The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom

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СКАЧАТЬ in demand. Have you danced with her?”

      “I have, indeed. She is light of foot, but she hasn’t your fire.” Sir Martin gave her a meaningful look.

      “You like red hair, sir?”

      “Your locks are more a reddish-blond, and I like it very much, indeed. My inquiries have revealed that you have been in town six entire months, Miss Lovejoy. How is it that you are yet unattached?”

      “Luck?” she ventured.

      He grinned. “My good luck. I should have been distraught if you’d been spoken for before I had my chance.”

      Afton blinked in surprise. Was he asking if his attentions were welcome? “I…I have not been much in society, sir. Did your inquiries reveal that I am my aunt’s companion?”

      Sir Martin affected a wounded look as he spun her in a tight circle. “Miss Lovejoy, say you do not think me so parsimonious as to be a fortune hunter.”

      She laughed. “Sir, most women are judged as worthy as their fortunes, and I come with more liabilities than assets.”

      “Noted. And yet I am undaunted.”

      What will it take? Afton thought. Ashamed of herself, she smiled. “You are very kind, sir.”

      “Not at all. Bloodlines are also important, would you not agree? You are of a good family, and your father was only once removed from a title, I think?”

      “The Lovejoy pedigree stands up to scrutiny.”

      The waltz ended. Sir Martin offered his arm as he escorted her back to Grace. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We shall waltz again, Miss Lovejoy.”

      She put on a polite smile. “Do not forget Dianthe.”

      The moment Sir Martin departed, Grace took Afton’s hand and led her apart from the little group she’d been standing in. “Glenross said he’d be back to claim a dance. He was asking about you, Afton, and your circumstances.”

      “What if he suspects I am…”

      “I pray that is not possible. Though he seemed to study you overmuch, you betrayed nothing of your identity.”

      “I am certain of it. I was swathed head to toe in Auntie Hen’s disguise. Why, I even wore gloves to cover my hands. I lowered my voice and spoke with an accent. Still, he was behaving oddly.”

      “Then he must be smitten with Afton Lovejoy.”

      “Also impossible, Aunt. From the on dit, Glenross is notorious for being blind to a pretty face. I’ve heard that from too many sources to doubt it. And he is still mourning his late wife, Lady Maeve.”

      “Did you see that in the cards?”

      “Heavens!” Afton laughed. “You mustn’t believe such silly stuff. Who would know better than I what balderdash that is? A parlor game, Aunt Grace. Put no more stock in it than that.”

      “Then perhaps you ought to tell your own fortune, Afton. But later. Here comes Glenross again.”

      “I think I am not meant to dance the waltz, Lord Glenross. I fear I have lamed poor Sir Martin for life.”

      He deflected her mild protest with an unarguable counter. “Allow me to worry over the state of my own feet, Miss Lovejoy. You cannot know just how sturdy I am.”

      She laughed, thinking it would be interesting to make a comparison between him and Sir Martin. She offered her hand.

      “When you ran off last night, I thought I might have offended you in some way,” he said when the music started.

      “Not in the least, my lord.” She placed her right hand across his left palm and was fascinated by how small it looked in his. As he settled his warm right hand at her waist, a quiver of excitement traveled up her spine. She was acutely aware of his size, his scent, his proximity and the odd gentleness of his touch despite his rough strength. No, he did not offend her in the slightest possible way.

      “That is a relief,” he said as he led her into the dance. “I am usually deliberate when I am giving offense, but I must allow for the occasional faux pas. You will correct me if I err, will you not?”

      “With alacrity,” she teased. “I thought you had been back long enough to have reclaimed your social graces.”

      He gave her a curious look, his cool eyes searching hers. “I have, Miss Lovejoy. What you see before you is the polished version of Rob McHugh.”

      “I suspected as much, my lord.” Indeed, he was so polished that he left her breathless. His admission that she was looking at that side of him made her ashamed of teasing him. Thus far, as Afton, she had seen little of the cold, dangerous, fierce reputation that the ton gossiped about. Ah, but as Madame Zoe she had experienced a decided frost.

      She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. She had to be very careful not to betray the tiniest hint of Madame Zoe to Glenross. She suspected he would not take kindly to being deceived.

      Seeking a change of subject, she realized she had not stepped on his toe once since the dance began. “I think this is going rather well,” she ventured. “Better than my first waltz.”

      “Beginnings are always difficult, Miss Lovejoy. One cannot be proficient in…any task on one’s fledgling tries. ‘Firsts’ can be disappointing.” His voice lowered to that deep timbre that tickled her psyche. “But with a skilled and patient instructor, you may exceed your highest hopes.”

      Afton grappled with that statement for a moment. “A…a good instructor can accomplish much,” she finally allowed.

      Glenross tilted his head back in a hearty guffaw and led her into a quick turn. Miraculously, she did not even stumble. The strength and firmness of his hand had guided her unfalteringly through the maneuver. “I shall be pleased to devote myself to the task of teaching you to waltz, Miss Lovejoy. I cannot wait to see how much you might accomplish.”

      Even though she wished the dance could last forever, the whisper in her ear was back. Danger. Danger.

      As Seymour prattled beside him at the tavern bar, Rob tossed back another whiskey. He’d meant to go back to his room and make an early evening of it, but when little Miss Lovejoy had challenged him, made him laugh, made him forget—just for a minute—he’d become rife with guilt. A guilt he was desperate to assuage. In any way possible. He didn’t need the damn guilt to remind him that he’d failed—at being a father and a husband.

      Failed so miserably that Maeve had been moved to tell him so. He was too intemperate, too fierce in his passions, she’d informed him. He unsettled her, she’d said. She’d feared he would consume her if she let him. She’d said she needed a finer emotion from him—something gentler, less intense. Safer. He was, according to his deceased wife, on a level scarcely above an animal. “McHugh the Destroyer,” she’d called him, because he’d destroyed her only chance for happiness. Thus far, he’d been unable to find anything that would prove her wrong. He had wanted her each time he’d been with her, but he hadn’t…what? Become soft and moon-eyed over her many vaunted attributes? Craved her? Thought of her constantly when they were apart? СКАЧАТЬ