No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster

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      Alone once more, Rilla glanced back to Jack as he crossed the room. He had all the swaggered arrogance she remembered from the schoolroom and, more recently, when he’d visited Father. If only they hadn’t gambled—

      To be beholden to such a man.

      An unladylike swear word flashed through her mind and she had to bite her lip to keep from saying it aloud. The obnoxious man had gone to Imogene.

      The earl was asking her to dance.

      For a brief unreasonable instant Rilla wanted to sprint across the floor and physically pull him from her sister. An impotent anger vibrated through her and she felt her fists tighten.

      ‘Goodness, why so fierce, Miss Gibson?’

      Rilla jumped at the low male voice. Turning, she found herself staring at a broad masculine chest encased in a white-satin waistcoat and black jacket.

      * * *

      The girl looked more like a golden statue than a human form. The cream muslin dress was shot with gold and shimmered with her every move. Her hair was a crown of ruddy gold, piled high with soft tendrils curling at her neck.

      Miss Gibson was definitely not pretty, that would be too insipid. Nor beautiful, her face was not cast in classic lines. No, she was striking, inspiring almost.

      Good Lord, and he was staring at her like a goggle-eyed fool.

      ‘Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.

      She turned and frowned as though disorientated. ‘Lord Wyburn, you startled me.’

      ‘My apologies, Miss Gibson. You were engrossed,’ he said.

      ‘Yes, I was watching—’

      ‘Your sister’s success. Without much pleasure, it would appear.’

      Colour rushed into her cheeks, but she caught his meaning quick enough.

      ‘I’m not jealous of my sister, if that is what you mean,’ she said.

      ‘Blunt again. Jealousy is a natural feeling.’

      ‘Natural to some—not me. I’m happy for my sister.’

      ‘If not envy, then why the angry countenance?’ Paul asked more gently.

      ‘I disapprove of my sister’s partner.’

      Good Lord, the girl really did have a penchant for direct speech—a rarity in the female sex.

      ‘I agree, although your bluntness will cause you no end of grief.’

      ‘I might insult someone?’

      Paul smiled despite himself. ‘Even in secluded corners, one may be overheard.’

      She made a face, seemingly unimpressed with the suggestion. ‘I am not afraid of Lockhart. Straight talk might do him good.’

      ‘But it might do the speaker harm, particularly if the object of her speech chooses to use his influence to discredit her.’

      He saw a flicker of apprehension, quickly squashed.

      ‘So,’ he asked lightly, wanting to relieve the very anxiety he had caused, ‘are you enjoying it?’

      ‘The dance?’ she said, with uncharacteristic vagueness.

      ‘That is the event we are currently attending.’

      ‘Yes.’ She looked about her with genuine admiration and smiled. ‘Yes, it is beautiful, magical almost.’

      Paul followed her gaze and watched the expressions flicker across her mobile features. For a moment, he forgot that he had been to hundreds of balls and that their allure had long since tarnished.

      Instead, he saw the room as she did, a fairyland of flickering light, mirrors, music and perfumed air.

      ‘Dance with me,’ he said.

      ‘I beg your pardon?’

      ‘Your card is not full and I fear the current situation is not appropriate.’

      ‘In what way?’ Her brows drew together.

      ‘We have not yet danced. May I have the honour, Miss Gibson?’

      Her face registered an interesting mix of emotion: surprise, confusion, reluctance. She shifted back towards the rubber plant. Good lord, the chit actually wanted to refuse. No one had turned him down since he was a callow youth. He did not know whether to be angered or amused.

      ‘I believe that hiding is not acting with the utmost propriety,’ he added.

      ‘I am not hiding!’

      ‘And refusing to dance with the stepson of one’s benefactress might not be entirely appropriate.’

      ‘Then, pray tell, what would you have me do?’

      ‘Accompany me to the dance floor,’ he said, inclining his head towards the orchestra.

      ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t wish to be improper. Lady Wyburn said you would feel obligated to ask.’

      He frowned, perversely irritated. ‘She exaggerates my sense of social obligation, I assure you.’

      ‘I am certain she meant it as a compliment.’

      ‘No doubt. But now you are looking much too serious. Smile as though I’ve said something particularly witty.’

      ‘Is that what all the other women do?’ she asked.

      She smelled of soap and lemons, he thought, as he led her to the dance floor. He liked the smell, tangy and fresh, so different from the perfumed scents of other women.

      ‘My lord?’

      ‘I beg your pardon?’ He jerked his attention back to the conversation.

      ‘Do other women look spellbound as if you’ve said something witty?’

      ‘Naturally.’

      He took her gloved hand and felt it tremble within his palm. The dance started and they broke apart in time to the music.

      ‘Even when you haven’t said anything either inspiring or witty?’ she asked as they came together again.

      ‘Especially then.’

      ‘How tiresome for you.’

      ‘Why so?’

      ‘Well, it must make you feel as though you’re not a real person, but just a viscount.’

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