Entangled with the Earl (Tangled Threads Book 1)

by Lisbette Tomas

  Her cheeks flushing, Teresa found herself unable to meet his gaze with that picture still in her head. It irritated her, that her physical reactions to him were so far out of her control, but at least that irritation made it easier to shove the mental picture aside. Raising her chin, she forced herself to look him in the eye again.

  “I thought you were going to arrive early for a chance to talk. I put together the list for you to dance with tonight, based on what you said yesterday evening, but some of them aren’t wallflowers.” She let some of her irritation show, too frustrated with his behavior and his effect on her to maintain a ladylike demeanor. “It’s probably too late now for some of them. Where were you?”

  Martin didn’t say anything for a moment, merely regarding her with a half-smile before dropping into an elegant bow. “I regret I was unavoidably detained. My valet was quite displeased to find out this afternoon that the ball was in fact a masquerade.”

  *

  It was a slight exaggeration to describe his valet as quite displeased, although the man had been more disgruntled than Martin would have expected. Something about masks and costumes and Martin had let him ramble on without paying the man much heed, aware that he offered very little opportunity for the man to show off his talents.

  Given the lack of warning, Martin had to admit he had done an admirable job. Nothing about Martin’s dress resembled the over-the-top costumes favored by some of his peers, which proved — once again — that his valet understood the limits of what Martin was willing to tolerate. Despite that, Martin had already received several compliments on his costume. Various guesses had included darkness and night, although he wasn’t sure when he would forgive James for saying he looked like a poet.

  Martin might be unsure what exactly his valet had had in mind for his costume, but he was not a poet. Words were a tool, useful for conducting business and communicating his intentions in as simple and clear a manner possible. Flowery prose and pretty compliments for the ladies were not his specialty, a fact which James knew well.

  That, rather than his valet, had been the reason for his delay in approaching Teresa. As instructed, he’d arrived early, intending to seek her out to give her the answers to the questions she’d given him to think on the night before. Hoping to escape the notice of the mothers watching the main entrance like hawks, he’d slipped down one of the hallways and in through one of the side arches. That entrance had been conveniently across the room and off to the side from where Teresa had chosen to stand near one of the open windows, giving him an excellent view of her as soon as he entered the ballroom.

  He had not been prepared for his body to react to the mere sight of her with a surge of desire. The delicate silver-white dress laced at her sides, pulling the fabric taut over her breasts and emphasizing the curve of her waist before falling straight from her hips to the ground. Shockingly forward, given the current fashion, and yet it drew attention to the curves that proclaimed her femininity.

  Surprised by his reaction, Martin had stepped back into the shadows, wanting to understand it. Understanding it was the first step to controlling it — and he hadn’t gotten to where he was by letting things get out from under his control. There had been that odd moment of connection when they first met but he had brushed that off as a reaction to the stress of his first entry into the marriage market, especially as it hadn’t happened when he had taken her for a drive in the park or sat next to her at the musicale. He’d found her physically attractive, but nothing of this magnitude.

  It was only when the sound of the strings began to filter through the sounds of the growing crowd that he had realized how long he’d been staring. Shaking himself, he’d moved so that he could come up behind her. Her response had been exactly what he had expected — and to be honest with himself, deserved.

  Teresa raised an eyebrow, apparently not mollified by his excuse. “We’ll need to work quickly if we’re going to get you on the right dance cards. I’m sure it’s already too late for Miss Emily Trent and Miss Grace Wield but Miss Honora Buford might still have a waltz available if you go now. She’s over there, the shepherdess in the light blue with the pink ribbons on her crock.”

  Martin looked in the direction she was gesturing and spotted the lady in question, black curls piled high with flowers tucked next to lacy ribbons that spilled down over one shoulder. The costume looked nothing like anything he’d ever seen on any of the women tending sheep near the estate. He suppressed a groan even as he allowed himself to be guided in her direction, one ear listening to the names Teresa was rattling off even as they moved through the crowd. Each costume seemed more outlandish than the last, with frills and ribbons and lace in every color imaginable.

  He could feel the eyes on the back of his neck even as he offered a bow to Miss Buford in her ridiculous shepherdess dress. She giggled and handed off the shepherdess crook to her mother as she took his outstretched hand and let him lead her onto the dance floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Teresa glide off, pausing to speak to one or two of the other wallflowers she had pointed out to him. Names from her list, he supposed, the ones whose cards were less likely to fill up.

  Another giggle from Honora. He resisted the urge to grind his teeth together. It’s going to be a long evening.

  Chapter 9

  The music swelled to a finale before the notes began to die away, marking the end of yet another dance. Martin bowed to his partner and then escorted her back to her mother, unsure if he should be grateful that Miss Emily Trent had made room on her dance card for him. Another candidate to cross off the list, he supposed. Only one or two names had remained on the list after the dance.

  He needed more champagne. None of the food passing by on trays carried by the serving men had caught his eye but the champagne — it was clear the Rossboroughs had been willing to pay for the good stuff. He ignored the quiet voice in the back of his head that pointed out he was already feeling the effects of several glasses he’d downed between dances. It made the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck fade to a manageable background sensation, something he desperately needed if he was going to make it through the rest of the night.

  It had done nothing to mute his awareness of Teresa: where she was, who she was dancing with, when she laughed or looked his way. James had taken her out for a waltz on the dance floor but he was far from the only partner she’d had tonight. Martin’s attention was clearly having an impact.

  Yet none of them deserved her. They couldn’t, if the only reason they noticed her was because some gentleman like himself brought her to their attention. And what is she doing for you with all the names on her list?

  That quiet voice again. Clearly more champagne was needed. He moved toward the refreshment table only to find himself drawn toward Teresa, standing to one side of it. She had danced with Mr. Payton for the last set, an honorable if rather dull country gentleman, and the gentleman appeared to be fetching her a glass of lemonade.

  Fool, to leave her for anyone to monopolize. He caught sight of Lord Radcliff working his way through the crowd, headed in her direction and couldn’t keep himself from stepping up beside her. Teresa turned to look at him, eyes wide behind her domino. He felt like he was drowning in the blue of them, the shades shifting and deep in the lamplight.

  “Dance with me.” The words were out of his mouth before he realized it and he wasn’t sure which one of them was more startled by his request.

  “Now?” Teresa blinked.

  “Why not? We have to dance together tonight or nobody will believe that I’m courting you. I can tell you what I’ve decided so far while we dance and you can tell me who I should take a second look at.” Logically, it made perfect sense.

  Too bad logic had had nothing to do with why he’d made the suggestion. Getting closer had only increased his physical awareness of her and it was taking more self-control than he would have expected to maintain the expected distance between them. If he couldn’t shake this, there was no way he co
uld concentrate on courting another woman.

  It had been years since he had felt anything even remotely like this, completely aware of one woman to the exclusion of all others. At least the last time she had been a Cyprian, even if the feeling hadn’t been nearly as strong. A few discreet words led to a glorious night before they parted amiably the next morning, the compulsion soothed with very few in the Society the wiser.

  He had no idea how to handle this feeling when the woman in question was a member of the ton, especially when it was far more intense than he’d ever felt before. A physical relationship was absolutely out of the question. Teresa might be a wallflower, but she was still a gently bred young lady.

  One dance. One dance together under the slightly-less-watchful eyes of the Society matrons would have to do. He knew from some of James’s comments that the rules were a little looser at the masquerades — chaperones a little slower to come looking for their charges, lights kept a little dimmer, extra bushes creating alcoves in the gardens.

  “I suppose.” Once again, he had the impression that she would have preferred to decline his invitation to dance but she must have caught sight of Lord Radcliff’s approach as well.

  Reaching out, Martin caught her hand in his. For a moment, he could have sworn he felt her shudder when their hands met. Nonsense.

  Teresa had made it clear during the carriage ride that she had few if any positive feelings toward him. Perhaps she’d thawed a little to him after his interruption of Lord Radcliff the night before, but he’d have to be blind to miss how tense she became every time he came close to her. A shame, really — their interactions so far had shown her to have an impressive wit and the spine to stand up to him. He could admire that in a woman, even if he wanted other qualities in a wife.

  Still, as he drew her closer for the waltz, it was impossible to miss how perfectly she fit in his arms. The top of her head came up to his chin and he caught the scent of the oak leaves from the wreath she wore in her hair.

  “Artemis seems an interesting choice for the masquerade, if you’re searching for a husband.”

  Teresa’s head tilted back, her eyes meeting his for the first time since the dance had begun. Out on the dance floor, the lighting was brighter and the silver and white of her mask made her eyes look gray now, instead of the blue they had been under the lamp light. “Close, my lord, but not quite right. I’m Diana, from the Roman pantheon.” She bit her lip. “Still, that’s the closest anyone’s come to guessing it.”

  “You must be joking.” He might understand if the ladies didn’t recognize a figure from mythology, but he knew very well that the majority of gentlemen in the ton would have studied the classics at some point.

  Her shrug was nearly imperceptible. “I don’t think my aunt even tried to guess and most of the other gentlemen have decided I’m a nymph, following the theme of the ball.”

  “I would have thought James had more sense than that, at least.”

  “James? Oh, Lord Burrows.” Teresa looked confused for a moment before understanding dawned. “He didn’t mention my costume at all. We talked about …other things.” Her voice trailed off.

  About him? He wondered what she would have asked James — and what James would have said in reply. A pause stretched between them until it grew uncomfortable. He found himself searching for something to say to fill the silence. Anything. “Maybe everyone thinks you’re Artemis and no one expects a woman hunting for a husband to dress as a goddess famed for her desire to remain unmarried. So they’re all insisting to each other that they couldn’t possibly be right.”

  Teresa’s lips curved upward in a slight smile. “I suppose that’s one possibility. It seems rather far-fetched, though.”

  He had to agree with her.

  “Why Diana then?” That she had opted from something different from the other debutantes he’d seen fit what he knew of her, but her choice had still surprised him.

  “When I was younger, my mother would sometimes tell me stories about Diana and her love for Endymion. I thought it was one of the most romantic stories.”

  Martin frowned. “I thought Selene was Endymion’s lover.”

  “In Greek mythology, yes. That’s what the books all said. But in the stories my mother told me, it was Diana. So tonight, I’m Diana, searching for her Endymion.”

  He thought back to the mythology he’d studied in his youth, trying to remember the story of Selene and Endymion, as well as the characteristics that had defined the goddess of the hunt. A sweet romance. Chaste. Independent. Nothing of passion or the physical need bordering on compulsion he was feeling right now.

  Exactly as was considered proper in a lady of gentle breeding.

  And yet it didn’t fit. Her manners and reactions felt like a costume she had put on for the masquerade, like the dress or the wreath in her hair. She wore them well, just like the physical costume, and he wasn’t sure if she even realized she was doing so. But they weren’t real and he could almost sense the passion under the mask, calling to him.

  The right thing to do — what honor demanded he do — would be to leave it be and turn the conversation back to the partners he should seek out for the next dance. His role, per their agreement, was merely to pretend interest in her in order to elevate her in the eyes of Society and hopefully produce suitors more to her taste.

  His hand dropped a little lower on her waist, his fingers gliding over the curve of her hip. Her eyes flew up to meet his, her gasp barely audible over the sound of the waltz.

  “Haven’t you ever wondered what she missed?”

  *

  All Teresa could hear was her heart pounding in her ears, drowning out the sound of the orchestra. She swallowed, trying to steady her nerves even as it felt like every inch of her skin was aching for his touch. “What… what do you mean?”

  Her voice sounded breathy even to her and she cursed herself for letting that weakness show. There was little chance Martin had missed it, not with how his eyes flashed green behind his mask.

  “Diana never allowed a man to touch her, to dance with her.” His gaze held hers, the fire in his eyes pinning her even as they continued to move in sync across the dance floor. “Never knew anything of the physical side of the relationship between a man and a woman.”

  The words were scandalous and propriety dictated that Teresa should draw back — but they felt like a challenge, and she had never been good at backing down from a challenge. “And you think she missed something for that?”

  “Don’t you?” His voice was low, their bodies close enough that she could feel its rumble through her arms. Just being this close to him was distracting and she was torn between the desire to give in and simply enjoy the dance and to run before she lost her head.

  “As much as I enjoy dancing, my lord, I don’t know if I would have felt like my life was missing something if I never danced with a man.” For that matter, she could make the argument that her life might have been better if she’d never come to London for a Season.

  “You’ve never danced with a gentleman and found yourself thinking about his touch later?” His voice sounded impossibly lower, feeling like a long stroke down her body towards the low heat building between her legs.

  “Never.” She tried to sound firm and confident. This — all of this she was feeling right now — it was all just nerves. She was nervous about their charade — whether it would work, whether she would be able to find a candidate that suited him, whether he would expose her forward behavior to the ton and condemn her to a marriage of her aunt’s choosing.

  She absolutely was not attracted to him.

  “Pity.” They turned abruptly on the dance floor, his steps leading them through the open doors leading out to the terrace. The air outside was cooler, a caress against her overheated skin. Light spilled out through the windows and open doors and pooled around the blue paper lanterns hung at intervals along the low wall separating the terrace from the garden, isolated islands of light amid the darkness.
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  They were hardly the only pair to step outside; the ballroom had warmed up considerably and space on the dance floor was getting harder and harder to find. The music, although softer, was still loud enough to dance to and despite the other couples nearby, it was easier to feel like the rest of the ton was somewhere else.

  “I find it unlikely that you’ll have a happy marriage with any gentleman of the ton in that case. At least, any that you’ve met so far.” His words, pitched for her ears alone, hit like blows. Teresa could have sworn the darkness was suddenly tinged red and it took all of her self-control to keep her voice steady and low, unwilling to draw attention to them.

  “You have no way of knowing that, my lord, unless you boast some heretofore unknown talent as a fortuneteller.”

  “No?” He tugged her even closer to him. “Even if your only goal is compatibility, surely you aren’t naive enough to believe that a man who is willing to commit to a lifetime with you would do so without the slightest physical connection between you. Not while believing the relationship had any chance of being happy.”

  “If he were a gentleman, my lord,” she emphasized his title, her voice dripping with frost, “he might believe any physical connection between us deserves the sanctity of marriage.”

  Martin’s answering laugh held nothing of humor. “Or maybe he’s counting on your ignorance to allow him to keep a mistress on the side, like most Society gentlemen do. I’m sure your father had one.”

  For a moment, Teresa struggled with the urge to slap him for his presumption. She wasn’t ignorant of what went on in Society, not by a long shot but she knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that it was possible for a gentleman to offer fidelity. Her father would have died before he’d looked at another woman.