while other, cooler, heads argued for caution; glutting the market with copper and tin would drive the price down, which in turn would affect the domestic market’s ability to turn a profit.
Canton sided with the capitalists, avidly arguing for aggressive expansion in South American mining. Valerian’s earlier suspicions about Canton coveting the assets brought to him through marriage to Philippa were finding substantiation in Canton’s avaricious stance on the economics of mining. Valerian made a mental note to ask Beldon about the extent of Philippa’s mining assets.
‘Fifteen minutes until midnight!’The cry went up from the orchestra conductor, who urged everyone to find a partner for the ‘last waltz of the year’. There was an excited flurry on the dance floor as people laughingly paired up.
Valerian strode purposefully towards the group Philippa stood with. Other than acting as a willing dance partner for her wallflowers, Valerian had stayed apart from her. He preferred to study her movements and behaviour from afar—a certain kind of exquisite torture he’d imposed on himself as punishment for the prior evening. In hindsight, he acknowledged that he had not handled himself well on the balcony. He’d rushed his fences without knowing his quarry.
Tonight, she sparkled among an already glittering crowd. The deep gold of her gown was an elegant foil for the mass of burnished hair piled on her head and coiffed in strands of gold, woven through the coils like other women wove pearls. Her long neck was shown to advantage with the upsweep of her hair and Valerian was seized with the urge to kiss her nape as he came up behind her. He settled for putting his hands on her shoulders as if he were settling an imaginary cloak about her. He bent close to her ear, saying, ‘I believe this dance is mine.’
It was a proprietary overture on his part and he knew it well. Most women thrilled to such a seductive, possessive claim. Odds were that Philippa wouldn’t. But neither would she be able to politely refuse without looking like a shrew in front of the others.
Whatever scold she had in store for him would be worth the feel of her in his arms. Waltzing was something they’d done often and well in the old days.
‘Viscount,’ Philippa said, recovering from having been caught unaware by his gambit, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. You’ve left it until the last minute.’ She gave a smile, forced to cover for his presumptions.
‘My apologies.’ Valerian swept her a gallant bow and escorted her to the dance floor, knowing he wouldn’t get off that easily. He had no sooner fitted his hand against her back when she showed her displeasure.
‘Don’t ever handle me like that again,’ she began.
‘I am afraid it would be rather difficult to dance without touching you,’ Valerian said obtusely.
‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. You put me in a position where I could not refuse you without looking rag-mannered. Moreover, you insinuated claims on my attentions that you do not have.’
‘Haven’t I?’ He couldn’t resist the temptation to flirt with her.
The music started up before she could fire another insult at his head. Valerian swept her out into the centre of the floor, effortlessly creating space for them in the crowd. He was confident her pique wouldn’t last long. Philippa could not resist the lure of the waltz. It had always been her favourite dance.
He had waltzed women across dance floors from the Black Sea to St Mark’s Square in Venice, but no partner could rival the beauty of Philippa in his arms. Her long legs matched his stride with ease; her body answered the subtle guidance of his hand. She was all fluid grace as they moved through the turn at the top of the ballroom, her anger at him erased in the exhilaration of the dance.
They turned swiftly and tightly, giving him a reason to bring her up close to him instead of holding her at arm’s length. She gasped at the change in contact, then threw back her head and gave an honest laugh. ‘You waltz scandalously, St Just. Is this how they do it in Vienna?’
‘It’s how I do it.’ He wondered how long he could keep her like this. The sight of her smile was breathtaking. In that moment, the smile was all for him. It was not her hostess smile, or her duchess smile, just her smile. A smile he’d known for years. It was the smile she’d given him when they raced neck or nothing, the smile she’d given him when they’d danced at her début, the smile she’d given him the first time he’d kissed her, deeply, thoroughly, and she’d recognised him as a man of powerful urges.
He laughed back and whirled them about at a faster pace, heedless of convention. The dancing halted promptly at midnight in order for the ballroom to cheer in the New Year. Both of them were laughing and breathless. Valerian had his arm about her waist, keeping her close at his side, enjoying her unhampered good humour.
All her masks were off and she was Philippa Stratten beside him once more. His masks were off too. He was simply a young man again, in the throes of a first and true love, untouched by the rougher edges of life. A giddy elation fired his blood at the final stroke of midnight. As the raucous cheers went up, he recklessly pulled her to him and kissed her full on the mouth. Her arms wound around his neck and her head tipped back to take his kiss completely. There was an unequalled sweetness in knowing she felt the fire, too, and had given herself over to it. In that moment Valerian swore a silent resolution to himself in the fashion of old English tradition. By this time next year, he would have her. He’d already lived too long without her.
The orchestra struck up a tune for another waltz before the guests headed in for the New Year’s supper. Valerian swung her into the dance without asking. She protested with a laugh, ‘We’ve already danced once tonight.’
‘That was last year,’ Valerian parried easily, his elation only partially dampened by the stare of an infuriated Lucien Canton, who watched them from the sidelines, rage emanating from every pore of his impeccably groomed form.
Lucien viewed the pair waltzing with abandon and a disgusting amount of apparent ease in each other’s arms. They were beautiful to watch as long as one wasn’t also watching one’s opportunity to marry one of them decreasing exponentially. Valerian Inglemoore was most definitely an unlooked-for complication in the progress of his plans. He had meant to propose to Philippa in the spring when he could do it in high style in London among the haut monde. Watching her with the newly returned viscount, Lucien knew without doubt he couldn’t wait that long.
He had to strike before the iron was hot, as it were. Most people who knew him believed him to be a keen judge of human nature. Lucien knew his accuracy in guessing people’s motivations and desires was partly his own intuition, but also partly because he spied on everyone in his milieu. The duchess was not exempt.
His spies indicated that the viscount was besotted with her, stealing away from the dinner table last night to steal kisses on the veranda. It was no balm to Lucien’s concern that his spy also reported Philippa had slapped the bastard across the face. At the moment she might be conflicted over her response to the return of her curious friend, but hate ran a close parallel to love. From what Lucien had seen, if he waited until spring, the lovely and pivotal duchess would no longer be interested or available.
Without the Cambourne mines, his hopes to corner the tin market and establish an elite, profitable tin cartel, with holdings in Britain and South America, would become an idle dream. And without access to the Cam-bourne finances, he’d be hard pressed to cover some of his investments. It didn’t take any amount of genius to know that if St Just claimed Philippa’s affections, Lucien’s own friendship with her would come to a quick end. St Just was not the type of man who’d allow his wife to keep a close male friend.
Lucien’s
