“I do not remember reading your name on the invites,” Verne said. Most gentlemen would be offended by an uninvited intruder, but Verne did not seem too bothered.
“Perhaps I got the wrong house,” Langley said. “Going to throw me out?”
“I would not dream of upsetting my sister so.” There was a slight pause and then Verne added, “Of course, provided you do nothing untoward to any of my guests.”
“It’s a dance party. I will play my dutiful part,” Langley said, knowing that his standing up with any of the ladies in the ballroom would have a ruinous effect on them, his reputation was so marred.
To this provocation, Verne sighed, as if dealing with a petulant child. “I would suggest, my lord, you take yourself to the card room. Or if you do not fancy losing money, my servants would be happy to bring some water to help…”
“Are you alleging that I cannot hold my liquor?” Even as he spoke, Langley knew he was being a stick in the mud, an ass… but he was on edge, all nervous energy after the shooting, the memory of the danger he’d put Miss Keating in, and the sense she still had not told him everything. Besides, whilst he might be described as half cut, he could handle himself—he was not about to fall over.
Before Verne could make a cutting reply, Langley’s eyes were immediately caught by a tall, lissome figure, whose rich sable brown hair was coiled elegantly atop her head. Her figure was beautifully clothed, in the most fashionable dress he’d seen her in, which added a grandeur to her physique, transforming her from his Amazon and giving her a regal aura. Miss Keating’s gaze was challenging as she looked around the ballroom, taking everything in. Her face froze when she acknowledged him, and she blushed. He realised she knew he was here, and she had been waiting for him to see her. Hastily, Miss Keating turned back to her companion and the other guests, but Verne was not known as a spy for nothing. He, of course, had seen their exchange, but more notably Miss Keating’s reaction.
Leaning closer on the pretence of taking a glass of champagne from a passing servant, Verne said, “Not anything untoward towardsanyof my guests.”
Were Langley a better man, he would probably confess or explain the situation to Verne. After all, the baron was an honourable, good man, with the reputation of a saint—as well as one skilled at working for the state… but Langley was not so well behaved. He prided himself on being selfish, ambitious for himself and for his own betterment—besides, his curiosity was engaged, and he was not prepared to lose Miss Keating. She had come to him, asked for his help—trusted him, not Verne. Even if the baron was a better man.
Weighing his options, Langley knew that he would need to ignore his host’s warnings. No matter what the consequences were for the lady. In fact, he scolded himself as he took a leisurely stroll around the ballroom, nodding at the occasional acquaintance and reminding himself that he had never previously minded the consequences—admittedly it was not normally the virginal daughter of a vicar who was at risk.
With narrowed eyes that Langley maintained had nothing to do with possessiveness, he watched as Miss Keating took to the dancefloor on the arm of a man he did not know. The smiling gentleman whose wild grey hair was tied back, and there was a scruffiness to his wardrobe. There might be a fatherly appeal to such a one, Langley reasoned as he studied the polite Miss Keating’s conversation.
Spotting Lady Olivia Wilson’s niece looking wistfully at the floor, he swept forward and offered the debutante his arm. The younger woman looked delighted, her Aunt less so. Despite being the occasional visitor to one or more of Langley’s parties, Lady Wilson clearly wished to protect her name as much as she could.
“I will, of course, ask you to dance next, Lady Wilson, so no one will be offended,” Langley added smoothly, and the widow’s eyes softened a touch. “It is not the waltz, just a quadrille. Perfectly harmless, I do assure you. Your niece will be entirely safe.”
Lady Wilson gave a wave of her hand to her niece, and Langley swept forward onto the dancefloor with the tiny chit. He hoped Miss Keating appreciated the sacrifice he was making on her part, damaging his own ruined name by having to behave himself now. After all, he had worked extremely hard to be thought of as a libertine. Casting that aside in a mad effort to talk to Miss Keating was not the sort of thing Langley had ever envisioned doing before. Nor, he told himself sternly, would he repeat those actions in a hurry.
His dance partner, a Miss Kitty Bradshaw, babbled that this was one of her dances, that she was freshly ‘out’, and Langley thought her around eighteen, although judging by her large round cheeks she might be younger. At least no one would think he had any ill intent to such a baby.
The music began and he swept Miss Bradshaw away, his eyes drifting easily to where Miss Keating was. Thankfully he did not have to wait too long until the dance moves brought their gloved fingers together. Miss Keating’s eyes bulged as her gaze settled on him, her lips pursing as she moved a step closer to him almost, he thought, unwillingly.
“I need to speak to you.” Langley’s voice was low, audible only to her ears, as they passed by each other.
“We are talking now.” Miss Keating’s response was slow, and Langley sighed. If she insisted on dragging this out it would make the whole process more noticeable. It was all very well him attempting to act honourably, but what was the point if all his plans were ruined by other watching guests?
They moved around each other, pausing to bow with their alternate partners. The notes of the dance were pleasant, jovial, and engaging, although Langley felt its very cheerfulness was rubbing him raw. What would he do if one of his friends saw him thus?
“It concerns your precious map.” Langley tried again, pleased when he saw her react. “I have a further piece of information that will most definitely interest you.”
To this, Miss Keating wetted her lips and swallowed. He watched as that gorgeous bottom lip of hers was dampened. It annoyed Langley no end, and he felt his cock tighten at the sight. Why did he want this blasted woman? It was not convenient; she was in danger, which meant he could hardly make any kind of seduction towards her when all his instincts were crying out to do exactly that. The circumstances were forcing him to act more honourably than he ever had before, and it did not sit well. Blinking, he forced himself to focus.
“Meet me outside,” he ordered her, hoping to hand her the secret and be done with the matter. Surely the woman wouldnot drag this blasted party out any longer than was strictly necessary.
“That isn’t wise, my lord,” Miss Keating said. “What if we are seen?”
Normally her question would not bother him. A woman’s choice was her own, but because of the known physical danger Margot was in, Langley would not risk her so.
She moved away, her body swaying closer to her partner once more, leaving Langley to mirror this move with the blonde opposite him.
When Miss Keating finally returned, the music was coming to an end. Their eyes met, and she gave him the slightest of nods. She seemed to have changed her mind and would attempt to meet him. A small swoop of his stomach indicated his pleasure as he escorted his partner off the floor.
“Thank you, Miss Bradshaw, for the most delightful dance.” He turned an intense stare on Lady Wilson. “Olivia?”
“Hush,” the widow scolded, and beckoned another youthful-looking debutante forward. “Since my lord is eager for the nursery, allow me to present my goddaughter, Miss Buxton.”
With a sigh, Langley sketched a bow, and offered out his hand to Miss Buxton. Supposedly he had warranted such brutal teasing from Lady Wilson, although he could not understand the cruelty. After that dance, he was fairly swamped. It seemed that now the rumour swirled that for the first time in his long and rocky career that Langley was obviously contemplating matrimony. It was a damnable lie, and it took him far too long to escape outside onto the veranda, where he looked skywards and contemplated running away through the garden. A cough behind him pulled Langley back to himself, and he turned with relief to see Miss Keating. She was standing still, staring at him across the short space; the only sign that there was a problem was the twisting of her hands.
In mock courtliness Langley dipped at the waist, bowing to her formally with all the overperformance as if she were a duchess. From inside the townhouse there was the bright sound of a quadrille—the noise ofton-ish life continuing—but it felt separate from the two of them.
