though Dorothea noted gleefully that he was no longer in time to the music.
She raised her brow challengingly at Lord Atwood as they came together for a final time. He gazed into her eyes with an intense stare, but did nothing improper. She inhaled, feeling jittery and oddly disappointed.
The major escorted her from the dance floor. Lord Atwood retreated in the opposite direction. Dorothea smiled routinely, expressing her thanks, trying to settle her nerves. It had been fun dancing with the major, yet it was the moments when she met and sparred with the marquess that stuck in her mind.
There was a brief pause as the musicians set themselves for the next dance.
“I believe you have promised the waltz to me, Miss Ellingham,” a deep voice proclaimed.
“Did I?” she remarked airily. Dorothea consulted the dance card that hung from her wrist on a white satin ribbon, not especially caring for the possessive tone in Lord Rosen’s voice.
Previously he had treated her with a formal reserve she initially found intimidating and later decided was more amusing than anything else. He had been among the first to notice her when she came to Town, monopolizing her shamefully at her first society outing. A meeting with the Marquess of Dardington quickly changed that circumstance, but a few weeks ago Lord Rosen had made a second appearance as a potential suitor.
Dorothea had dismissed him from her thoughts because she had been pursuing Arthur Pengrove. And, she also admitted, because Lord Rosen was a bit daunting. He was older, nearly forty, a gentleman with sophisticated tastes and libertarian ways. He was, by many accounts, an accomplished rake. What then could he possibly see in her? She vacillated wildly between feeling flattered and puzzled by his attention.
“There, see my name.” Lord Rosen pointed to her dance card. “’Tis written in such a fine, feminine hand. It appears that everything you do is close to perfection.”
Heavens above, was he teasing? She glanced up at him. He sent her a provocative glance and she wondered what he really thought. Did he in truth hold her in any esteem? Or was this part of an elaborate game, a carefully orchestrated seduction?
Resolving not to let herself be provoked, Dorothea repressed a waspish retort and composed her features into blandness. Surely nothing would scare the handsome, dashing Lord Rosen away faster than a limp, placid female.
He appraised her with a measuring gaze and Dorothea realized her ploy had not worked. In fact, it seemed to have the opposite result. Instead of becoming bored and disinterested in her, Lord Rosen seemed keener than ever to spend time in her company.
“The waltz is the most intimate of dances, is it not?” he whispered.
“It can be,” she replied, her voice thin and fragile. Oh, dear this would not do. Not at all. Dorothea cleared her throat. “With the right partner,” she added in a far stronger tone.
“Yes, the choice of a partner can make the difference in so many of life’s experiences,” he said smoothly.
Dorothea felt the color rush to her cheeks. There were those who said a reformed rake made the best husband. Her own brother-in-law, Jason Barrington, was living proof of the truth in that statement. Still, Dorothea was not convinced of the universal application of that theory and wondered again if it was wise to test it personally.
On the other hand, Arthur Pengrove was no longer a possible matrimonial candidate. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her assessment of Lord Rosen’s character. A more mature, worldly gentleman like Lord Rosen might make the ideal husband for her.
Besides, her own requirement that she kiss any gentleman whom she considered to be a potential husband before agreeing to marriage would be an easy feat to accomplish. Given his reputation and experience, it was safe to say that Lord Rosen would not object nor censure what others might label as forward behavior when she encouraged a kiss.
Dorothea offered him a warm smile. “The music is about to begin, my lord. Shall we?”
She put her hand on his outstretched arm. He instantly covered it with his own, squeezing it with an intimate familiarity that pushed at the boundaries of propriety. Dorothea ignored the jolt of warning that rushed to her head. They would be dancing in a crowded ballroom, in plain view of hundreds of guests, including Lord Dardington, her self-appointed protector.
What possible harm could occur?
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