by Erica Ridley
This corner was too close to the orchestra to hear oneself think, too far from the food and drink to engender even idle conversation. The icy draft from a second-floor balcony kept away anyone whose blood was still circulating, and the wax spitting from the last taper in the chandelier overhead marked this square yard as uninhabitable.
She crossed her goose-pimpled arms over her ruched bodice, mindless of the thick moulding digging into the small of her back or the clumps of wax sticking to her silk slippers. Her gaze darted about the ballroom. Elegant couples began a lively country-dance. Grace hugged herself tighter. She had never felt less like dancing.
Not that she’d been asked.
Her teeth clenched. She hadn’t any idea how to accomplish any of her goals. Without her grandparents’ money, she couldn’t return to her homeland. Without a husband, she couldn’t get her grandparents’ money. Without a noble birth and a British accent, she couldn’t attract a man interested in something other than her dowry or her virginity. She ground her teeth.
Back home in Pennsylvania, she’d had friends of both sexes, who loved her for herself and not for something they might take from her. Back home in Pennsylvania, they would’ve had a right belly laugh to see Gracie Halton trussed up in finery and mincing about a suffocating ballroom. Back home in Pennsylvania, her mother— her mother—
Grace’s breath caught and her eyes blurred. Oh, who knew what was going on back home in Pennsylvania? She’d written her mother and her neighbors every day since she’d stepped off the boat, and had yet to receive a single word of response.
Fear gripped her. Was her mother still in the threadbare bed Grace had last seen her in? Was she even still alive? Was there still time? Or had Grace flung herself headlong into a fool’s mission that only ensured she would not be present in her mother’s last hours, when she needed her daughter most?
Blindly, Grace pushed away from the velvet-lined wall…
Right into the path of a giant as tall and as hard as an oak.
A firm hand caught her about the waist as strong fingers captured her wrists. She blinked the sting of unshed tears from her eyes to find herself entangled not with an oak, but with a man possessed of dark brown hair and dangerous golden brown eyes. A wry smile curved his lips as the orchestra began the opening strains of a waltz.
The hot muscles beneath her palms were hard and firm—no need for a tailor’s touch to improve this sculpted body. He was impossibly tall and uncomfortably close. But unlike the other trussed turkeys sweltering inside the breezeless room, his clothes didn’t reek of day-old perfume. His eyes weren’t bloodshot or blasé, but rather clear and warm and drinking her in as if he were two seconds away from yanking her close enough to claim her mouth. Her heart thundered.
Everything about him was raw heat and restrained power. The exact opposite of what she was looking for. If a man like this took a wife, he would never let her slip away.
She forced her starving lungs to breathe. She was making a cake of herself. She’d almost mown down this exquisite hulk of a man, like the unsophisticated American they all believed her to be. He was simply protecting the herd by putting himself in the path of the rampaging bull.
Heat flooded her cheeks as she broke eye contact. She’d never felt so foolish and uncultured in her life.
Her breath hitched, but she forced herself to meet his eyes again. Someone this gorgeous definitely had somewhere better to be. She tugged at her wrists, signaling he was free to go. Only a fool would try to keep him.
He dropped one of his hands, but did not immediately hurry away, as she had anticipated. He seemed even larger than before.
His free hand tightened at her waist. “Shall we dance?”
Just like that, her legs could barely hold her steady. She tilted into his touch, conscious that he must be able to feel her body tremble beneath his fingers. Why would he wish to dance with her? He was too young to be a roué, too gentlemanly to be a rake, too well-heeled to be desperate for money, too smolderingly attractive to be in want of female companionship.
But it couldn’t hurt to make certain.
She straightened her spine and forced her mind back on her mission. She needed a husband with money. “Are your pockets to let?”
He blinked at her in confusion. “What? No!”
“Are you in the market for a wife?”
“Hell no!” His sculpted cheekbones flushed a subtle pink as he belatedly recalled he was speaking to a lady. “That is to say, at some point, it is my duty to take a wife.”
“Close enough.” Grace slid her wrist from his fingers and placed her hand in his. “This dance is yours.”
Chapter 3
It wasn’t until the dark-haired vixen was already in his arms that Oliver realized just how badly he’d bollocksed the rescue mission. He’d swept the incomparable wallflower into a waltz before all and sundry, and he didn’t even know her name. His shoulders tensed. He certainly put the err in knight errant.
Perhaps in America, Yankees could twirl comely strangers about a ballroom, but here in England, proper decorum dictated that gentlemen not even address an unknown maiden until they had been properly introduced, lest he publicly embarrass them both.
Yet it was already done. The slender fingers of her right hand nestled in his left, and his right palm was pressed flush against the delicate silk covering her equally delicate back. Her lips were even more tempting now that they were close enough to taste. She smelled like honey and jasmine. He tried not to notice.
“What’s your name?” he whispered urgently. Soft black eyelashes framed captivatingly green eyes. He couldn’t look away.
She lifted a brow. “What do the others call me?”
The arch look on her face indicated she already knew the answer. He grimaced. Certainly she could not expect him to repeat the horrible appellation aloud.
She stared back at him without blinking. The seconds ticked closer to minutes.
“Macaroni,” he admitted.
“That’ll be Miss Macaroni to you.” Her eyes laughed up at him.
He pulled her a little closer. And realized that, whether she laughed or not, hearing those words on someone’s lips had to hurt. His mouth tightened. He would not contribute to such rumors.
“We must pretend to already know each other,” he explained as they twirled in time with the music.
She frowned. “Why?”
He blinked. What did she mean, why? They were waltzing together without even having been presented. “For your reputation, of course.”
“My reputation is a piece of pasta. What more could you need to know?”
“Smith? Jones?” he pled desperately. Did she not understand the peril to young ladies who broke proscribed rules? “Certainly you have some other name, unrelated to foodstuffs.”
Her lips curved. “Since you’re the first to inquire, I’ll let you in on the secret. I am Miss Halton.”
He smiled back at her. Miss Halton. He liked how it sounded on her lips. Her accent made it all the more mysterious.
Before he could share his own name, her eyes narrowed. “Why are you dancing with me?”
The practiced words floated from his lips without thinking. “Who wouldn’t wish to dance with a young lady as beautiful as you?”
“Everyone,” she answered flatly. “This is the first I’ve been asked since arriving in England.” She lifted her lips closer to his ear. “The stink of trade keeps the smarter suitors away.”
He choked behind the pointed edges of his cravat. “Who would say such a thing to you?”
She raised her brows. “Nobody. Absolutely no one speaks to me. I’m left to assume the stink of trade is self-evident.”
He caught himself lowering his face closer to the shining black curls piled atop her head. Quickly, he straightened his spine afore any onlookers might notice the gaffe.
She noticed, of course. Her light green eyes twinkled.
“You smell of jasmine,” he said, after clearing his thro
at. “It’s quite a lovely scent.”
“It’s bath soap. I’ll have to write a note of appreciation to the manufacturer.”
So would he. He took another sniff. His pulse raced as he fought the urge to twirl her right out of the ballroom. Either the scent or the woman—or likely a combination of both—had infiltrated his brain with images he really ought not to be having about Miss Halton in nothing but warm water and a few jasmine-scented bubbles. His throat convulsed.
He needed to steer this conversation back to safety. Such as completing the bloody introductions. Unless she hadn’t asked because his title had already preceded him?
“If you didn’t know,” he said, “I am the Earl of Carlisle.”
“I…did…not,” she replied. “How splendid for you.”
“Is it? I much preferred being Mr. Oliver York,” he found himself admitting. He nearly stumbled as his words sank in. Why on earth would he say something that heretical to a total stranger, when he wouldn’t confess it to his best friends?
Perhaps because Miss Halton was a total stranger, he realized. An ostracized American who not only held little interest in English propriety, but also had an utter lack of ears to gossip to, should the inclination ever cross her mind.
“I should have preferred that as well,” she said, much to his surprise. “Pity.”
He blinked in shock. She might not care about British nobility, but there was nothing abhorrent about being an earl, for shite’s sake. Before he could reply, her rosebud lips were once again parting.
“It could be worse. At least you’re not out hunting dowries.”
“How gratifying you’ve found something to recommend me,” he said between closed teeth. Why was she even here, if she held such disdain for his compatriots?
“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend you.”
He stared at her twinkling eyes for a second and then found himself biting back a grin. Had she really just set him in his place? The corners of his mouth twitched. He seemed far more in need of rescuing than the sharp-tongued Miss Halton. Being titled certainly hadn’t impressed her. For someone cast into the lot of social pariah for nothing more than an accident of geography, she seemed to delight in acting the role of termagant.
He was appalled to find it a bit… refreshing.
After escaping the dark cloud around his usual companions, it was a relief to converse with a disinterested third party. Someone who didn’t want something he could never give. Someone who had never seen the ravages of war. Someone with whom he did not share a past.
Someone with knowing eyes and pouting lips and a slender waist.
He forced himself to loosen his grip. “What shall we say when people ask us how we met? It needs to be something respectable. And believable.”
“There’s nothing more believable than the truth. We’ll simply say I was strolling about, minding my own business, when you appeared out of nowhere and dragged me bodily to the dance floor.”
He nodded once. “I’ve a better idea. Let’s make up something completely untruthful.”
The corners of her mouth twitched. “Aha. We’ll say I was in my nightrail, brushing my hair in peaceful solitude, when you climbed up to my balcony and—”
“Do you even have a balcony?”
She sniffed. “You’re not invited upon it, regardless.”
He gave her a slow, naughty smile. “No one’s ever invited to scale a balcony.”
“Some women might be convinced to let you try.” Her teasing gaze heated his skin.
“Let’s start over,” he suggested, rather than consider what the fictional Oliver might do after climbing up her balcony. Answer: everything.
“Why?” Her lips quirked. “Are we not having fun?”
“We’re having far too much fun.”
“These parties are supposed to be boring?” She lifted an eyebrow.
He gave her a stern nod, well aware his eyes betrayed his humor. “Precisely. You’re meant to remark upon the weather, and I upon… the tea cakes…”
“Good heavens, that is boring,” she replied with mock horror. “How does anyone find a match with conversations as dull as those? I should think marriage requires an understanding built upon something more substantial than weather and tea cakes.”
He frowned. “I thought you weren’t looking for marriage.”
She lifted her chin. “We established you were not.”
His fingers tightened possessively. He tried to relax them. She was free to do as she pleased. “So you are on the hunt?”
“It’s complicated,” she admitted. “And, as you may have noticed, not going very well.”
He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think everyone has noticed.”
He smiled at the eye roll she did not quite manage to hide. He did not smile at the twist to his stomach upon the news she was on the hunt for a husband.
Not that he was available, he reminded himself. Good lord. What should have been an unremarkable waltz was becoming much more dangerous than he could have dreamed.
He put a bit more distance between them. Tried to, anyway. “Do you dance often in America?”
“Never.”
“Then how did you learn to waltz?”
“My grandparents hired a tutor when I arrived in London.”
Grandparents! His lungs expanded with pleasure. He should not feel so victorious at having teased another personal detail from that rosy mouth but, well, there it was. Although, come to think of it, he hadn’t learned much. If there was no dancing in America, why would her grandparents have hired an instructor? And if her grandparents were British, what had she been doing in America? “Where do—”
“York!” came a familiar voice at Oliver’s back as the last strains of the waltz faded away. “Introduce me to your friend.”
The owner of the deep voice had to know that Miss Halton had not yet made any friends. Oliver turned to flash a cold smile at the Duke of Ravenwood. He was not a friend either. Not anymore. The war had changed them both for different reasons, and neither of them much liked who the other had become.
“It’s Carlisle now,” Oliver corrected, his voice low and dangerous.
Ravenwood flinched, as if the slight had been accidental rather than premeditated. “That’s right. I was very sorry to hear the news. The two of you weren’t close, but… A father is a father.”
Oliver glared at him in silence. Anything said now would be disastrous to them both.
Ravenwood turned his gaze toward the siren Oliver still hadn’t relinquished. “Does this delightful young lady have a name?”
Oliver released Miss Halton’s hand. Their moment was clearly over. “Miss Halton, this is His Grace, the Duke of Ravenwood. Ravenwood, this is Miss Halton, of America.”
Ravenwood lifted Miss Halton’s gloved hand to his parted lips. “The honor—and utter delight—are most assuredly mine, my dear lady. May I have the pleasure of your company during the next set?”
Oliver kept his hands at his sides. The giant stick up Ravenwood’s arse would keep him from putting Miss Halton’s honor in any danger. And it was time to slip back into the library and check on Xavier. Perhaps he would finally come around.
Miss Halton, for her part, was gazing at Ravenwood, her eyes filled with suspicion, not seduction. Very wise. She’d gone from no dances at all, to being on the arm of both an earl and a duke in quick succession.
The gaggle of nervous young bucks lining up behind them for a chance to add their names to her dance card? Also Oliver’s fault. When he’d sought to save Miss Halton’s precarious reputation from the evil of wagging tongues, he’d acted as Oliver York, rescuer of people who wished he’d leave them alone. In the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten that he was now the Earl of Carlisle, as well as a decorated war hero whom these dandified imbeciles had been emulating from the moment Oliver strode back ashore.
Having won both Ravenwood’s and Oliver’s attentions, Miss Halton would no longer be in want of dance partners.
Oliver’s smile froze as he flashed Miss Halton a warning look. He knew they should’ve got their stories straight when they’d had the chance.
She blinked up at Ravenwood innocently. “Didn’t he tell you? We’ve known each other a shocking length of time. If you can credit it, Lord Carlisle is even the first man I ever danced with.”
Ravenwood shot a surprised glance at Oliver, who was struggling not to smile at Miss Halton’s clever response. Every word was true, yet gave the impression they’d known each other for ages. Which, given that he and Ravenwood had known each other all their lives, would mean Oliver had been keeping her a secret for decades. Splendid idea, that. He wished she were his secret. He found himself quite disinclined to share.
He grinned at Miss Halton until the butterflies in his stomach churned into nausea. He was sinking fast. With a gallant bow, he broke free of her web and forced himself to walk away from those enchanting green eyes. Far, far away.
He could not dare risk his heart.
Chapter 4
The next morning, after giving up on deciphering the incoherent handwriting in his father’s innumerable estate journals, Oliver tied his horses on Threadneedle Street for a meeting with his father’s banker. He had returned home in mid-December but hadn’t been able to secure an appointment until after Christmastide. It was just as well, he supposed. He’d needed those few weeks to adjust to the loss of his father and the disorientation of being back in England after three long years at war.
He’d missed the probate proceedings altogether, and his father’s solicitors—whomever they might be—had disappeared before Oliver returned home. He was wholly alone.
When he’d been cleaning weapons or charging across battlefields, he’d dreamed of the idle carelessness of his old life. Boxing matches at Gentleman Jackson’s. Quick afternoon visits to Tattersalls to bid on the latest horseflesh. Lazy evenings at the pleasure gardens or in bed with his mistress.
