“Would you care for a dance?” Mr. Bambridge asked.
Lillian glanced at Jane.
“Go ahead.” Jane laid a hand on Lillian’s arm. “I’m feeling a bit overheated. I’m going to seek out some fresh air.” She swept behind Lillian as her friend took Mr. Bambridge’s hand and led her onto the dance floor.
Jane grinned and headed toward the doors that opened up onto a balcony but stopped and turned midstride. Her exposed bosom would not last long out there. Truly, she needed only to escape the crowd, and she could do that without freezing. She changed direction and headed toward a set of closed doors that clearly led to another room, but what room she did not know.
She pushed them open and breathed a sigh of relief. The room was set up with tables for cards, but few occupied them. Most, tonight, preferred the sparkle of candlelight and the bubbles of champagne than the crisp roar of a warm fire in a cozy room lined with books. Other than a couple of gentlemen playing a game near the doors, only two other men kept vigil by the fire.
Her heart stuttered. “George. Neville.”
The men looked up.
George was at her side in moments, tugging her toward the fire and his uncle, who nestled in a chair. He stood her before the blazing grate and looked her over from curls to slippers and back up.
He grinned a rogue’s grin. “You look spectacular, as usual, Lady Jane.”
He looked spectacular himself, the stark black and white of his evening attire showing off his athletic form to perfection.
“I wonder how many widows are dancing in the ballroom beyond those doors, hoping to catch a glimpse of you,” Jane mused. “You must not show your face, Sir George, or you’ll cause a riot”—she stepped toward him and laid her palms flat against his chest, raising up on toe to whisper in his ear—“and I prefer to have you to myself.”
He reached for her, but she stepped away and twirled to face George’s uncle. “Good evening, Neville. Are you feeling well?”
He nodded his head, a slow rhythm with a slower smile. “Young love is a blessing. I am as well as can be, Lady Jane. Better, I think. You see, I’m on holiday.”
Jane tilted her head. “Oh?”
“A change of scenery always does a man good. Don’t you think?”
“I do.”
George tucked a blanket around his uncle’s knees. “Neville wished to attend tonight but not the crush of the ballroom.”
“This is much better,” Neville said. “I can hear the music and feel the energy of the celebration. I may even join the lot of you in throwing open the doors at midnight.”
“A grand idea, uncle,” George said.
Neville’s eyes narrowed, pinning Jane to her spot. “I think you are a damsel with a dulcimer after all.”
Jane drew a line on the floor with her toes, back and forth, over and over. “How so?”
“The damsels are muses. And you inspire my nephew.” He reached for her hand, grasped it, and squeezed, a weak but determined grasp. “I think he’ll catch and keep your tune.”
Jane turned a confused glance to George.
“I’ll explain later,” George said.
Neville’s attention whipped toward the doors that led to the ballroom. “Is that a waltz?”
Jane listened. “It is.”
He shooed them away. “Go, the both of you. Shoo. You’ve much to do this evening. Might as well get to it.”
“Thank you, Uncle.” George knelt at the older man’s knees. “We’ll return and tell you all.”
“Always such a good boy, Georgie.” Neville closed his eyes.
George stood and took Jane’s hand. “Shall we waltz?”
