“Goodness, I certainly would not have accused you of being Harrow men,” she teased, gauging William’s response.
He mustered a half smile, his face not one that seemed prone to smiling. Unlike some other gentlemen that Valeria could have mentioned.
But he is not coming, so do not think of him,she chided herself.
Roger chuckled, humoring her. “I should hope not.” He paused. “My friend here wished to be introduced, and once I told him I was acquainted with you, he thought it wise to approach. However, I am afraid thatImust ask if you would do me the honor of dancing the next set with me. If there is just one spot left, I must be selfish.”
William scowled at him, his top lip scrunching in a grimace. Evidently, that had not been the agreement between the two gentlemen, and though Valeria would have preferred to dance with Roger, whom she knew, shedidhave to hesitate. The baron could solve all of her household’s problems in the blink of an eye. Roger, however, had only a middling sort of fortune—not enough, perhaps, to salvage Skeffington House.
“Iwould like to dance with you,” William said bluntly, his scowl barely fading as he turned his gaze on Valeria. “That spot on your dance card—I would like it.”
It appears you are someone who is unaccustomed to being refused,Valeria noted, biting her tongue.
“Gentlemen, you will make me blush terribly if you start squabbling,” she said instead, putting on a smile that made her cheeks ache. “I have neither pistols nor swords at hand, but perhaps you might duel between yourselves with your words and then inform me of who the victor is, so that we might dance.”
Her father should have been there, really, to act as chaperone and to remedy situations like this, but he still had not emerged from the smoking room. In truth, she doubted he would until he had spoken to every single gentlemen of business in attendance.
Roger bowed his head. “Very well, Miss Maxwell. We shall spare your blushes.”
“We shall not,” William muttered in reply. “I will be dancing with her, Grove. It was my idea to come over.”
“But Ididask her first,” Roger pointed out, his tone neutral.
A mild-mannered fellow…Just as Duncan had said. Not the sort of gentleman who could make a heart race or inspire much excitement, but… friendly and amenable. Then, there was William, who increasingly possessed the attitude of a spoiled boy.
“And I already informed you of my intention,” William sniped, putting out his hand. “The next set will be starting soon, Miss Maxwell. You will come with me.”
She stared at his proffered hand, willing herself to be polite, while every impulse demanded that she teach him a valuable lesson: that he would not always get what he wanted.
“There is such a thing as hierarchy, Lord Tarporley,” Beatrice said abruptly, having no such reservations around speaking her mind. “Lord Campbell outranks you in station, in how he asked first, and in general character. You ought to learn a thing or two from him, then you might not find yourself so disappointed.”
Valeria stared, wide-eyed, at her cousin, her gaze immediately darting back to William, who had turned a vivid shade of red.
“You must forgive my cousin’s youthful exuberance,” Valeria hurried to say. “She was just complaining of the heat in this ballroom, and you know how intense heat can addle one’s judgment. I hear it is rather like being inebriated, though I would not know anything about that.”
Beatrice cast her a sideways glance, wounding Valeria’s heart with the fleeting look of betrayal on her face.
The younger woman shrugged, sniffing in indifference. “Yes, it must be the heat. I apologize if you feel offended, Lord Tarporley. I simply hold a lot of faith in the rules of competition—you cannot come last in a race and expect the prize.”
Roger hid a smile behind his hand, while William’s face continued to flush with that rash of red. His cold blue eyes narrowed and flitted between the two women, as if trying to decide whether or not Beatrice was still insulting him. Not the sharpest blade in the butcher’s block, or so it seemed.
Raising his chin defiantly, William retracted his offered hand. “Do you have another spot available upon your dance card, Miss Maxwell?”
“I believe I have one more,” Valeria replied, immediately wishing she had lied. “After my dance with Sir Timothy Partridge.”
William scoffed. “A gentleman of no title is beforeme?”
“Sir Timothy is a highly decorated captain,” Valeria replied coolly. “King George himself employs him as part of his private guard.”
A ripple of embarrassment passed across the baron’s face. “Yes, quite. Of course, I knew that.” He cleared his throat. “Well then, I shall look forward to our dance, Miss Maxwell.”
She was desperate to hurl a snide remark at him for speaking ill of someone like Sir Timothy, compelled to ask William ifhehad ever seen battle, or if he only engaged in petty squabbles and throwing tantrums when he did not get his own way. But she managed to hold her tongue and put on a saccharine smile.
“Indeed, Lord Tarporley.” She glanced at Roger. “So, shall we?”
Roger extended his arm. “It would be my honor, Miss Maxwell.”
As they were about to move toward the dance floor, and William disappeared into the crowd, Valeria hesitated, turning back to Beatrice. “Papa is in the smoking room. Are there friends you can stand with until I am done?” She was so used to having an actual chaperone that she had no notion of what to do without one. “Perhaps, I should not dance.”
