was he’d forgotten all about Rawcliffe’s scheme, for a while there. He might have asked her to dance in order to further that scheme, but he’d wanted her to enjoy herself because... Well, he’d just wanted her to enjoy herself, that was all.
Now, her blushing response to him reminded him how very vulnerable she was, all over again. The perfect mark for Rawcliffe’s scheme.
He ground his teeth. If there was any other way...
But, according to both Rawcliffe and Becconsall, when they’d filled him in on the mission, there wasn’t. The village where the man lived, who they suspected of being responsible for Archie’s murder, was impregnable from a full-frontal attack, tucked into an inlet that was backed by sheer cliffs and approachable from the sea only by means of a narrow, rock-strewn channel. They’d never be able to get in openly, and search for the evidence they needed to bring him to justice. Visitors to the surrounding area were watched, too. From what Rawcliffe had been able to discover in the short time he’d stayed at Peacombe, a nearby seaside resort, that had been Archie’s mistake. He’d been too open about what had led him to go to that area. Had spoken to someone who had reported back to someone else, who’d promptly had him killed.
Stealth was the answer. Going in under cover of a lot of smoke. And Miss Hutton was the means of providing it.
‘You may think that these men I was interviewing,’ Rawcliffe had told him, when the others had left the supposedly secret meeting that night, ‘were a set of rogues, but one thing you cannot deny is their appeal to the gentler sex.’ Harry had only had to reflect for a moment or two before agreeing. Especially since he knew a little about each man’s exploits in that area. ‘Moreover,’ Rawcliffe had continued dispassionately, ‘from what Clare has told me, Miss Hutton will jump at the chance for a match that will provide the means to escape her grandfather’s tyranny. Giving her fiancé the perfect opportunity to haunt the place for as long as it takes to find the proof we need to bring Clement Cottam to justice.’
‘Right-hand star,’ shouted the dance caller, jerking him out of his reverie.
Miss Hutton grasped his hand firmly. But the other lady in their foursome kept her own hand timidly under her own partner’s so that the star never fully meshed. Which meant that when they began to circle, he and Miss Hutton, whose steps matched perfectly, were in danger of overtaking the other two. When Miss Hutton made as if she was going to slow down, he gripped her hand tighter and shook his head, reminding her that it was for the others to keep up. And, after one brief moment when he saw panic in the other lady’s eyes, she did indeed speed up, obliging her partner to do the same. In short order, their little legs were positively twinkling as they put on a spurt of speed that left them red-faced and panting by the time the figure ended.
Luckily for all concerned, the orchestra brought the performance to an end soon after. Everyone in the set bowed to everyone else and tottered away from the floor. Leaving Miss Hutton and he standing there alone, as if in possession of the field.
Oh, to the devil with his conscience! And Rawcliffe’s schemes. He seized Miss Hutton’s hands.
‘I say,’ he panted. ‘Would you like to do that again?’
She blinked. ‘You cannot mean that.’
‘I jolly well can. I don’t think I have ever enjoyed a dance more.’
She peered up at him, as though perplexed.
‘But we disrupted the others. We didn’t...keep time.’
‘We kept perfect time. We just kept a bit more of it than the others, that was all.’
She tipped her head to one side, as though assessing his viewpoint. ‘That’s as may be,’ she then said, pensively. ‘But I don’t think anyone else will return to the dance floor while we remain on it.’
He glanced round the other occupants of the ballroom, who were, indeed, looking a bit reluctant to return to the floor while they still stood there. ‘Lightweights,’ he said scornfully. ‘It wasn’t as if I trod upon anyone’s toes. Nor did I knock anyone over.’
‘Have you ever done so? Knocked anyone over, I mean? I know about the toe-crushing.’
‘Not actually.’
‘I have,’ she said dolefully.
‘How did you manage that?’
‘Swung him round with a bit too much enthusiasm.’
He couldn’t help grinning at the image she conjured up for him. ‘You can swing me round with as much enthusiasm as you like,’ he assured her. ‘And you will never manage to knock me off my feet.’
She eyed him in an assessing manner.
‘Come on,’ he urged her, ‘let’s dance again. And this time, no holds barred. Let’s just enjoy ourselves, for once, without worrying about what damage we might do.’ Or what the future might bring. ‘And then I shall escort you in for tea.’
‘You...you...’ She gazed at him as though he was some kind of marvel. ‘You are going to set tongues wagging,’ she finished, though he was pretty sure that was not what she’d been going to say.
‘From what I can gather, they wag anyway,’ he said scornfully. And then noted the little furrow between her brows. ‘Does it bother you?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Not tonight. Besides, I won’t hear it, will I, if I am on the dance floor, or supping tea with you.’
But she would have to face it the next day. And the one after that.
Poor Miss Hutton.
Not that he was going to permit sympathy for her to stop him from his pursuit. And conquest.
Too much depended on it.
Lizzie had never woken up, while in Bath, with a sense of anticipation. And she’d always regarded their daily attendance at the Pump Room as just a part of the grindingly dull routine she had to weather. But this morning, her heart was beating double time as she helped Grandfather out of his sedan chair.
Would he be there today? Captain Bretherton? He’d come yesterday, to drink the waters. Although she couldn’t think why. He was the strongest man she’d ever met. Which was probably why she’d enjoyed dancing with him so much. For the first time, she hadn’t felt oversized and gangly, and unfeminine. Not at all. She’d felt...
Well, if he was here today, she could ask him what on earth he was doing, drinking the foul waters, when he was so...
She felt a blush coming on and ruthlessly turned her thoughts in another direction. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice how susceptible she was to Captain Bretherton and start quizzing her about him.
And if he was here, she was going to speak to him in a sensible fashion. Not stammer and blush, and sigh. Absolutely not. She’d start, she’d decided earlier—after ransacking her wardrobe for a gown she would actually like him to see her wearing, before realising she didn’t possess one—by asking him why his doctor had sent him to Bath to drink the waters. For there was nothing
