His sophisticated self scoffed, and assured him he was merely intrigued by a lady so very different from all others he’d met.
His more primitive self wasn’t listening.
His more primitive self was observing the men gathering about her through ever-narrowing eyes. When Hellicar swanned into contention, he inwardly swore, pushed away from the wall, and headed in her direction.
Penelope was holding her own against an annoying clutch of would-be suitors when she glimpsed Barnaby through the crowd. The whirl of emotions that afflicted her when she realized he was heading her way was a warning; excitement, trepidation, and a seductive thrill were a novel and unsettling mix.
Sternly ordering her stupid senses to bear up, she refocused on Harlan Rigby’s aristocratic countenance. He was presently holding forth on the pleasures of the chase, something she was well acquainted with having grown up in Leicestershire with hunting-mad brothers. Unfortunately it was beyond Rigby’s comprehension that a mere female might know anything about anything. Even more unfortunately, as he was possessed of a sizable fortune along with passable looks, not even Hellicar at his most pointed had succeeded in puncturing Rigby’s self-assurance, let alone opened his eyes to the simple fact that the route to her favors did not lie in belittling her intelligence.
Rigby was an afflicting ailment she had yet to learn how to treat.
Barnaby appeared, by some magic convincing the younger gentlemen to make space for him beside her. That left her flanked by him and Hellicar, but still facing Rigby.
Smiling welcomingly, she gave Barnaby her hand. Rigby paused in his ponderous discourse while Barnaby bowed and he and she exchanged greetings, but then Rigby drew breath, opened his large mouth—
“It seems rather stuffy in here.” Apparently oblivious of Rigby, Barnaby trapped her gaze. He’d kept hold of her hand; he lightly squeezed her fingers. “It’s too cold to stroll the terrace, but perhaps you’d care to take a turn in the salon.” He raised his brows. “I believe that’s a waltz commencing, if you’d care to indulge?”
She beamed delightedly. Anyone who saved her from Rigby and his views on the best way to husband hounds was worthy of her undying gratitude. “Thank you. It is rather oppressive. A waltz will be just the thing.”
Inclining his head, Barnaby set her hand on his sleeve, covering her fingers with his.
Nerves clenching at the subtle touch, she turned to her circle of unwanted admirers. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen?”
Most had watched the byplay between her and Barnaby with interest, much along the lines of where he went, they might soon follow.
All except Rigby. Frowning, he fixed her with a puzzled look. “But, Miss Ashford, I’ve yet to tell you of my success with the latest round of crossbreeding with whippets.” His tone made it clear he couldn’t believe she didn’t want to hear every last detail.
She wasn’t sure how to answer; the very thought she might want to know such a thing made her brain seize.
Her white knight stepped in. “I find it hard to believe, Rigby, that you’re unaware that Calverton, Miss Ashford’s brother, is a renowned breeder of prize hounds.” Barnaby’s lips curved. “Are you smothering her with your procedures in the hope of winkling family secrets from her?”
Rigby blinked. “What?”
A snort sounded on Penelope’s right—Hellicar smothering a bark of laughter. The other gentlemen fought to hide smiles.
Barnaby’s smile turned apologetic. He glanced at Penelope, then nodded to Rigby. “I’m desolated to cut short your time for interrogating Miss Ashford, old man, but the lady desires to waltz.” With a general nod, he drew her out of the circle. “If you’ll excuse us?”
All the others bowed, amused. Rigby simply stared as if he couldn’t believe she was deserting him.
But she was, for a much more challenging proposition. Barnaby led her to the archway separating the drawing room from the salon beyond, in which couples were dancing. A string quartet was crowded into an alcove at one end, laboring to be heard over a hundred conversations. They’d just played the opening bars of a waltz.
“I didn’t think my ears had played me false.” Barnaby glanced down and met her eyes. “Were you serious about dancing, or were you merely seizing the opportunity to escape Rigby?”
He was giving her a chance to avoid the effects that waltzing with him was sure to provoke. If she was wise, she’d take it…but she wasn’t such a coward.
“I would like to waltz.”With you.She didn’t say the words, but the sudden intentness in his eyes made her wonder if he’d heard them—guessed them. Without another word, he drew her forward, onto the floor, into his arms, then whirled her into the swirling throng.
As previously with him, the revolutions of the dance swept her away. Left her senses giddy. Left her wits reeling.
Pleasurably.
They didn’t speak again, exchanged not one word, not aloud. But their gazes locked and held, and communication seemed to flow without speech, on another plane, in a different dimension. In a different language.
A language of the senses.
One large hand, warm and strong at her back, the other clasping her fingers firmly, he held her with a confidence that left her free to relax, to dispense with her customary distrust of her partners and revel in the swirling motion, the quick, tight turns, the reverses and checks, in the masterful way he steered her around the floor.
Masterful men, she concluded, had their place—even with her.
