“Miss Ellingham?”
Trying to hide her yelp of shock, Dorothea nearly bit through her tongue. Gracious, he’s here! She offered him a polite curtsy. “Good evening, my lord.” She kept her expression cool, fearing she would be unable to smile without looking and feeling like a total ninny. “How good of you to attend my ball.”
“I would not have missed it for anything. Please, allow me to introduce a friend, Major Gregory Roddington, a recent hero of the war.”
Distractedly, Dorothea turned her attention to the handsome man beside the marquess. He bowed to her and smiled.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellingham. They are playing a quadrille. Would you do me the honor of standing up with me?” the major asked. “Though I’m afraid I can claim no great skill on the dance floor, I promise to try and execute the steps in the correct order.”
“Ah, but can you avoid crushing my toes, Major Roddington?” she asked with a flirtatious tilt of her chin.
“I can try,” he answered with a twinkling grin.
Dorothea swallowed a small sigh of disappointment. The major seemed to be a very pleasant, affable man, but it was Atwood’s attention she craved, not his friend’s. How marvelous it would be to dance, and flirt, with the marquess. But he had not asked her.
“I shall be delighted to dance with you, sir.” Pasting a bright smile on her face, Dorothea allowed the major to lead her onto the dance floor.
They assumed their places. Major Roddington initially set himself on the wrong side. The gentleman on his left gave him a sharp poke, pointing out the error. Hastily changing positions, the major favored her with a sheepish grin.
Dorothea’s answering smile held true warmth. Perhaps it was better to be paired with the major. He seemed a kind man. He was handsome in an unpolished, rugged way, with a trim, fit physique. She liked how he smiled at his ineptitude, for it was a rare treat indeed to encounter a man who did not take himself so seriously.
The music began and each couple bowed elegantly. Hands held, they came together in the pattern of the dance. They crossed next to each other, took a few steps forward, then back.
Dorothea pivoted gracefully on the ball of her foot, turned to the man on her right, and came face-to-face with the Marquess of Atwood. She sucked in a sharp breath. He appeared not to notice as he took her hand.
And squeezed it playfully. Good heavens! She gazed intently at the marquess, certain she must be mistaken at what had happened. Or wistful?
Regaining her composure, Dorothea repeated the dance pattern. She waited breathlessly as her hand once again was clasped within the palm of the marquess’s large one. And then…another squeeze, followed by a gentle caress.
Dorothea’s feet stumbled as she missed a step. The major sent her a sympathetic glance. Had he seen what happened? No, that was unlikely. He was concentrating too hard on where to place his feet and when to turn. She swallowed. Why did Lord Atwood keep touching her in such a manner? Was he flirting? Teasing? But if he was interested in her, then why hadn’t he asked her to dance?
Deciding the only way to complete the dance successfully, Dorothea concluded she must ignore Atwood and focus her attention exclusively on the major. When the steps next brought them close, she smiled charmingly at Major Roddington, tilting her head deliberately to one side. Her best side. The side that she always thought showcased her features to their fullest advantage.
“How are your toes faring, Miss Ellingham?” the major whispered.
“They are quite safe at the moment,” she whispered back. “I think you are far too modest in your assessment of your dancing skills.”
He laughed, and she caught a quick glimpse of a most appealing dimple in his cheek. “You are very well-mannered, young lady.”
“Nonsense. I applaud your effort.”
“You must forgive my lack of entertaining conversation.” The major smiled as he turned to face her again. “I confess, I am counting the steps. Which I know is terribly gauche.”
They twirled, then met again. “At least you are counting silently in your head,” Dorothea quipped. “I know of at least two gentlemen who mutter the numbers under their breath as they dance. ’Tis most distracting.”
“Are you insulting the major?” Lord Atwood interjected.
The unexpected question seemed to startle Roddington as much as Dorothea. He missed his footing and did indeed step on her toe. Dorothea skillfully hid her wince.
She was forced to wait until the figures drew them together before she could answer the marquess. “Stop being such a pest, my lord, and pay attention to your own partner.”
The marquess abruptly ceased dancing, causing the other two couples in their set to bump into each other. One of the gentlemen coughed deferentially to gain the marquess’s attention. Atwood immediately inclined his head in apology and took up where he had left off, though Dorothea noted gleefully that he was no longer in time to the music.
She raised her brow challengingly at Lord Atwood as they came together for a final time. He gazed into her eyes with an intense stare, but did nothing improper. She inhaled, feeling jittery and oddly disappointed.
The major escorted her from the dance floor. Lord Atwood retreated in the opposite direction. Dorothea smiled routinely, expressing her thanks, trying to settle her nerves. It had been fun dancing with the major, yet it was the moments when she met and sparred with the marquess that stuck in her mind.
There was a brief pause as the musicians set themselves for the next dance.
“I believe you have promised the waltz to me, Miss Ellingham,” a deep voice proclaimed.
“Did I?” she remarked airily. Dorothea consulted the dance card that hung from her wrist on a white satin ribbon, not especially caring for the possessive tone in Lord Rosen’s voice.
Previously he had treated her with a formal reserve she initially found intimidating and later decided was more amusing than anything else. He had been among the first to notice her when she came to Town, monopolizing her shamefully at her first society outing. A meeting with the Marquess of Dardington quickly changed that circumstance, but a few weeks ago Lord Rosen had made a second appearance as a potential suitor.
Dorothea had dismissed him from her thoughts because she had been pursuing Arthur Pengrove. And, she also admitted, because Lord Rosen was a bit daunting. He was older, nearly forty, a gentleman with sophisticated tastes and libertarian ways. He was, by many accounts, an accomplished rake. What then could he possibly see in her? She vacillated wildly between feeling flattered and puzzled by his attention.
“There, see my name.” Lord Rosen pointed to her dance card. “’Tis written in such a fine, feminine hand. It appears that everything you do is close to perfection.”
Heavens above, was he teasing? She glanced up at him. He sent her a provocative glance and she wondered what he really thought. Did he in truth hold her in any esteem? Or was this part of an elaborate game, a carefully orchestrated seduction?
Resolving not to let herself be provoked, Dorothea repressed a waspish retort and composed her features into blandness. Surely nothing would scare the handsome, dashing Lord Rosen away faster than a limp, placid female.
He appraised her with a measuring gaze and Dorothea realized her ploy had not worked. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite result. Instead of becoming bored and disinterested in her, Lord Rosen seemed keener than ever to spend time in her company.
“The waltz is the most intimate of dances, is it not?” he whispered.
“It can be,” she replied, her voice thin and fragile. Oh, dear this would not do. Not at all. Dorothea cleared her throat. “With the right partner,” she added in a far stronger tone.
“Yes, the choice of a partner can make the difference in so many of life’s experiences,” he said smoothly.
Dorothea felt the color rush to her cheeks. There were those who said a reformed rake made the best husband. Her own brother-in-law, Jason Barrington, was living proof of the t
ruth in that statement. Still, Dorothea was not convinced of the universal application of that theory and wondered again if it was wise to test it personally.
On the other hand, Arthur Pengrove was no longer a possible matrimonial candidate. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her assessment of Lord Rosen’s character. A more mature, worldly gentleman like Lord Rosen might make the ideal husband for her.
Besides, her own requirement that she kiss any gentleman whom she considered to be a potential husband before agreeing to marriage would be an easy feat to accomplish. Given his reputation and experience, it was safe to say that Lord Rosen would not object nor censure what others might label as forward behavior when she encouraged a kiss.
Dorothea offered him a warm smile. “The music is about to begin, my lord. Shall we?”
She put her hand on his outstretched arm. He instantly covered it with his own, squeezing it with an intimate familiarity that pushed at the boundaries of propriety. Dorothea ignored the jolt of warning that rushed to her head. They would be dancing in a crowded ballroom, in plain view of hundreds of guests, including Lord Dardington, her self-appointed protector.
What possible harm could occur?
Chapter Five
Thirty minutes later, Dorothea pulled away from Lord Rosen’s embrace and gazed at him distractedly, wondering how she had managed to find herself alone in the garden with him. She had been amenable when at the end of their dance he had suggested they stroll outside for some fresh air. He had been charming and urbane, flattering, yet not too obvious in his remarks. She had enjoyed his wit, but even more, she had been impressed with the gentlemanly reverence he displayed toward her.
Caught in the romance of the moment, Dorothea wondered if he could possibly be the right man for her. There in the moonlight, with the stars twinkling brightly and the sweet smell of the spring flowers perfuming the air, she decided to find out.
She leaned forward, allowing him to kiss her. Lord Rosen’s lips pressed forcefully against hers and in that instant Dorothea knew she had made a dreadful mistake. A foolish mistake.
There was danger in Lord Rosen’s kiss, possession in his embrace. He was not subtle or gentle; rather, he was conquering and almost brutal. He felt large, ruthless, and powerful as he held her tightly against his chest. Though it was executed with great skill, and no doubt endless experience, Dorothea found something indefinably unpleasant in his kiss. It left her feeling uncomfortable, uneasy.
“We need to return to the ball,” she said breathlessly
“Relax,” he cooed at her, his voice a harsh rasp on her nerves. “There is plenty of time before we are missed.”
Instinctively, Dorothea put up her arm, bracing it against his chest to hold him at bay. He smiled indolently at her and lunged forward. Dorothea stood fast, stiffening her elbow, keeping her arm firmly in place. His expression became perturbed as he realized she was serious.
“We need to return to the ball,” she repeated.
“Come now, my pet. There’s no need to be coy. We both know what we want.”
Oh, Lord, now she was in serious trouble. Her left hand, so firmly planted in the center of Lord Rosen’s chest, began to tremble. The idea of wrestling with him was too undignified to be borne, but if necessary, Dorothea would fight with every ounce of her strength.
She raised her chin and met his eyes squarely. Speaking in a normal, quiet tone was an effort. “I really must insist.”
His eyebrow lifted. “I cannot believe you would be so cruel as to deny us both such untold pleasure. You see before you a man at the mercy of your beauty.”
She sent a frosty glare in his direction. “At my mercy? I believe you to be more attuned with your base appetites, my lord.”
Appreciative laughter fell from his lips. “And yours.”
“Hardly!”
He drew back slightly, his gaze openly skeptical. “You came out here willingly. You kissed me willingly.”
Dorothea swallowed past the lump that was lodged in her throat. She had come outside of her own accord. But surely he could not think she was going to bestow upon him more than a single kiss?
“One kiss is all that I allow, my lord. At least to a man who is not my husband or my betrothed. Lest you forget, I am a lady. An innocent, unmarried lady.”
Lord Rosen must have seen her temper flair, for he paused. His dark eyes surveyed her critically. “Do you believe yourself worthy of becoming my wife?”
Dorothea winced. That was rather blunt. What did he expect now, that she plead her cause? Enumerate her finer qualities, expound on her many virtues, show him her teeth? What nerve! Beneath her escalating fear, Dorothea grew angry. But she held her temper.
“That is not for me to decide, my lord,” she replied, keeping her voice cool. “Only you can determine who is worthy to be your wife.”
He smiled, seemingly pleased at her response, yet his heightened color indicated he had not fully regained his temper.
“Perhaps that is what I am attempting to do right now. Determine your worth.”
Shock forced a nervous giggle from her. She should have been prepared for this nonsense. Or better still, she should have been smart enough to avoid it altogether. The good Lord help her if by some miracle Lord Rosen did propose. He possessed in abundance that superior smugness prevalent in men who felt they needed to prove themselves with women. He would not take kindly to being rejected.
Somehow, Dorothea managed a strained smile. “This seems a rather awkward time and place to make such an important decision about your future.”
“It could very well be your future also,” he insisted.
If you please me. He did not say the words aloud, but his intent was obvious with every sultry, proud look. Pointedly, Lord Rosen glanced down at her arm, the physical barrier she held between them. His smug expression told her he expected her to lower it.
Dorothea stiffened. “I think not, my lord,” she proclaimed.
His expression of disbelief was comical, and unfortunately short-lived. Lord Rosen glared at her, clearly annoyed. Dorothea’s fear returned. If I survive this incident without harm, I vow I shall be more diligent in the future, she promised herself silently.
Dorothea dipped a quick curtsy and turned away, scolding herself not to scurry so fast, yet she could feel Lord Rosen’s penetrating gaze boring into her back.
“Miss Ellingham!” he shouted.
Her discomfort heightened. Her pace quickened. She was supremely conscious of how wildly her heart was thudding. It was undignified and a bit lowering to scuttle away like a frightened child, yet Dorothea reasoned it was far better to be a coward than a fool.
There was a sound behind her. His footsteps? Dear God! No longer giving any thought to how she appeared, Dorothea lifted her skirt above her ankles and broke into a run. Her feet crunched noisily on the gravel path, the stones cutting through the soft leather soles of her elegant dancing slippers.
Ignoring the pain, Dorothea kept running. Her shoulder brushed the side of a lush hedge as she turned the corner, but she dared not slow her speed. She was concentrating so intently on the sounds behind her that she paid little attention to what was directly in front.
It was like hitting a brick wall. A wall with powerful arms. Dorothea screeched as those masculine arms encircled her, imprisoned her. Twisting from the hold, she backed away on unsteady legs, trying to prepare herself to meet her attacker. Lifting her head, she met his eyes fully.
Lord Atwood! Dorothea’s mouth dropped open, aghast. Feeling off balance, she caught his arm and tried to steady herself, physically and emotionally.
“Gracious, woman, what is the matter?”
Shocked speechless, Dorothea stared at him. The moonlight reflected off his face, giving his features an almost angelic glow. Normally, physical beauty did not overwhelm her so intently. It had taken several years for her to come to the realization, but she did know that physical appearance did not directly correlate to a person’s character.
> Lord Rosen being an excellent example of that fact. His very appealing face and form hid a darkness in his personality, a sharpness of temperament that was at odds with his outer beauty.
Something about the marquess’s looks…or maybe it was his bearing, drew her near. A kind of magnetic virility that made her take notice. Even when she did not want to be looking.
“Are you in distress, Miss Ellingham?” the marquess asked in a gentle tone. “Can I be of assistance?”
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “I’m perfectly fine.”
The lift of his brow told her of his skepticism at her response, but thankfully he did not press her. There was a strained silence, broken only by her harsh, labored breaths. Mortified, Dorothea attempted to stifle the noise, which made matters worse.
“I was unaware that Mr. Pengrove was in attendance this evening,” Lord Atwood commented.
“He is here?” Dorothea gazed wildly about the garden.
“Wasn’t that him in the lower garden with you?”
“No, that was Lord Rosen.” Dorothea, still feeling terribly rattled, replied without thinking. Then nearly groaned at her answer.
“Lord Rosen?” Ill-concealed surprise shadowed the marquess’s moonlit features. “I thought you had an understanding with Mr. Pengrove.”
“An understanding of what?”
“Marriage.”
Oh, dear. Embarrassment and mortification fought for domination in Dorothea’s heart. How did he know about Arthur’s proposal? And why did he know only half the story, for clearly he believed she had accepted Arthur’s suit?
“Mr. Pengrove and I are merely friends. We have no plans to marry.”
She nearly laughed at Lord Atwood’s blank look of amazement and might have, if she had not been so stunned herself.
“Forgive my mistake,” he said, eyeing her with puzzlement. “Then you will gladly accept the title of Lady Rosen?”
“No.” Dorothea looked away, then sighed. “I must say, my lord, you appear to have far too keen an interest in my marital status.”
How To Seduce A Sinner Page 7
