her rescue mission was out of the question. She’d rather face a gaggle of gossips dressed only in her chemise and petticoat than reveal her true purpose to this … this rake!
‘Your gloves are in your reticule.’ Sir Christopher held out an uncompromising hand. ‘Allow me to demonstrate, my dear lady.’
‘There is no need. And you will call me Mrs Wilkinson. I am not your dear or anyone else’s dear or any other endearment you care to mention.’ Hattie clutched the reticule to her chest. Panic clawed at her stomach. The gloves! How could he know? How would he twist the discovery?
‘There is every need, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Sir Christopher’s tone hardened to well-tempered steel. ‘Your reticule.’
Silently Hattie passed the beaded reticule over to him. Their fingers brushed and a single tremor of warmth ran up her arm. Ruthlessly, she suppressed it. A delayed reaction to all the gossip about his private life, that was all.
He weighed the reticule in his well-manicured hand as if trying to decide what to do. She prayed for a miracle and that he might suddenly reveal a handkerchief. He opened it and withdrew a pair of lace gloves with mulberry bows tacked to the cuffs.
‘Very pretty they are, too. Or perhaps you have another pair and keep these for emergencies.’
‘They are mine,’ Hattie ground out, silently wishing him, his dark brooding eyes and his infuriatingly superior expression to the devil. ‘I obviously forgot where I had placed them. I thank you for your assistance.’
‘Always happy to oblige a lady.’ He made an ironic bow. ‘But you owe me a forfeit for finding them.’
‘A forfeit?’
‘The next dance.’ Kit Foxton concentrated on Mrs Wilkinson. The woman with her carefully coiffured crown of blonde braids and severe dress needed to learn a light romance at a ball was something to be desired rather than condemned.
‘Olivia, close your mouth,’ the overbearing Mrs Wilkinson declared. Her skirts swirled as she turned, revealing surprisingly shapely ankles. ‘Sir Christopher found my gloves. We shall be returning to the ballroom. Behave as if nothing has happened. Say nothing about this incident. Ever.’
‘Such a simple stratagem, but I found your gloves.’ Kit clenched and unclenched his fists. Mrs Wilkinson appeared to believe that she had the right to pass judgement on others’ behaviour and to fashion the world how she wanted. He looked forward to proving her wrong. ‘You may have them back once the forfeit is properly paid.’
Mrs Wilkinson gave a pointed cough. ‘Olivia, the ballroom! Now!’
‘What are you afraid of, Mrs Wilkinson? Why are you running when it is you who started this game?’ he called out. ‘Your reputation being ruined? It takes more than a few moments of pleasant conversation to sully a reputation as you must know.’
She froze, slipper dangling in mid-air. ‘My reputation has never been in danger. Ever.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
She slowly turned to face him with her hands balled on her hips, blue-green eyes flashing with barely suppressed fury. ‘It never will be. I would thank you to remember that.’
‘You want to dance with my aunt? But she is a widow of seven years!’ Miss Parteger clapped her hands together.
‘Dancing is not forbidden to widows,’ Kit said. A widow. Why did the knowledge not surprise him? The only shock was that she must have once experienced romance.
Kit frowned as Mrs Wilkinson turned her head to glare at her niece and he saw her long swanlike neck. The curious dead part of his soul that had been part of his existence for a year stirred and moved. Mrs Wilkinson had possibilities.
‘We appear to be in a bit of a tangle here,’ Mrs Wilkinson said, putting her hand on her hip. ‘You will cease your funning this instant, Sir Christopher, and return my gloves.’
‘They are safe in my care until the forfeit is paid. To the victor, the spoils.’
‘Just wait until Mama hears about this,’ Miss Parteger said, clapping her hands together. ‘She will be at sixes and sevens with excitement. Aunt Harriet has a beau. Finally.’
‘I would suggest, young lady, that you hold your tongue about this adventure.’ Kit gave a cold nod. Mrs Wilkinson had lost. He knew it and, more importantly, she knew it. She would yield to his suggestion.
Miss Parteger blinked rapidly. ‘Why?’
‘Because if you don’t, it will reveal you were somewhere where you shouldn’t have been and your trip to London might become a distant dream,’ Mrs Wilkinson replied without missing a beat. The colour drained from her niece’s face. ‘And, yes, Sir Christopher, I will dance with you, but it must be the next dance. I want this fanciful forfeit finished and this entire episode an unwelcome memory as soon as possible.’
Kit resisted the temptation to crow. There was no point in grinding one’s opponent into the floor like his father used to. Kit didn’t require abject humiliation, just total surrender.
Kit held out his arm and smiled at the overly confident Mrs Wilkinson. A waltz in this backwater would be too much to hope for. A simple quadrille which would allow him to put his hands on her waist was all he desired. Mrs Wilkinson needed this. She would thank him for it … later. ‘Our dance awaits.’
As Hattie set foot in the ballroom, flanked by Livvy and Sir Christopher, the music ceased and the mass of humanity seethed around the dance floor as people exchanged greetings and partners.
Hattie breathed deeply and released Sir Christopher’s arm. Tonight’s adventure was finished. A solitary quadrille with Sir Christopher to prove her point, and she’d be finished. The dance would prove useful if Livvy was unable to resist confiding her adventure. She would merely claim that Sir Christopher had requested a dance and she’d agreed. No one needed to know the precise circumstances.
‘Shall we?’ She gestured with her fan towards the middle of the dance floor, well away from the chandelier and its dripping wax.
‘This dance? Don’t you want to know which one it is?’
‘Why wait? Or are you a coward?’ she called out. ‘I wish to get this forfeit over.’
She was halfway across the dance floor when the master of ceremonies announced that the next dance would a German waltz. Hattie halted. A waltz? The next dance couldn’t be a waltz. They never waltzed at Summerfield. A waltz would mean being in Sir Christopher’s arms, looking up into his dark grey eyes. Impossible!
‘It would appear I was wrong. It isn’t a quadrille, but a waltz.’ Hattie shrugged a shoulder and attempted to ignore the ice-cold pit opening in her stomach. ‘Fancy that.’
‘Is a waltz problematic?’ he asked, lifting a quizzical brow, but his eyes gleamed with hidden lights.
‘Such a shame. We agreed to a quadrille.’ Hattie gave a falsely contrite smile. Escape. All she needed to do was to escape. He wouldn’t come after her. He wouldn’t create a scene. ‘It has been a pleasure, Sir Christopher.’
She dropped a quick curtsy and prepared to move towards where
