by Cheryl Holt
“Were you? Really? I could have sworn you were spying on me.”
“I was looking for her! Then I saw you with your trollop, and I was startled. I’m calming myself so I haven’t had a chance to dance yet.”
“Will you dance with me?”
“No.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because I don’t like you, and I’m sure you’re much too fast for me.”
“You don’t like me? How ridiculous. Everyone likes me.”
“Let me be the first to say I don’t.”
“The orchestra is about to play a waltz. Will you sit and twiddle your thumbs.”
“Yes.”
“Coward.”
“I’m not a coward.”
“Yes, you are. You’re here for the dancing, but you’re too timid to accept an invitation. What if no one else asks but me and you end up a wallflower?”
“I’ll risk it.”
He laughed, and he filled her glass to the rim. He sipped the wine and stared at the people passing by in the park while the orchestra struck the chords to announce the waltz. She yearned to be out on the floor so badly her teeth ached.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” he said. “What is it? Don’t be cruel and refuse to apprise me.”
“I’m sorry, but I don’t wish us to be cordial.”
“You’re being positively silly.”
He was gazing at her in an enticing way, as if she was exotic and special. It was probably a practiced look that he used on every woman to get what he craved—that being a dalliance—so she was shocked to find herself quite spellbound.
She couldn’t recall a single occasion in her past when a man had studied her as he currently was. Though it was horridly wrong to be enthralled, she was basking in the glow of his intense scrutiny.
“It’s Miss Barrington,” she muttered before she could stop herself.
“And what is your Christian name? Will you make me guess?”
“You needn’t guess. You may simply refer to me as Miss Barrington.”
“I’d rather not.” He assessed her, his warm, alluring appraisal taking in her golden blond hair, her big blue eyes. “You’re so pretty. Your name must match how beautiful you are.”
At hearing him declare her to be pretty, she was rocked by a spurt of feminine vanity. She knew she was fetching. She could clearly see herself in a mirror, but she’d never had such a handsome, virile man tell her.
She figured it was another practiced affectation, but she couldn’t deny it was very effective. She wanted to babble like a brook and share all sorts of information he had no business learning.
She scowled her most chastising scowl. “I’m sure it will disappoint you to discover that my Christian name is very common.”
“There’s nothing common about you, Miss Barrington. What is it?”
A strange energy had flared, almost as if their proximity was generating sparks. She’d never felt such a bizarre sensation and had had no idea humans could create such a commotion. She didn’t comprehend why it was occurring and didn’t like how she was all jittery on the inside.
She leaned away, determined to put some space between them. “You’re very sophisticated, aren’t you?”
“Yes, very.”
“And extremely confident.”
“I always have been.”
“I can understand why a certain type of female would be enchanted by you.”
“It’s not a certain type. It’s every type.”
“Is it your habit to sneak off with unsuspecting young ladies?”
He snorted with derision. “If you assume my partner was unsuspecting, you’re mistaken. She has initiated every tryst.”
She scoffed. “You’re a roué so you would say that.”
Apparently, she’d vexed him, and he wasn’t very patient. He glanced down the table toward the rest of their party. “Frederick, what is this woman’s Christian name?”
The dolt, Frederick, pondered, then said, “I believe she was introduced as Charlotte. Or was it Cassandra? It might have been Constance.”
Mr. Wakefield turned back to her. “I see you’ve made quite an impression.”
“I didn’t remember his name either,” she griped.
“I don’t blame you. He’s hardly worth remembering. So which is it? I like Charlotte and Cassandra both. Constance too. Any of them would suit you.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you must know—”
“I must.”
“It’s Catherine.”
“Catherine Barrington…”
Her name rolled off his tongue as if he were tasting it. It was just a name—and a fake one at that—but his pronunciation had it sounding unusual and mysterious. Her tummy tickled, butterflies swarming.
“Tell me your life’s story, Catherine Barrington. Tell me every single thing about you.”
“No.”
“Ooh, you are so difficult. Let’s start with a few small details. How did you wind up at Vauxhall? Who did you come with? What possessed you to visit?”
“I came with my friend.”
“The one who immediately left with a beau?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?”
What could it hurt to admit the identity of her companion? “Libby Markham.”
“Ah…Libby. I know her well.”
Catherine bristled. “How well?”
“She’s a renowned tart.”
“She is not.”
“She is,” he insisted.
She studied him, wondering if it was an honest remark. If it was, then Libby was the very last person with whom Catherine should socialize.
“Have you ever kissed her?” she asked.
“Not yet.”
“But you would?”
“If she showed the slightest sign of encouragement? Yes, probably.”
His gaze was steady and firm, but his eyes were twinkling with merriment again, and she couldn’t guess if he was being candid.
“Would you kiss just any woman?” she asked.
“Not any woman. I’m a bit discerning. And now that I think of it, Miss Markham is awfully young and flighty. I like to suppose my standards are a tad higher.”
“You don’t like girls who are young and flighty?”
“No, I like women who are interesting, mature, and beautiful. Like you.”
The cad shifted so he was even nearer than he had been. If she wasn’t careful, he’d pull her onto his lap.
“Would you stop flirting with me?” she said. “I don’t like it.”
“What female doesn’t like a man to flirt?”
“This female doesn’t.”
“You’re being completely ridiculous again, and you’re lying to me.”
“Why would you imagine I’m lying?”
“Because Catherine Barrington, your face is an open book. I can read every thought that’s passing through that pretty little head of yours.”
“If that were true, you’d have slinked away in shame shortly after you sat down.”
He pushed back his chair, and he extended his hand to her. “Come, Miss Barrington.”
She gasped with offense. “Into the woods? Absolutely not.”
“No, not the woods, you outlandish ninny. Let’s dance.”
“I told you I don’t wish to.”
“Yes, and you’re being absurd. Come.”
He stared her down, his demeanor commanding and compelling. He had a very imposing nature, and she suspected he’d been a soldier in the past. He seemed adept at giving orders and expecting them to be obeyed.
“I won’t dance with you,” she churlishly said.
“Coward.” He smirked. “I bet you don’t even know how. I bet your father never had the money to hire a dance master for you.”
His taunt about her father was her undoing.
Her father had been the Earl of Middl
ebury. He’d been wealthy and acclaimed and marvelous in every way. She’d grown up rich and spoiled, had had dance masters and tutors and riding instructors. She’d been showered with every boon a cosseted, adored daughter could ever receive.
But her father was dead. Her mother too. As well as her older brother, Hayden. Her cousin, Jasper, had inherited everything, and naught had been the same since he did.
“I know how to dance, Mr. Wakefield,” she snapped.
“Prove it.”
His hand was still dangling there. She glared up at him, incensed that he was so smugly certain he could coerce her.
She should have refused his request. She should have shoved him away and not allowed him to bait her, but she was very proud. She’d been reared with every advantage and could probably waltz better than any woman in the pavilion.
With a vain, dismissive gesture of disdain, she rose, and with her being five-foot-five in her shoes he towered over her. Though she didn’t like him and deemed him to be a wretch and a rogue, she liked how handsome he was, how she felt young and petite next to him.
He made her remember the girl she’d once been, the one who’d been sure she’d have a life filled with prominent, striking swains just like him.
He raised a brow. “Should I take this to mean you can waltz, Miss Barrington?”
“Yes, and I’m wearing my best slippers, you rude oaf. Don’t you dare step on my feet and ruin them.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Like a regal queen, she swept by him and out onto the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
Christopher followed Miss Barrington, his hot gaze on her shapely backside as it swished against the fabric of her skirt.
He often came to the public dances at Vauxhall. There were so many lonely women who showed up, and he liked to flirt and flatter. They were always so grateful for it. But in all the times he’d attended, he’d never met anyone quite like her.
First off, she was so beautiful. With her blond hair and blue eyes, her freckles and dimples, her slender torso and shapely figure, she was stunning in a fashion he rarely encountered.
Yet there was another facet to her too. She was very elegant in her actions and mannerisms. By her appearance at the pavilion, it was clear she was of limited financial means, but if he ultimately discovered she’d been raised as a ward of the King he wouldn’t be surprised.
She was too remarkable to be common, and he had no doubt she’d started from a very high place. Who was she? Who was her family? What was her history? What had caused her to tumble down society’s ladder so she’d wound up at Vauxhall?
He couldn’t wait to unravel her secrets.
The waltz was in full swing, and couples whirled by. Miss Barrington was in front of him, and he reached for her arm to turn her around. The move was quick and abrupt, and it had her off balance. Suddenly, their bodies were crushed together from chests to toes.
They froze, and the hectic noise faded away. There was just her and him, and the strangest charge was in the air, almost as if their nearness was producing sparks. He’d never felt anything like it.
“Are you ready, Miss Barrington?”
“Yes, Mr. Wakefield. Show me that you know what you’re doing. I haven’t danced in ages so you’d better not disappoint me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Catherine.”
At his use of her Christian name, she probably would have given him a good scold, but he wasn’t about to listen to any chastisement. Especially not from a female.
His life had been one of men and soldiering, and women were out on the fringe of that world. They were necessary for kissing and socializing and eventually fornication and the birthing of children, but other than those limited roles they had no bearing on his existence.
He clasped her hand and her waist, and he twirled them into the line of dancers. His mother—God rest her weary soul—had insisted he learn to dance, and as he spun Miss Barrington into the fray, as she tipped back her head and laughed with joy, he was dreadfully glad his mother had forced him to proceed with the lessons.
Her joy was infectious, and he laughed too and twirled her even faster. The set continued forever, the tempo gradually increasing so many couples couldn’t maintain the pace. They staggered off the floor, panting and jesting over the strenuous endeavor.
He was wildly competitive and so was she, and they were too stubborn to call it quits. They didn’t lurch to a halt until the last chords rang out. Everyone cheered and clapped and complimented the orchestra on a stellar performance.
People returned to their friends, and the musicians took a break. There was a buffet for those who had purchased food tickets, but he didn’t feel like eating. He hoped Miss Barrington didn’t either.
They were loafing in the center of the floor and seeming unable to part. He offered her his arm and was delighted when she grabbed hold.
“What is your verdict, Miss Barrington?” he asked. “Have your slippers survived my assault?”
“You’re actually an excellent dancer, Mr. Wakefield. With you being such a despicable wretch, I didn’t suppose you would be very adept.”
He smirked. “You’d be amazed at the skills I possess.”
“No, I wouldn’t. I’m certain you’re proficient at numerous deeds I shouldn’t attempt to imagine.”
“I am awful. I admit it.”
“But you are a good dancer which cancels out many sins.”
They reached their companions, but he ignored them and kept on.
“I need to cool down,” he said. “Will you walk with me for a bit?”
“If you promise to stay near the pavilion. I won’t wander off onto any dark paths with you.”
“Just tonight or never?”
“Never,” she firmly stated.
“You don’t believe I can corrupt you?”
“No.” She peeked up at him and grinned. “From your expression, it’s clear you would deem it a challenge so I must warn you not to get any insane ideas. I won’t tolerate mischief.”
“If you don’t like to engage in mischief, your life must be so dreary.”
“My life is fine.”
“You haven’t shared any personal details with me.”
“Neither have you.”
“What is your situation? I encounter all sorts at these events. What type are you? Are you a poor relative who is desperately searching for a husband? Are you a stressed governess who’s sneaked away for an evening of frivolity? Are you a miserable nanny who tends naughty brats all day and is tearing out her hair?”
“You don’t have a very high opinion of the females who are here.”
“It’s not exactly a ball at the palace.”
“No, it’s not,” she said, “but people are having much more fun than they would at those stuffy fetes.”
“Have you attended many balls at the palace?”
“Nary a one.”
“Then how could you know they’re stuffy?”
“It was a wild guess,” she claimed.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Again, he was intrigued by the notion that she likely had an elevated ancestry and background. What could it be? He intended to find out and was already plotting as to how he could ensure he’d see her again, and he would continue to see her until he’d had his fill.
“What about you?” she inquired. “Tell me an interesting fact about yourself.”
“There’s nothing interesting about me.”
“I beg to differ. You’re utterly fascinating.”
“You must be liking me more than you did in the beginning.”
“Yes. I told you a man’s dancing ability always impresses me. How can I loathe someone who is as nimble and athletic as you are?”
“If that’s all it takes to impress you, I shall make you dance with me all night until the final note is sounded.”
They had arrived at a spot in the p
ath where the lamps were far away and the trails vanished into the trees. Though he slyly turned her, she was too astute to let him succeed.
“Nice try, Mr. Wakefield, but we’re staying near the pavilion.”
“You can’t blame me for wanting to get you off alone.”
“And you’d do what? Kiss me severely? You must assume I have no self-respect. Your lips were just crushed to another woman’s. Why would I lower myself?”
“You’d be surprised by how much you’d enjoy it.”
“I’m certain I wouldn’t.”
“I asked you earlier if you’d ever been kissed in the moonlight, but you didn’t answer.”
“I’m not going to answer either. I’d rather talk about you. I’m predicting you’ve been in the army.”
“How did you know?”
“It’s the way you bark orders and expect to be obeyed without question.”
“You’re very perceptive, Miss Barrington.”
“I should hope so. I’ve never met such a scapegrace, and I need to keep my wits about me.”
“I’m harmless.”
She chuckled. “That, sir, is a bald-faced lie.”
“Well, I’m not horrid.”
“Aren’t you? Out in the woods, I clearly heard your paramour accuse you of being horrid and vain.”
“She’s wrong, and she’s not my paramour.”
“Then she’s just a…what?”
“A strumpet is the word that would describe her.”
“She was with her aunt so she must possess some traits of a virtuous young lady.”
“She’s young, but I would have to disagree on her being virtuous or a lady.”
Miss Barrington snorted with amusement. “You’re leading her on? Is that it?”
“Yes. I like to flirt, but I would never shackle myself to such an irresponsible girl.”
“I’m so relieved. I would hate to think of you suffering in such a fashion. But aren’t you worried about sneaking off with her? What if her father swooped in and demanded a wedding?”
“He’d have to catch me first, and I’m a very fast runner.”
She laughed out loud. “Every time you open your mouth, something more outrageous pops out.”
“I’m making you laugh which is much more pleasant than listening to you scold me.” They passed a bench, and he gestured to it. “Would you like to sit for a minute?”
