moments the dance ended and Frederick unknowingly escorted her straight to the side of her adversary. He made the introductions and eased the way into conversation with small talk.
Nora noted Stockport was polite, but distracted. He made cursory responses, doing only the minimum required to sustain the conversation without appearing rude. Just as he had politely borne the conversational forays made by the Bradley girls during the carriage ride from Manchester, tonight he was unaffected by Adelaide’s efforts. He was no more interested in young Adelaide than he’d been in the Squire’s daughters.
His indifference prompted the curious question—what kind of woman would interest him? The answer was suddenly obvious. He liked The Cat. Her boldness appealed to him. She did not stand on ceremony and she challenged him. It was the only way to explain why he had not taken the opportunity to apprehend her on the two occasions they’d met.
Of course, being attracted to The Cat’s bold sensuality was no more than a courtesan’s allure. A man of his position would never seek to make such a woman his Countess.
Wife? She had to stop her wool-gathering immediately. It must be the ball that made her so fanciful. Either that or Stockport’s excellent physique. Surely a girl was entitled to a little fantasy now and then as long as she understood that’s all it was. If fairy tales were real, he’d be the living embodiment of the handsome prince. Frederick was still going on inanely about the fashion of men’s clothes, oblivious to Stockport’s neutral apathy on the subject. Nora took the chance to indulge, covertly studying Stockport.
Nora had long thought men’s evening clothes were the epitome of uniformity. The black trousers and tailed dress coat left little room for individuality. Indeed, the last bastion of uniqueness lay with the waistcoat and cravat.
Stockport had done well with both ends of the dressing spectrum. His broad shoulders filled out the dark coat appreciably. The snowy fall of his elegantly tied cravat and the pristine linen of his shirt peeking from beneath the cravat’s fall, reminded all lookers that only a gentleman could afford to wear immaculate linen on a regular basis. She had yet to see him in anything less.
His cravat gave way to a waistcoat of tasteful claret brocade, which was neither too garish like the peacock colours worn by the younger men present, nor too plain like the ivory or grey tones favoured by the older country gentlemen. Tasteful and smart, Nora reflected. He did not flash his town bronze overtly in these people’s faces, but chose a rather subtle way to state his rank. An expensive gold chain spanned his waistcoat, boasting a single watch fob, which was also very classic and discreet, not overdone like Frederick’s crowded, fussy watch chain.
His trousers fit over naturally narrow hips and waist that needed no corseting to give the impression of athleticism. Nora forced her eyes to stop there. She could not afford the distraction of contemplating what lay between his strong thighs. The memory of cupping him was still potent, even though two weeks had passed since that night in his bedroom. Two weeks only! She felt she had known Stockport longer than that.
‘What do you think, Miss Cooper?’ Frederick asked, breaking into her not-so-pure thoughts about Stockport. She had no idea what they were discussing specifically.
Nora raised her pretty fan and flapped it in front of her face and said in her best insipid tone, ‘I try not to think too much. Mama says it’s not attractive.’
Frederick bought the act. ‘Right-o, that’s what a pretty girl has a gentleman for.’ He patted her hand, commending her comment as if it were the wittiest thing he had heard in a long while.
Nora hazarded a glance at Stockport. He was not so easily gulled. She offered a simpering smile to reinforce her vacuous image. Damn him, he had caught her looking at him. Her little performance hadn’t fooled him in the least. If anything, he was more alert. He studied her hard for a moment and then moved his gaze beyond her shoulder.
Nora followed his eyes as they lit on four strategic points around the ballroom and the four men in those locations. She took their measure instantly. Ha! Stockport thought to hedge his bets and call for reinforcements. She had to admire the man for his confidence that all would go as planned. But he was dealing with The Cat.
It wasn’t too late to melt back into the crowd and disappear. Although Stockport might have his suspicions aroused, she could still stage a quick getaway by faking a visit to the ladies’ retiring room. But Nora didn’t seriously consider the option for long. Five against one might be unfair, but it wasn’t insurmountable.
With acuity, she calculated what needed to be done. First, she would confirm her presence to Stockport and then she needed to create a distraction to get them out from under the watchful eyes of Stockport’s hired men.
Nora went into action, flapping her fan again. ‘I am hot and need a glass of punch.’ Smiling sweetly, she dispatched Frederick to the crowded refreshment room.
She turned back to Stockport, all traces of the sugar-sweet innocent gone, replaced by the self-assured poise of a temptress confident in her abilities. ‘I believe you’re looking for me, or rather you’re looking for this.’ Nora produced a small felt pouch from the beaded reticule hanging from her wrist. She didn’t need to open it. They both knew what it contained. She had his attention—now for the distraction. She held out her hand. ‘Dance with me, Stockport.’
Stockport cast a meaningful glance at Frederick’s retreating back. ‘Have you no compunction about dancing with people you rob?’ he asked archly.
‘If I didn’t dance with people I rob, I wouldn’t get to dance at all. There’d be no one left.’
Stockport tightened his jaw at her cheeky banter, causing a tic to jump in his perturbation.
Nora grimaced. ‘I thought the remark was witty.’
‘I am not here to trade clever repartee. I am here to conduct a business transaction.’
‘Standing amidst all these people?’ Nora queried, enjoying baiting him. ‘Not here where everyone can see.’ She nodded towards the dance floor, where couples took their places for the set of waltzes that preceded the midnight supper, and reissued her invitation to dance.
Stockport led her to the floor without further conversation and swung her into the dance, skilfully manoeuvring them about the floor.
He waltzed impeccably, which didn’t surprise Nora. The man was all about flawlessness, from his perfectly combed hair to the toes of his spotless boots. However, he also waltzed with a passion that astonished her. His precision was not an empty effort.
A surreptitious ferocity lurked beneath his well-polished surface, practically undetectable except to another kindred soul who shared the same love for dance. Nora sensed it in the turns he took a shade too quickly at the top of the ballroom and in the press of his hand against her back as he signalled his instructions.
Nora looked into the sharp blue eyes that peered out from behind his dark demi-mask. They were daring her, but what the dare was, she could not immediately place.
Stockport leaned close to her ear, his voice low and melodious. ‘Can’t you do better than this? I would have thought The Cat was capable of more,’ he taunted.
Now she understood. He was daring her to match his passion. She smiled back. If she took his challenge, she would have the distraction she needed. ‘I was just making sure you were up for it,’ she countered. She leaned close to his ear, taking in his clean scent of soap and spices. ‘You want to fly, I can feel it.’
