“Who is that?” Emma asked.
“Viscount Bransley.”
“And what is his relation to you?” But Emma guessed, the man’s identity evident in the tightness of Lady Felicity's jaw, in her inability to shape words.
The man who had broken her heart.
Emma placed a hand on Lady Felicity's arm. “You need not say it. Let us simply escape to the retiring room.”
The young girl shook her head. “Find me another suitor. One who is as perfect a candidate for marrying a duke's sister as can be.”
Perhaps Lady Felicity understood jealousy after all. “Very well.” Emma slipped away, pulling from her beaded reticule a small list of gentlemen’s names. As she walked the perimeter of the ballroom, slipping between gaps in the dense crowd, she gazed out over the ballroom, looking for the faces that matched the names.
And then a hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her backward and into the shadowed edges of the room beneath the upper levels. She shrieked, but the sound was cut off halfway by a familiar voice in her ear.
“We must talk.” Clearford.
She clutched her heart. “You terrified me.”
“Do you know who that man is?” His gaze was steady on the man in the doorway sauntering slowly into the crowd.
“I do. Viscount Bransley.” Emma led the duke toward a corner of the ballroom hidden the most by a balcony, crowds, and potted plants.
“He's supposed to be in the Continent.”
“Do not worry.” Emma pulled her arm out of his grasp. “He will not approach her.”
“How do you know?”
“He does not think Lady Felicity is good enough. He will not waste his time, as he sees it—Do not growl, Clearford. People are looking.”
He did not stop growling, merely channeled it into a promise. “I'm going to call him out.”
Her turn to clutch at his arm, yanking her hand back when the heat of him through shirt and jacket singed. She fussed with the edge of her gloves, pulling them up, rubbing away the sensation of touching him with other sensations entirely, those that alarmed her less. She tugged her puffed sleeve down, outlined the edge of her bodice with her fingertips and—
Froze.
He was watching her, his gaze flashing to that exact spot where her fingers fidgeted, next to the exposed swell of her bosom. He shifted from foot to foot, his gaze jerking away, and she dropped her hand to her side, a much safer location.
Oh God, why had things become so uncomfortable so quickly?
“You cannot call him out,” she said, hoping to fill the awkward silence with a hard truth. “He has done nothing concrete, and you will only bring more attention to your family than is necessary. And your sisters will not thank you for it, particularly if he shoots you. I do not want you to die.”
“You don't?” His tone suddenly lighter, his gaze gentle, like a caress.
“They, I mean.Theydo not want you to die,” she corrected. “Your sisters.”
He made a soft hum in his throat, considering her until she felt her belly flip, tighten, and places lower ache.
“Oh no.”
“I agree. Oh no.” His voice still gentle, still lingering, like fingertips over skin.
She spun him around. “Look. Lord Bransley is approaching Lady Felicity.”
“What?” A loud and barking objection as he surged away from their corner.
Those nearby turned and looked. And whispered. But if she did not stop him, he would barrel over there like a raging bull and headbutt the other man in the gut. So, she caught his arm with all ten fingers and held on tight. His muscle bulged beneath her grip.
