by Carrie Lomax
“Admiral Saxon,” he read aloud. “That was for the quadrille at the beginning of the evening.”
“Gran claims he’s a charming man,” Viola commented with a hint of a smile flickering at the corners of her lips.
“Provided you have nothing to say. He’s deaf as a post.”
“Well, I was focused on the music,” Viola responded. “As much as I enjoy it, dancing is a recently acquired skill for me. I can hardly afford to be selective about partners if I wish to take a twirl.”
Mrs. Cartwright often appeared to be the only woman in London who appreciated society gatherings. From the moment he first spotted her and her wary sister at the edge of the Woolrytes’ ballroom last September, he’d been drawn to her like a magnet to iron.
“A wise woman once wrote, ‘every savage can dance.’” Where had that acerbic comment sprung from?
Viola’s startled gaze cut to him. “Jane Austen. The ever-disapproving Mr. Darcy. I suppose he has the right of it. What I lack in delicacy, I make up for with enthusiasm.”
He’d not intended to insult her. Rather, the boorish admiral had been his target. No wonder London ton called Piers caustic and brooding—or worse.
“Dalton,” a rough male voice behind him boomed with less-than-convincing joviality. Evendaw’s irritation made Piers’ back stiffen as if he’d been struck. The marquess—who had been only an earl at the time—used that tone when they were at school together. Though his ability to make Piers feel lower than a worm in the loam had diminished, the echo of his scorn pulled an invisible string of reaction in his body. Mrs. Cartwright’s light blue gaze rested on him, questioning, before flitting away like a butterfly briefly resting on a flower, then gone.
“My sister has an open spot on her dance card,” Evendaw declared as he clapped a large paw on Piers’ shoulder. “If you are free.”
“I have no claim upon him,” Mrs. Cartwright volunteered before Piers could hide behind her velvet skirts.
Piers speared her a narrow glare, but she simply lifted her chin in challenge. He’d rather stay here and fence with words. Better yet, they could depart this tedious event and fence with their tongues and teeth in private. Preferably without clothes.
“I would be delighted to dance with Lady Margaret, if Mrs. Cartwright would spare me. The next song, perhaps?” If he must play nice with Evendaw, he could at least leverage his sacrifice into getting what he wanted.
“If you so desire,” Viola replied coolly.
Oh, he desired, all right. From the first moment he’d met her, Viola and her damnable secrets had captivated him. He would pry them out of her. One by one, he would make her his.
But now, he gathered the delicately proportioned Lady Margaret into his arms. Though Piers tried his best to maintain a most appropriate distance, her tiny stature forced him close enough to talk into her crown of pearl-bedecked gold hair. She smelled strongly of rosewater and danced with mincing steps that made Piers feel as graceful as he had earlier that day when Emily had attempted to climb his arm.
“I understand this is your first season,” he offered after a few moments of silence.
“Yes,” Lady Margaret replied, her gaze fixed on the top button of his waistcoat.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” Piers tried again. He spared a glance at the woman who made his heart expand in his chest. Viola—Mrs. Cartwright—chatted amiably with Evendaw, tapping her foot to the music as though she couldn’t wait to take a turn.
Ask her to dance, you imbecile. Piers mentally cursed the man who wanted to become his brother-in-law. Though he didn’t like the idea of Viola dancing with the marquess, per se, it was preferable to watching the man ignore her.
“Yes, very much,” came Lady Margaret’s mouse-timid reply to the question he’d forgotten he’d asked a moment earlier. He swallowed his frustration. The woman he wanted was not the one in his arms. But she would be, once he figured out how to win her.
Copyright © 2019 by Carrie Lomax
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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