you gentlemen are acquainted with each other,” she muttered. “How lovely.”
She widened her smile, aware that their audience had grown in numbers. Good heavens, they must all think I’m a simpleton. Yet better to be thought a half-witted female than a scandalous one.
For an instant, the two men turned in her direction, each appearing slightly puzzled that she had spoken. She realized that their focus had been so exclusively on each other, both had temporarily forgotten she was standing there with them.
“I shall deal with this, Dorothea,” Lord Dardington declared with quiet authority. “No need to trouble yourself.”
“There really is nothing to deal with, my lord,” she replied, striving to keep her tone neutral. “’Twas a simple misunderstanding.”
“Hmm, perhaps. Or perhaps not, at least not on Atwood’s part,” the Marquess of Dardington said in a frigid, calm voice as his angry gaze returned to her dancing partner.
Reflexively, Dorothea took a step back. The growing alarm that had taken up residence in her chest heightened, even as she admired the steely nerve exhibited by Lord Atwood.
The Marquess of Dardington was a formidable man, in physical stature and in temperament. There were few who possessed the nerve to meet him so directly. Apparently the Marquess of Atwood was one of those few.
Easily half the ton feared Lord Dardington’s volatile outbursts while the other half thrived on his antics and the endless gossip they produced. His wife, Lady Meredith, had assured Dorothea that Lord Dardington had mellowed with age, but she saw no evidence of that now. In truth, the most unsettling of all was the apparent calm Lord Dardington was currently demonstrating, despite his obvious displeasure.
The calm before the storm? Dorothea shivered, suddenly feeling alarmingly light-headed. Topping the evening off by having her guardian make a public spectacle truly would make this the worst night of her life.
“Miss Ellingham had promised me that dance, Atwood. But you spirited her away,” the Marquess of Dardington proclaimed. “Whatever were you thinking, man? Or rather, not thinking?”
The deep timbre of the Marquess of Dardington’s voice vibrated along Dorothea’s spine. She risked a small glance at the Marquess of Atwood. His face paled slightly; his jaw flexed. Her fear of an unpleasant scene increased.
“I was unaware of the circumstances, sir,” Lord Atwood replied. There was a pause, a long silence, and then finally, “my apologies.”
Lord Atwood rigidly inclined his head as he offered his apology. His voice held the proper amount of regret, his contrition appeared genuine. On the surface. Yet something in Lord Atwood’s tone caught Dorothea’s attention.
She would bet every shilling of her weekly allowance that the young nobleman would have done precisely the same thing even if he had known the entire circumstances.
Lord Dardington darkened his glare. Apparently he shared her view. The tension in the air escalated. The two men now locked eyes, much as two rams would lock horns. Dorothea supposed it was better than knocking heads, though that might come later, depending on how this conversation concluded. Wide-eyed, she licked her lips.
Fearful of her own safety if she dared to step between them, Dorothea tried to manage a disarming smile. But she need not have bothered. Both men were once again ignoring her, too intent on each other to be aware of much else.
She remembered suddenly the first time she had met the Marquess of Dardington. He had been cordial, pleasant, even charming. But then her temporary guardian had succinctly outlined his expectations of her conduct and the rules he expected to be obeyed without questions while she was a member of his London household.
He had also, rather graphically, described what would happen if she broke any of those rules. It had taken until the next morning for Dorothea’s knees to stop shaking.
But the Marquess of Atwood did not appear to be having the same difficulties. Lord Dardington was casting him a stare that would cause any sane, mortal man to quake in his boots. But the Marquess of Atwood barely blinked.
Dorothea could not help but think of Arthur Pengrove. She was certain he would have fainted dead away if he were on the receiving end of such a stare from her guardian.
“I suppose I must accept your apology and thus excuse your deplorable manners,” Lord Dardington grudgingly conceded. “Just see that it never happens again.”
“Thank you for being so enlightened, sir.” Atwood turned toward Dorothea and smiled. “Surely you can understand how I lost my head when I set eyes on the lovely Miss Ellingham earlier. I found her irresistible.”
“Lost your head? Aye, along with any semblance of common sense,” Dardington grumbled.
Lord Atwood grinned ruefully. “I am a gentleman, sir, not a saint.”
Lord Dardington cracked a smile, but then his handsome face contorted into another grimace. “Be warned, Atwood. While she is under my roof, Miss Ellingham is under my protection. I take my responsibilities toward her with the same care and devotion I afford to my daughters, who thank God are still too young to be out in society.”
“I understand.” Lord Atwood’s lips quirked into another thin smile.
“Good. Make certain you don’t forget it.” Lord Dardington shifted his footing and regarded the younger man steadily, his brooding concentration an unnerving scrutiny.
Lord Atwood’s smile faded. Perhaps he was not as unaffected by Lord Dardington’s manner as he tried to appear? Strangely, the notion that he took Lord Dardington seriously caused Dorothea’s opinion of Lord Atwood to rise. Obviously he was intelligent to recognize a formidable opponent when presented to him. Yet he was clever enough, and levelheaded enough, to know when he was outmaneuvered.
“I will most definitely remember our conversation, sir.” Lord Atwood turned and bowed over her gloved hand. “I bid you good evening, Miss Ellingham. Thank you for the delightful dance and the enjoyable company. It was the undisputed highlight of my night.”
To her everlasting annoyance, Dorothea felt herself blushing. He was standing very close, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his solid body. She sternly told herself to calm down.
“I hardly know what to say,” she replied.
His brow quirked. “A first for you, I imagine.”
She smiled. She hadn’t meant to; she wanted to be cool and dignified, even a tad dismissive. But he was simply too handsome, too charming. And Dorothea had always had a weakness for handsome, charming men.
“I am hopeful that when next we meet, you will handle yourself in a more proper manner, my lord,” she said, regretting that he had released her hand. She liked his touch, had enjoyed feeling small and delicate.
“I assure you, when next we meet, you will not be disappointed.” He leaned forward and whispered. “I vow that I shall even remember your name. Dorothea.”
Then, with a conspiratorial smile, Lord Atwood took his leave.
“Woolgathering, Dorothea?”
“What? Oh?” Dorothea pulled her eyes away
