Ellen stiffened. How many Lord Kenworth’s could there be? And she knew enough now to know that a “most eligible” man meant he carried a significant title. Perhaps there was another Lord Kenworth. But if it was her Lord Kenworth, the good news was that she hadn’t kissed a married man.
“He has a younger brother too,” Mrs. Livingstone added, “but that doesn’t signify as far as I’m concerned.”
Aunt Prudence laughed. “You are too picky, my dear. A younger, and only, brother of a marquess is still a significant catch in my opinion. I would be happy if my niece gained the attention of the second son of any titled man. There is always a chance that the second son will inherit. And even if he doesn’t, he will have a good income to take care of a wife and children.”
Ellen couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She knew that Lord Kenworth had a younger brother. What were the chances that they were speaking of the same man? If they were, then that meant Lord Kenworth was a marquess.
“I am going to fetch a glass of punch,” Ellen told her aunt. Her throat was so dry she wasn’t sure if she could swallow.
“Oh no, dear,” her aunt said, patting her hand. “Let’s wait until the end of this dance. Surely a young gentleman will fetch you a glass.”
Ellen tried not to let her disappointment show. There was always a protocol to everything. A young lady couldn’t even fetch a drink on her own. She kept her shoulders straight so that no one would sense her inner turmoil, yet she allowed herself to look toward the refreshment table. But before she caught a glimpse of the refreshment table, her gaze connected with that of a man standing only a few yards away.
The man was dressed formally, all his tailored clothing of the latest fashion was perfectly neat and pressed and his cravat expertly tied. His hair wasn’t windblown as it had been when she’d first met him. He was holding a drink while he stood with another man who was dressed like one of those flamboyant dandies who seemed to appear at every social event. The dandy was talking, but . . . Lord Kenworth was looking right at her, a stunned expression on his face.
“Oh, mercy me,” Ellen said.
“What was that, dear?” her aunt asked.
“Nothing,” Ellen quickly corrected, turning her gaze back to the dancers. She could not let her aunt know that she’d just seen the one man whom she’d hoped to never come across. Although if she hadn’t returned to speaking with Mrs. Livingstone, surely Aunt Prudence would have noticed Ellen’s flaming blush.
He was here. Lord Kenworth was here. Here. In this room. Only steps away.
And, he had seen her.
Sweet heavens.
How long did Ellen have to wait before she could complain of a headache? One more dance?
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Livingstone said, her voice falling to a loud whisper. “Lord Kenworth is here with his friend, some sort of a French count.”
“Where?” Aunt Prudence asked.
No, no, no. Ellen wanted to close her eyes and block out every sight and every sound.
“Don’t look all at once,” Mrs. Livingstone said in a conspiratorial voice. “He’s standing at the end of the row of couches, and what a fine figure he makes. As soon as the quadrille is over, I will fetch my husband and have him introduce us. I should like it if he’d ask one of my daughters to dance.” She sighed. “Too bad they are both spoken for the next few dances.”
“Ellen isn’t spoken for,” Aunt Prudence said. “But I cannot prevail upon someone with the title of a marquess, especially if your daughters are already enamored of him.”
“You are such a faithful friend,” Mrs. Livingstone said. “I think every marriageable young woman in the room is enamored of this particular marquess.”
The women laughed quietly together, and out of the corner of her eye, Ellen saw her aunt look over in Lord Kenworth’s direction.
“Well, I declare, he is a fine man,” Aunt Prudence said. “I’m not too interested in his friend, the count, though. What about Lord Kenworth’s brother? Is he here?”
Mrs. Livingstone looked about for a moment. “As soon as I spot Lord Robert, I will point him out.”
Perhaps Ellen could swoon and faint dead away. What was the worst that could happen? The women would gather and fuss around her, then her aunt would send for their carriage. But could Ellen ruin the evening for her aunt? And what if heaven really was smiling down upon them and Ellen was asked by a perfectly nice gentleman to dance, one who wouldn’t be opposed to marrying a country gentleman’s daughter with a modest dowry?
She would just have to pretend that Lord Kenworth wasn’t in the room. After all, he had seen her, and he hadn’t come to speak to her. One part of her argued that it was because he didn’t know the women she sat with and therefore couldn’t make his own introductions. The other part of her knew it was because he was as equally surprised to see her and he’d determined to act as if they’d never met at all.
If that was his plan, then it would be her plan as well. And she would be satisfied with it.
“Oh my goodness,” Mrs. Livingstone said, in a not-so-quiet voice. “My husband is bringing over Lord Kenworth and the French count. The dance is not over yet, though. Oh, where are those girls of mine? Can you see them in the crush out there on the floor? Perhaps we can alert them to leave their partners immediately.”
If bees could talk, they would sound like Mrs. Livingstone, Ellen decided. If it was true that Mr. Livingstone was coming over to his wife in the company of Lord Kenworth, then Ellen had to think of a plan—and quickly. Something that her aunt wouldn’t fully question.
“I am so hot,” Ellen said, turning to her aunt. “Might I go onto the terrace for a few moments?”
Her aunt’s gaze connected with Ellen’s as if she were about to answer, but then Aunt Prudence looked past Ellen. Aunt Prudence’s mouth opened slightly as she raised her eyes higher and higher.
Oh no.
“Mr. Livingstone, I thought you were at the tables,” Mrs. Livingstone said in a rather loud voice.
It was as if she wanted everyone in the ballroom to know that her husband was keeping company with a certain person.
“Hello, my dear,” Mr. Livingstone said, his voice filled with pride.
Ellen could not bring herself to raise her eyes, although she could very well see that there were three men standing in front of the couch she was sharing with her aunt and Mrs. Livingstone. She already knew that the middle pair of legs belonged to Lord Kenworth. She had observed enough of his clothing ensemble before hurriedly looking away.
Was it rude to stare at a man’s knees . . . or thighs?
Heavens. Ellen’s face was heating up faster than a wild brush fire. Why had she not fled when she’d had a chance? The moment she saw Lord Kenworth in the room, she should have immediately left and dealt with any questions later.
“It’s so lovely to meet you, Lord Kenworth, and Mr. Carl,” Mrs. Livingstone pronounced. “This is my dearest friend, Mrs. Prudence Humphreys Fellows, and her niece, Miss Ellen Humphreys.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Aunt Prudence said just as the music to the quadrille came to an end and the buzz of conversation escalated in the room. “My niece is from Harpshire, and I am chaperoning her this Season.”
Ellen could not completely ignore the men—it would be unforgivably rude of her. She chanced the barest glance at Lord Kenworth, then settled her gaze on the French count. Without the frills and bright colors, he’d be a rather decent-looking man. No one compared to Lord Kenworth, of course. But he was an enigma—unattainable, above her in rank, fortune, and stature.
And . . . she could feel his gaze upon her, even as she kept her focus on the count.
“Are you engaged for the next dance?” Lord Kenworth asked.
Aunt Prudence uttered the smallest of gasps. Certainly he wasn’t asking Aunt Prudence, or even Mrs. Livingstone. Which meant . . .
Ellen slid her gaze over to Lord Kenworth. His eyes seemed to gleam black as the night sky in t
his ballroom full of candlelight.
It seemed all conversation had hushed, and everyone was waiting for her answer.
Ellen swallowed, then swallowed again. Finally, her breathless answer came. “I’d be honored, Lord Kenworth.”
One side of his mouth lifted into a smile as he extended his hand. She stared at the gloved hand until her aunt nudged her. Then, Ellen lifted her own hand and placed it in his. She rose to her feet with only the slightest support from him. She hadn’t really needed his help; he was just being a gentleman. But her legs felt half-asleep as she stood and faced him.
“Shall we?” He nodded toward the dance floor where couples were starting to assemble, waiting for the next dance to begin.
She opened her mouth to say yes, but all she managed to do was nod. Lord Kenworth was taller than she remembered. More elegant. More handsome. More everything. And he smelled divine.
He continued to lead her by the hand to the middle of the dance floor. Shouldn’t she take his arm? Were they attracting attention because he was being unconventional? Ellen couldn’t ignore the stares that followed them and the heads that were turning as they passed by one person after another.
Finally, Lord Kenworth stopped just as the first strains of music started up from the orchestra. He looked down at her, his eyes studying her face as if he were trying to memorize it. “Do you remember how to dance the waltz, Miss Humphreys?”
Chapter Twelve
Quinn had thought seeing Miss Humphreys again would derail his obsessive thoughts, ground him back to reality, and make him realize she was just a woman from the country who happened to dance in a meadow and hum to herself. But from the moment he spied her sitting on that couch surrounded by Society matrons, he had one urge, and that was to rescue her and take her somewhere away from the prying eyes and wagging tongues of the ton.
But he was a marquess, an esteemed member of the elite, and he had to follow protocol. To do otherwise would disgrace his mother and ruin Miss Humphreys.
Seeking out Mr. Livingstone hadn’t been a great chore, and fortunately Carmel hadn’t asked too many probing questions. That was probably because he’d seen how Quinn’s attention had shifted the moment he’d seen Miss Humphreys. With the formalities of an introduction over, Quinn had thought he could then walk away. But the more he tried to catch her gaze, and the more she avoided looking at him, the more he wanted to speak to her.
And what better way than to ask her to dance—the waltz. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and now that he held her in his arms again, he wondered how he’d ever thought he could forget her. The music filled the room, drowning out the conversations around them, and with one hand on her waist and his other hand holding hers, he began to lead her in the steps.
It wasn’t the same thing as the meadow beneath the sun, but her arms were the same, her eyes were the same, and he could swear he smelled sunshine and wildflowers. She moved easily, even confidently, in his arms. She’d been practicing, that was clear. Or perhaps the floor was just free of grass and dirt and pebbles.
“I must apologize,” she said, blinking those pale-green eyes of hers as if she were trying to hold back tears.
Blast. “Apologize?”
“For . . .” She paused and looked about them as if she were worried about being overheard. “I must apologize for my untoward behavior. I did not act the part of a lady when I . . . when we . . . I don’t know what I was thinking—or not thinking—but I am deeply sorry for my actions. I did not think you’d even acknowledge my existence after such a display—”
“Miss Humphreys,” Quinn cut in. “Please do not be troubled over the events in the meadow. I understand that everything about it was . . . unusual. Unexpected. I do not hold any ill feelings on the matter or toward you.”
“Truly?” she asked, the light coming back into her troubled eyes.
“Truly.” He wanted to say more. He wanted to tell her he wouldn’t mind kissing her again, although he didn’t want her to run away this time. But he must determine if his apparent infatuation with this woman was something of substance. For if it was, the battle with his mother would be fierce, and he’d have to be prepared to deal with whatever consequences followed.
“You’ve become proficient at the waltz,” he said, hoping to steer the conversation before he got it into his head that taking her out onto the terrace and maybe going for a stroll in the gardens beyond would be a good idea.
“My dancing has much improved.” Her tone was steady now.
And as sweet as he remembered it. His diary entries hadn’t been able to do the sound of her voice justice.
He wondered if she might smile at him if they weren’t in such a crowd. He would see what he could do to coax one from her. “Have you found a partner to replace me?”
“No,” she said, and a blush stole upon her cheeks.
Quinn had the sudden urge to lean closer and kiss her cheek, but he focused on their rhythmic steps: one, two, three.
“I’ve had quite a bit of time to myself to practice what you taught me,” Miss Humphreys said.
“I can see you’ve been practicing.” He tried to keep the teasing tone out of his voice. She was breathing rather fast, and they had only been dancing but a few moments. He didn’t want to scare her off for any reason. “Did you have someone play music for you, or did you hum your own song?”
This brought the anticipated smile.
Quinn’s heart fluttered like a blasted butterfly.
“I hummed,” she said, the edges of her mouth still turned upward. “But I counted the steps out so that I could keep in rhythm.”
“Ah, counting always helps,” he said.
She laughed. Paradise couldn’t have sounded any better.
“How is your mother’s health?” she asked him.
He shouldn’t have been surprised that she asked, as unfettered as she was.
“My mother . . . How should I explain?” he began. “She does much better when her two sons are at her beck and call.”
She looked down, her expression contemplative. He expected her to laugh or maybe return a light quip. Instead, when she met his gaze again, she said, “I think our mothers are a lot alike. I am not in London with my mother’s blessing.”
Interesting, Quinn thought. And enlightening. It would explain why she’d never been to a dance before, until recently. “Have you been in London long?” he asked, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the personal turn in the conversation. It wasn’t that she was untrustworthy; it was that the more personal they became, the harder it would be to make an objective decision about what was going on between them.
“Eight days,” she said, her eyes brightening.
This lightened Quinn’s heart, which made him wonder when his emotions became so tied with hers.
“It’s all been amazing,” she said. “I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing half the time, and my feet hurt all of the time, but . . .” She looked down at her white-and-silver gown. “These clothes are divine.”
Quinn couldn’t help but follow her gaze. She was divine. The clothing had little to do with that, and at this thought, he knew his face was turning red. He’d let his gaze stray for too long. He had to think fast in order to redirect his thoughts about the clothing she was wearing. “What has been your favorite part of London?”
Again, she didn’t give him a flippant reply. Something he was quickly learning to love, er, like, about her.
“Before coming, I had thought of only the parties, social events, museums, parks, the clothing and hats . . .” She seemed to hesitate, then gather courage once again. “My favorite part about London is spending time with an aunt whom I’ve learned to appreciate. Even though she can be quite opinionated and domineering, she truly wants the best for me, and she will fight for me to have it.”
“Your aunt sounds like a determined woman,” Quinn said.
Her laughter was light, perfect. They danced a few more steps, then she said, “You know, Lord Kenworth, you were wro
ng about something.”
“Oh?” he asked, enjoying the amusement in her eyes. “What was I wrong about?”
She released the barest of sighs. “Balls really are magical.”
Quinn smiled. “Ah, that. I think this ball might be the exception.”
The music had come to an end, and Quinn hadn’t realized they were still waltzing while other couples were beginning to mingle and even leave the dance floor.
Reluctantly, Quinn released Miss Humphreys. He couldn’t let the conversation end here. He wanted her to explain what she meant by magical. He wanted to know why her eyes held depths that he was just beginning to understand. He wanted to know why just before he released her, her hands had been trembling.
He took a step back and gave a small bow, sure that others were watching and would notice if something were amiss or if he were too forward.
Miss Humphreys flashed him the smallest of smiles, but he didn’t like what he saw in her eyes—sadness. What was going through her mind? What did she think about him?
“Thank you for the dance, Lord Kenworth,” she said as he escorted her off the dance floor.
Her aunt and other acquaintances watched them as they approached, and Quinn knew that his time with Miss Humphreys was over for now. He didn’t know when, or if, he’d be able to find out where the deep sadness had come from that he’d caught a glimpse of.
“Hello, Quinn,” a man said before Quinn had delivered Miss Humphreys to her aunt.
Quinn turned to see Robert. His broad smile and curious gaze told Quinn one thing. Laws. His brother wanted an introduction. So Quinn introduced the two, and before he knew what was happening, Robert had asked Miss Humphreys to dance the next set. She agreed, of course.
Moments later, Quinn found himself standing, arms folded, as he watched his brother dancing with the only captivating woman in the room, or in London, for that matter. Quinn knew he was scowling, but he couldn’t help it. Robert was making her laugh. He was also talking a lot, probably about Quinn, if the many glances turned his way were any indication.
A Night in Grosvenor Square Page 22
