She smiled. “No, I can see it’s something that won’t wait.”
“It will, of course, it’s just...”
Lady Peplowe patted her hand. “Tomorrow at five will suit me very well, Lady Charlton. You can explain it all then. In complete privacy.” She glanced over Alice’s shoulder. “Now, there’s a handsome Roman general waiting with a glass of champagne for you. Better go and relieve him of it before some other lady snaps it—and him—up. He’s a delicious sight in that costume, barely there as it is. I do like a man with a good pair of legs, don’t you? And as for those gloriously muscular upper arms...” She fanned herself briefly, winked at Alice and glided away.
***
It was time for the second waltz of the evening. Lucy watched as Alice stepped onto the floor with Lord Tarrant. Hers weren’t the only eyes that watched their progress with speculative interest. They made a handsome couple.
Lucy glanced around the ballroom. Which of these extravagantly dressed people was reporting back to her father? The thought made her simultaneously furious and sick. The sooner she married some lord, the sooner this whole ghastly thing would be over.
Lord Thornton appeared at her elbow. “Shall we sit this one out in the courtyard, Miss Bamber?” It was very warm now in the ballroom, with all the lanterns and candles burning and the press of overheated bodies, so she nodded.
Outside it was blissfully cool, the night air fresh with a soft breeze stirring the leaves overhead. “You’re not cold, are you?” Lord Thornton asked. He gestured to his matador’s jacket with a wry smile. “I’d offer to give you my coat, but I doubt I can remove it. It took all my valet’s efforts to get it on. Do you have a shawl I could fetch?”
Lucy shook her head. “I’m quite comfortable, thank you.” It wasn’t quite a lie. She wasn’t cold, but something about sitting out here alone with Lord Thornton, not to mention the intense way he kept looking at her, made her feel a little on edge. As for his coat being tight, his whole outfit, especially his breeches, outlined his lithe, lean, muscular form almost indecently.
She could hardly drag her eyes away.
They sat for a few moments in silence, listening to the music floating from the ballroom. Then he said abruptly, “Did you mean what you said about marrying a lord, any lord?”
She looked at him in surprise. “Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She didn’t see any other way out of the fix Papa had trapped her in.
“Even an old man?”
She nodded. The very idea appalled her, but even worse was the knowledge that if she didn’t, her father would ruin Alice. Besides, she might not have to endure an old man for long. Which was a horrid thing to think.
“What about a young man?”
She shrugged. “As long as he’s titled, it makes no difference. Now can we stop talking about it, please? I’d rather just enjoy the night and keep these depressing realities for the cold light of day.” The moon was out, hazy, lopsided and serene. The scent of flowers perfumed the air. And the music only added to the magic.
“You like this music, don’t you?” he said after a moment.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
He gestured to her sandaled feet. “Your feet are dying to dance. They’re tapping along in time with the music. I like those gold toenails, by the way. Dashing, as well as pretty.” He rose to his feet. “Shall we dance?”
She blinked at the unexpected request. “But I can’t.”
“You can’t waltz, or you don’t have permission?”
“I know how to waltz, of course, though I’ve never danced it in public. But I don’t have permission. For some reason I’m only allowed to waltz after one of the patronesses of Almack’s gives me permission. Seems ridiculous to me, but that’s what I was told.”
“I see. And that’s why you were prepared to sit them out in wallflowery boredom with Messrs. Frinton and Grimswade.”
“Both gentlemen to whom you introduced me,” she reminded him acidly.
“Then let me atone.” He held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of dancing this waltz with me, Miss Bamber?”
She hesitated and looked around. The courtyard was still deserted, as was the terrace overlooking it. “Nobody will see,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“Very well.” She rose and took his hand. It was warmand firm. No gloves on matadors or priestesses. His other arm wrapped around her waist.
He danced well, swirling her around with grace and assurance. Dancing alone in the courtyard, in the moonlight, with the lanterns creating pools of light among the shadows—it felt strangely intimate, as if they were alone instead of only a few yards away from the loud, colorful throng inside.
