Daring Miss Danvers (11 page)

“Just as I am certain you will soon come to understand my sense of humor,” the dowager said without missing a beat. “If nothing else, you have a sharp intellect.”

Proceeding up the stairs at a regal pace beside the dowager, Emma felt her forced smile relax. A combination of relief and amusement eased the sudden tension when it occurred to her that the dowager was actually teasing her. In her own way.

“If intellect is what I have to recommend me, then I must confess to deception as well.” She couldn’t be too sharp witted. After all, she’d agreed to Rathburn’s scheme.

“And modesty, no doubt.”

Not wanting to lose the ground she’d gained, Emma pulled the corner of her mouth between her teeth to keep from laughing aloud. “Forgive me if I withhold agreement, for I do not want to add pride to the list.”

Her efforts earned her a playful swat on the arm from the dowager’s fan when they reached the top.

Having entered the ballroom ahead of them, Rathburn and his mother were already standing in the gallery, currently speaking with Merribeth and her aunt, Mrs. Leander, along with her friend, Lady Eve Sterling. Delaney and Bree were also there, standing on the far side with the dour-faced Miss Pursglove. With the collapse of her nerves only a disapproving look away, Emma was glad her friends were among their party of spectators.

Rathburn excused himself from the small group and made his way to her, quirking a brow as he regarded first her and then the dowager. “Grandmamma, is that a smile on your lips?”

“What a notion.” For his cheek, he received a swat of her fan as well. “Now, hurry along, I won’t have you hovering over our Miss Danvers and scaring away all her partners again. Simply sign her dance card and be on your way.”

He clenched his jaw and offered a tight smile. “With all the prettiest ladies holding court in the gallery, I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”

Even though he made the statement with his characteristic teasing air, the hardness in his gaze told her that he was serious. When he turned that look on her, she instantly recalled how Penelope had called that look
possessive
.

A secret thrill rushed through her, sending tingles beneath the surface of her skin, and causing gooseflesh to rise on her arms. However, she knew better than to let her imagination run wild.

“Miss Danvers,” the dowager said, her voice abruptly dowsing the tingles. “Hand him your card so that we can be rid of him before he flatters us to distraction.”

She swallowed. “I—I don’t have a card.”

Whatever ground she’d made with the dowager disappeared beneath furrowed scrutiny. “No card?”

Before Emma could shake her head, the dowager’s censorious glower was cast to Rathburn.

“Obviously, this is your doing. After all, why would a young woman bother with a dance card if her escort behaves like a barbarian? If you’re not careful, dear boy, you’ll lose your place as my favorite grandson. Your cousin Gabriel is reforming quite well.” By the time she was finished, all the reproach vanished from her tone. Reaching into her reticule, she produced an elegant card and handed it to Emma.

In turn, Emma handed it to Rathburn.

He frowned, staring at it with the same intensity he’d used on her, as if he were considering tucking it into his pocket and refusing to return it.

“
One
dance,” his grandmother warned. “In such a crush, there can be only four sets before dinner, I’m sure. Since we will not stay much after dinner, you may choose only one.”

“However, it is also perfectly acceptable if you choose not to dance with me,” Emma added hastily, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat. “After all, I’m certain there will be other occasions . . . in the future.”

The way his glance speared her, she knew her efforts were transparent. Unfortunately, he took her easy escape as a challenge and wrote his name in bold letters for the fourth set. The waltz.

Oh dear
.

“Miss Danvers,” he said with bow, returning her card in such a way as to dare her to accept it.

With his mother and grandmother watching—as well as half the
ton
, no doubt—she withdrew the card from his fingers and offered a curtsy. “Lord Rathburn.”

Before he left the gallery, he passed by her slowly. “I look forward to seeing you on the dance floor.”

His words were more of a promise than a threat, and yet, she wondered if he meant to suggest that he planned to watch her while she was with other partners. A way of keeping his eye on her.

“Then I shall do my best to procure the most elegant partners for you to admire,” she answered just as quietly and smiled to herself when he stumbled a half-step, his grand exit thwarted.

He paused at the top of the stair and cast another hard look over his shoulder.
Possessive
. Another frisson raced through her, this time making the fine downy hairs at her nape stand on end. It was exhilarating as much as it caused her anxiety, and she wondered which sensation would win out in the end. Had he truly always looked at her this way?

“Allow me, Miss Danvers. After all, as your fiancé, it is my duty to guide the most elegant partners to you.”

Before she could inform him that she could acquire her own partners, especially without a glowering brute standing over her, Rathburn turned and swept down the stairs.

“A valiant battle, my dear,” the dowager said, clucking her tongue. “But I’m afraid my grandson bested you this time. Right now, he’s below stairs finding you the dullest and most repellent partners in attendance.”

She narrowed her eyes as she watched the top of his ash blond head weave his way through the crowd. It didn’t matter if he did find her dimwitted or unattractive partners. So long as the gentlemen were eligible, she could still find a way to win the battle. After all, he needed a reminder that they were not actually engaged.

D
uring the first set, she danced with Mr. Bastion, a distant cousin of the Dorsets’. He was exactly her height, with thinning brown hair, fleshy lips, and the unfortunate propensity to spit whenever he spoke. Although ashamed to admit it, she was actually thankful that he seemed too preoccupied with her bosom to offer up many topics of conversation.

Lord Mosley partnered with her for the second set. She managed to endure thirty minutes of his company without falling asleep. He was a gentle soul, but his conversation was limited to his mother and their home in Derbyshire. Even when she tried to interject a comment about the weather, he responded with the fact that his mother preferred cooler springs that were less sunny.

She hid a yawn behind her fan as he escorted her to the gallery stairs. If she weren’t suddenly so exhausted, she could honestly murder Rathburn. If he thought for a moment that she hadn’t noticed him smirking at her, he was mistaken.

Her partner for the third set, a widower who was not much younger than her father, was nowhere in sight. She breathed a sigh of relief.

“Pardon me,” a stranger said from behind her. “I believe this dance is mine.”

Closing her fan, she pasted on her best smile and turned to greet him. Only he wasn’t the same gentlemen she’d been introduced to before. For starters, there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. Instead, it was black as midnight, even darker than Merribeth’s. His eyes were a captivating pale gray that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers as if they were made of silver satin.

Entranced for an instant, she had a difficult time remembering he wasn’t her partner for the third set. Then she felt his hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the dance floor. Before she could open her mouth to object, he already removed it, grinning down at her with a knowing air.

She paused on the fringes of two lines of dancers. “Sir, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

Sure of himself, he smiled in a way that made her feel like the only woman in the room. “Of course we have.”

“No,” she said, somehow managing to stay clearheaded. “I would have remembered.”

Apparently, this intrigued him because he studied her more closely. “Would you now? I can see Rathburn has his hands full with you.”

“Rathburn has nothing of the sort. We are not married.” Much to her surprise, the words came out like a challenge, as if she were flirting with him, bantering with a complete stranger the way she bantered with Rathburn. This was
wrong,
a voice inside whispered. Yet, it was the truth. She was
not
betrothed to Rathburn.

The stranger chuckled, the sound rich and alluring. Completely hedonistic. “Would it be too bold if I said I like you already, Miss Danvers?”

She tried not to blush as she took her place across the aisle from him for the quadrille. “Yes, far too bold.”

He held her gaze as the music started and they began the motions of the dance, crossing in front of each other, circling, bowing. When he was near, he spoke again. “Good, because I do like you. Perhaps even more now that we have Rathburn’s undivided attention.”

The warning flared to life again. This stranger was far too bold. Far too familiar. She was about to walk away and leave him standing in line without a partner. But then she caught sight of Rathburn when she circled. He was livid. Murderous.

She felt her lips curl into a grin. After saddling her with those first two partners, it served him right. “I’m afraid I can neither chastise you nor return the sentiment without knowing your name.”

“My friends call me Bane,” he said with a bow that was perfectly timed with the dance. “Although, in more formal circumstances, I suppose it would be Lord Knightswold.”

“Then while we are dancing, I’ll refer to you as Lord Knightswold.”

He grinned at her. “And when I deliver you to your betrothed?”

“I think we shall be fast friends.” She couldn’t help but smile in return, which drew his focus to her mouth.

“I’ve never been a jealous man, but for you I might make an exception.” They were still for a moment, waiting for the other dancers to cross and turn and bow. “Wherever have you been all this time? Locked away in a convent? Hidden away in the country?”

“Lurking among the potted trees in ballrooms all over the city.” She laughed. “Truly, this is my third Season.”

Too bold, yet again, his gaze drifted over her in appraisal, renewing her blush. “I don’t know whether to hate myself for not having discovered you first, or hate Rathburn for making the marriage noose so appealing. I must warn you, honor does not bind me to hate myself.”

Unused to such glances from anyone other than Rathburn, she felt positively exposed. Where she always knew Rathburn was merely flirting, she was equally certain that Knightswold . . . wasn’t.

“I’m afraid,” she said as the dance ended and he escorted her to the balcony doors where Rathburn stood, “honor does bind me.”

With one last simmering satin look, he bowed. “I understand. A pleasure, Miss Danvers.”

As if feigning jealousy, Rathburn settled his hand at her elbow and drew closer. A muscle in his jaw pulsed as he clenched his teeth. “The infamous Bane in attendance at the Dorsets’ ball? I seem to recall a declaration, not long ago, to the effect of you never bowing to the whims of society.”

“When societal trappings are so tempting, how could I resist?” A devious smirk toyed with the faint crease at the corner of his mouth.

Rathburn tensed and made a move toward him, but then stopped and lifted his gaze to the gallery. “Ah. I see your friend, Lady Eve Sterling, is watching our exchange with more than common interest. Up to your old sport?”

Knightswold lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “Perhaps.”

“Marking me as a jealous beau? I wonder what the odds were in the betting book at White’s.”

Bane inclined his head, his grin widening.

Instead of being angered by the confirmation that he’d been targeted for some sort of game, he chuckled. “Well played, even if I was an easy target for your scheme.”

Bane turned his gaze to Emma, holding it for long enough to make her blush. “That was a poor attempt at a compliment to you, Miss Danvers. However, if you were mine—”

“
Now
, you’ve worn out your welcome,” Rathburn growled, his good humor vanishing.

Without tempting fate or friendship any further, Lord Knightswold bowed. “Perhaps I’ll find your cousin in the card room. After all, Gabriel still has a sense humor.”

He gave her a wink and then left without another word, leaving her feeling exposed by the incident. Of course, not every eye in the ballroom was glued to their tête-à-tête, just those around them, as well as a few in the gallery.

Not for the first time, Emma wished Rathburn wasn’t so good at pretending. It might even have been nice if he actually were jealous. She held back a sigh for her foolish thoughts and made a move to step away.

“I believe the waltz is mine.”

A tide of uncertainty washed over her. Penelope’s promise that dancing changed everything resurfaced, and Emma was abruptly face to face with her greatest fear—to be judged and found wanting. What if dancing with Rathburn did change everything, only to fracture their friendship in the process? Then again, what if dancing with him changed nothing? At the moment, she couldn’t decide which outcome frightened her the most.

“Yes, it is. However, I wonder . . .” She hesitated to find the right words, but decided a small lie would save her the embarrassment of revealing her fears. “I’m exhausted, Rathburn. I wonder if you might allow me a moment to catch my breath.”

C
oncerned, Rathburn searched Emma’s face. In her expression, he made no notice of exhaustion. Her chocolate eyes were bright as ever with no marring red lines. Her cheeks bloomed with a healthy glow. And yet, there was something guarded in the way she didn’t hold his gaze and worried the corner of her mouth. “Of course. They have benches on the patio. Would you care for a breath of night air?”

Apparently believing he didn’t plan to ask her about whatever she was hiding, she breathed a sigh of relief. “That sounds lovely.”

They made their way past three other couples who shared the same idea of enjoying the cool midnight air. The sweet scent of evening dew drifted on the breeze. On the large stone patio, fragrant juniper topiary trees in large clay pots stood beside curved benches to allow for privacy without impropriety. Yet, even then, he couldn’t stop himself from choosing the bench farthest from the door, farthest from the reach of moonlight reflecting off the fountain pond.