“Trent.” An elbow met Rowan’s ribs as Lord Helston hissed in his ear. “What are you doing hiding in the shadows, man? That’s no way to court a lady!”
“Lord Helston, I—”
“Thurston.” The viscount clapped him on the back. “You’re to be family, after all. Only people I don’t like call me Helston.” The viscount—Thurston—shivered.
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do your best to stop being a wallflower. If you don’t return to Isabella’s side soon, the coffee cavalry will come for you, and—”
“Pardon? Coffee… what? Who?”
“Cavalry. Keep up, man. The duke and his friends. They meet to brood over coffee every week. And they travel in a pack when in public, and they give horrid advice about acquiring the lady of your choice. Best to avoid them altogether.”
“They haven’t steered me wrong so far.”
“Then why have you joined the wallflowers?”
Because he still hated this. The best bright spot of any outing was the woman he could only dance twice with.Twice. What a random and meaningless number. “Don’t you itch to dance with Lady Imogen more than twice?”
“No.”
Of course not. He should have remembered. The man was marrying Isabella’s twin for convenience, not love.
“No.” Thurston drew the word out long, as if doing so helped him whir a thought into motion. “Because the anticipation is half the fun. I cannot have her in my arms all night, so the times I do hold her are all the sweeter.”
Rowan stared at him. “Are you in love with Lady Imogen?”
Thurston blinked, then blushed, then laughed. “‘Course not. Everyone knows that. Nowgo.” He ducked behind Rowan and shoved, hard, sending him staggering into a woman with a towering turban.
“Apologies,” he said, righting the hat. “Apologies.”
She swatted him away, her face gnarled into a glare.
“Right.” Rowan bowed. “Apologies.” And he pushed through the crowd. Where was she? What if he simply… took a third dance, broke a rule, and sneered at all of them? The sky would not fall. But Isabella might be hurt.
Hell.
Double hell. Because the duke was heading his way, cutting a quick line through the crowd, then wrapping an arm around Rowan’s shoulders as he guided him toward the back of the ballroom.
“You’re hiding,” the duke said.
“Apparently not well enough.”
“If you possess serious intentions regarding my sister—”
“I do.”
“Then be bold. Not overly bold, of course. Nothing outside in the garden behind some damned large shrubbery, do you understand? Nothing in an isolated library or cloak room. Nothing—”
“Bound to cause a scandal. Yes, Your Grace, I understand perfectly.” And he must act perfectly to show her he meant what he’d said—he’d fit into her world for her sake even if it killed him.
“Excellent. Has she invited you to the wedding yet?”
Lady Imogen’s wedding was in two days, and the duke had given Isabella the task of inviting Rowan.Ifshe so pleased.
“No.” Rowan tugged at his cravat. Too tight, the skin hot as sin beneath. “Not yet.”
“Then acquire another dance and convince her to do so. I’m of the opinion—though I’ve learned better than to express such opinions—that a suitor can find success if he keeps his intended lady’s mind on matrimony. Issy is coming out of a minuet now. Go.” He shoved Rowan toward a smiling Isabella. A beautiful Isabella, pearls threaded through her golden curls, her cheeks happy pink, and some sort of shimmery ivory satin draped lovingly across her curves. Her partner seemed enraptured by her, as he should, and Rowan wanted to gouge the man’s eyes out. He’d met the fellow twice in the last fortnight, and he’d always ignored Rowan as he flirted with Isabella. The arse flirted now, leaning much too low over Isabella and ogling her chest.
