been shot at for four years, Nigel had no intention of dying in an automobile crash. “Pull over and let me drive.”
“You don’t drive,” Sebastian protested. “You’d be worse than me.”
“That would be impossible. Watch where you are going.”
Nigel had never been in a London dance club. The only club he frequented in town was White’s, which had been favored by the Dukes of Langford for almost one hundred and fifty years. Murray’s had the staid, imposing facade of a bank. Sebastian located the curb by hitting it with the tires. Nigel jumped out, and within moments, he stood at the bottom of the stairs in the massive ballroom, straining to spot Julia.
“There is my beloved.” At his side, Sebastian smoothed his slicked-back hair.
Nigel stared. “What in blazes is she doing? It looks like she is having a seizure.”
“Dancing, brother.”
Nigel watched Sebastian claim Miss Gifford. Her legs jerked behind her, kicking like a mule, and her hands waved wildly around her head like a drowning woman begging for rescue. Tall feathers showed every contorted motion of her head. Hundreds of beads jumped off from her indigo dress as her hips moved in a vulgar swing.
The dress shifted as she moved, giving him a glimpse of the garment beneath it. White fabric and lace banded her back, but below the one small strip there was nothing but bare skin. No corset. No shift.
He blinked. Miss Gifford sported a lot of bare skin. Her upper arms were bare, as were her thighs—in the gap between her short skirt and her rolled-down stockings. Underneath the dress, much of her must be naked.
Heat washed over him and he moved behind a potted palm to hide what must be a blindingly obvious erection in his trousers. Anger and embarrassment hit him. She was his brother’s fiancée—albeit his convenient one—and he had no business feeling anything about her skin.
On the dance floor, Sebastian rushed Miss Gifford through the crowd in a waltz that looked like his brother was racing to find a bathroom.
Where was Julia? Nigel’s gaze scoured the small round tables at the far side of the large room. Egyptian-style pillars separated that section from the dance floor, and couples lounged in the shadows. Nigel did not see any woman who looked like Julia—black hair in a neat bun, elegant and understated.
“Nigel!” At the edge of the dance floor, a woman with bobbed dark hair waved wildly at him. He could see the tops of her stockings below her short skirt, rolled down just below her knees like Miss Gifford’s.
He had no idea who she was, though she’d addressed him intimately. Her partner’s legs appeared to be made of India rubber, wobbling back and forth as the man passed his hands over his knees. Making wild gyrations, the girl moved toward the floor’s edge.
“Nigel, come and dance,” she called.
Her lips were a vivid scarlet, her eyes darkened with kohl. Some cosmetic, thick and black, was clumped on her eyelashes. There was something familiar about her, something that got under his skin...
“Julia!” Her name came out in a roar of shock.
The creature in front of Nigel was nothing like the demure English lady who had climbed into Zoe Gifford’s motorcar that morning. Several feet of her dark hair had been cut. Her face was made up like an actress on Drury Lane. As for her dress—
It revealed so much of his sister’s legs that his hands clenched into fists. Julia’s entire body moved with the jazz beat, her hips flowing back and forth in shocking invitation.
Nigel grasped her wrist and hauled her off the floor. “Did she do this to you?”
Tugging against his iron grip, Julia’s expression became one he readily recognized. She glared. “If by ‘she,’ you mean Miss Gifford, then yes. And if by ‘this,’ you mean that she is trying to coax me to have fun, then yes. This is fun, Nigel.”
“Fun.” He spat the word. “You are barely dressed.”
“This dress is fashionable. And not quite shocking if every other woman in the room is wearing the same thing.”
Someone tapped on his shoulder. It was Julia’s partner—a pasty-looking young man who was obviously at university. “Look here,” the lad began. “She’s my partner.”
“Bugger off,” Nigel snarled.
Quaking, the boy retreated. Nigel rounded on Julia. “You were giving him ideas.”
She burst out laughing.
“What is so funny?” he barked.
“Nigel, he is a sweet young man. We were simply dancing. You think my behavior is shocking? That young man is the son of Viscount Hardley and, to quote, you just told him to—”
“Never mind what I told him.” This was Zoe Gifford’s fault. He refused to lose control due to her—even control over his language. “That is not what I would call dancing. Married people have less contact during their private relations.”
This made Julia double over, helpless with laughter. It was good to see her enjoying herself. Irritating to have it at his expense.
“What has she done to you?” Two days. That was all the time Miss Gifford had spent under his roof, yet Julia’s hair was now gone, her demure face was painted, and she was making rude gyrations in a public place. He hauled off his coat and threw it around Julia’s shoulders. It reached her knees and engulfed her in an envelope of decency. “We are returning home.”
“I am not leaving, Nigel. I want to dance.”
A slender hand landed on his arm, and the scent of exotic roses surrounded him. As he jerked around, Miss Gifford, the culprit, smiled up at him.
“You are making a scene, Your Grace,” she said. “Why don’t we discuss this at our table?”
“I am making a scene?” The words came out with all the calm that pervaded the atmosphere before men rushed out of a trench with rifles. “My sister is cavorting half-naked on a public dance floor.”
“Which is perfectly natural in a dance club,” Miss Gifford pointed out. “Dragging her off the floor and throwing your coat over her is more fitting to the last century. If you are so concerned about appearances, look around you, Duke. You are creating the scandal here.”
Dimly, he became aware of the stares. Hundreds of them. Grunting with anger—how dare she be in the right?—Nigel watched Miss Gifford lead Julia to a table. Sebastian was there, along with a group of rainbow-colored drinks. Two glasses in front of his brother were already empty.
Miss Gifford handed him a full one in a revolting shade of yellow-green. Nigel put it down. He didn’t drink things the color of urine. “What in hell were you thinking?” he growled at her. “Julia is in mourning.”
Julia threw off his coat so it landed on the back of the chair and sipped a pink drink.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Gifford said. “Lady Julia can’t be mourning for the rest of her life.”
Julia
