on his foot completely by accident. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered as she sought to find her footing again, nearly bringing them to a halt.
He half-dragged her back into step, remaining silent until she found the measure again. “How could you not have mastered the waltz? You go to a different social affair every night.”
“Yes, but I don’t go to dance.” She resumed her death grip on his shoulder. He could always carry her about the room. He was certainly large enough, and she’d already ruined any appearance of ladylike grace by clinging to him like a drowning woman.
When he didn’t answer her comment, she risked a glance up into his face.
It was shuttered, his eyes impersonal as gems. “I forgot—you go to hear gossip.”
“To gather material.” His condescension and obvious ease at the waltz irritated her. “You go to hunt up a brood mare. I don’t see why that’s any more acceptable.”
“A brood mare?” he choked out. “Is that what you gleaned from your interrogation of Sara this afternoon?”
She stumbled and he caught her, whisking her back into the step only moments before she collided with another dancer. It took her a second to regain her composure. “I did not interrogate Sara. She offered information.”
“And you made your usual ‘speculations’ based on hints and innuendo.”
“So you’re not looking for a wife to bear your heir?”
A long silence ensued, during which she became aware of something besides the waltz ...
like the broad masculine chest at her eye level ...
the scent of bay rum and starched linen and plain, unadulterated male ...
the muscled arms holding her a trifle close for propriety.
At some point during the waltz, he’d moved his hand from her side to the small of her back.
Although she understood why he felt the need to manacle her waist with his arm, given her abysmal waltzing ability, it was still most improper.
She eased back from him, then nearly lost the measure, prompting him to tighten his arm further. When she met his gaze, she found him watching her with amusement.
“You really can’t waltz, can you?” he said.
“Did you think I’d invent something like that?”
“Why not? You invent everything else.”
“Not your reasons for needing a wife, I suspect,” she said, determined to make him answer her question.
He let out an exasperated breath. “Of course I need a wife to bear me an heir. That’s why most men of title and fortune need a wife.” He paused. “There, you have your answer. Shall I expect to see it in the next edition of the Gazette?”
She was starting to feel a bit more comfortable with the waltz, enough that his snide remark didn’t make her lose step. “Really, you do have an exalted opinion of yourself. I have more interesting things to write about than your courtships.”
“Yes, like Katherine’s elopement.”
So he’d finally brought it up, had he? Tilting her head down to avoid his gaze, she focused on his expertly tied cravat. “Why should I write about that? Everyone already knows of it. Besides, despite what you think, I don’t go about trying to ruin people’s lives. Katherine is my friend, after all.”
“You’ve already humiliated her by writing about my supposed mistress. Why balk at discussing her elopement?”
The unfair accusation stung. “I’ll concede that my article might have given her some discomfort, but clearly it didn’t last. The end result was her happiness.”
“Are you so sure? This steward of hers met your impeccable standards?”
Her interest in his cravat grew amazingly acute. “I didn’t know him, but I’m sure he’s a very nice man and will make her happy.”
“I see. Which means you’re as dismayed about the elopement as I.”
He was so smug, drat him, and much too adept at reading her mind. “Not at all. At least he claims to be in love with her, which is more than I can say for you.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? But I know you, Miss Taylor, and you don’t believe in love any more than I do.” He tugged her closer, plastering her to him from thigh to chest in a most indelicate manner.
She’d been about to protest his misconception of what she believed, but this latest impropriety took precedence. She tried to shove him back, but failed. “I may not waltz very well,” she hissed, “but must you hold me so close? It isn’t proper, you know.”
“No, it isn’t.”
When he didn’t allow her so much as an extra inch in response to her criticism, she said, “Would you kindly release me?”
“I think not.”
It dawned on her that this had nothing to do with her dancing abilities. “Why?”
“Because holding you at arm’s length wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable.” He coupled his comment with a smile so wicked it made her heart stop.
She trod purposely on his foot, but dancing slippers were no match for a man’s Hessians. “Lord St. Clair—”
“Call me Ian.” An edge entered his voice. “I see no reason we should stand on ceremony after all that you know about me.”
“Now see here, I know you’re angry with me about Katherine’s elopement—”