First, he’d gone with Lucien, but that was too familiar. Yet, Lord Brightstone had seemed so overly formal.
Now he couldn’t recall exactly what he’d written, only that it had seemed sufficient.
“Lord Brightstone.” A lady in a bright pink gown and stiff blonde curls stepped into his path.
He politely smiled as he focused behind her to keep an eye on where he’d seen Miss Bexley.
“Lady Alison.” She batted her lashes, and he briefly wondered if she had something in her eye. “Do you recall?”
How ironic that she now worried if he recalled her even as she had always forgotten him in the past.
“Ah, yes.” He nodded with an aloof air. “So good to see you.” He shifted slightly and turned his attention from her, ready to stride toward Miss Bexley.
“I thought the same when I discovered you were also in attendance.” She blinked up at him, her gray eyes imploring. “My dance card isn’t full…yet.”
Every morsel of his being begged to be away from the woman’s heavy presence. And yet, he was not there to dance solely with Miss Bexley. He was attending all those awful social events with a mind toward marriage. And Lady Alison was definitely interested.
“Would you care to dance with me later this evening?” he asked.
“We can dance now.” She bounced a little higher on her toes. Her curls did not move with the action, but her generous bosom jiggled.
Lucien purposefully averted his gaze. “Forgive me, but I have already promised the first set to another.”
Lady Alison gave him a pout that immediately told him he would not enjoy life with her and already regretted the solitary dance he would be forced to endure.
“The next one then?” she pressed.
“It would be an honor,” he said, though he genuinely wanted to reply with “If I must.”
Finally, she left him, freeing him to go to Miss Bexley.
At least until a woman walked headlong into him, sending her fan plopping to the ground at his feet. He hurriedly bent to pick it up for her.
The young woman had dark hair, green eyes and far too much rouge. She giggled as he handed her the fan. “Thank you. How very clumsy of me.” She giggled again, and he realized their collision had not been accidental at all.
How very vexing.
“Think nothing of it.” He smiled tightly.
“Lord Brightstone, do you truly not remember me?” she asked in a lightly chiding tone.
He did not.
“Miss Closewell. From Yorkshire.” She lifted her brows and waited for recognition to dawn.
It did not.
Yorkshire as a hint did nothing to aid in his mental catalog, as he was unsure if she meant they had met there or if her father had an estate there. Either way, the entire conversation felt as much a ruse as their bumping into one another.
What was this world coming to with ladies feigning introductions having been made for an opportunity to speak to a bachelor at a ball?
“It is good to see you again, Miss Closewell,” he replied through gritted teeth.
“I hear the orchestra they’ve hired tonight is supposed to be the best in London.” She beamed up at him.
Yet another ploy to get him to ask her to dance. Except that he had about enough of this.
“Indeed,” he muttered. “Do excuse me.”
With that, he brushed past her and made his way to Miss Bexley in haste, a man on a mission, albeit somewhat haunted by Miss Closewell’s powerful rose perfume.
As he approached, Lady Elizabeth turned abruptly from the group and ran headlong into him in a true accident that sent her forehead directly into his nose. Pain exploded through his face and left his eyes watering.
“Oh heavens, I didn’t even see you there.” Lady Elizabeth gasped. “I’m so very sorry.”
He wriggled his nose, hoping the warmth he felt was not blood but too polite to brush his glove against a nostril to confirm. “Please don’t trouble yourself over it.”
“Lord Brightstone.” Miss Bexley rushed to his side and set her long, graceful fingers at his forearm. “Are you hurt?”
Of course, he was bloody well hurt, when the force of someone’s head had slammed into one of the more sensitive parts of the human body. But the concern in Miss Bexley’s eyes was the greatest balm there was, and he found himself smiling like a simpleton as he shook his head.
“Too bad it wasn’t Dudley you ran into,” Lady Jillian jested, setting the rest of the ladies—including the shame-faced Lady Elizabeth—smiling at the thought.
Whoever Dudley was, Lucien did not envy the man.
He sniffed heartily and wriggled his nose again. “I wished to see if Miss Bexley would be good enough to spare me a dance.”
“You seemed quite popular when you first entered into the ballroom,” she replied, a wariness to her tone that did not sit well with him. “Are you certain you wish to spend your first dance with me?”
“Hannah,” Miss Honeyfield hissed in her direction.
Miss Bexley colored.
“There’s no one I’d rather dance with first at this ball than you,” he replied.
She nodded and took his arm. “Are you certain you aren’t hurt?” she whispered as he led her to the dance floor.
“No,” he said honestly. “It hurt like the very devil, but poor Lady Elizabeth appeared as though she wanted to melt into the floor. Be honest with me now. Am I bleeding?”
Miss Bexley turned her gaze up toward his nose with a furrow of empathy knitting her brows. “No, there is no blood.”
“Thank God for small mercies.” Lucien sniffed once more.
“It was kind of you to spare her feelings,” Miss Bexley said softly. “She’s rather sensitive.” There was a tender glint in her eye as she spoke, but she blinked it away and redirected her attention to him. “Now, tell me what I can do for you. I’m assuming there’s a reason you asked me to dance.”
Because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Because he wanted to breathe in the heady scent of her sweet citrus perfume. Because he loved the carefree tinkle of her laugh and the way he could say whatever popped into his mind without fearing her judgment.
Because he was a damn fool.
“I thought you might give me a few more pointers before sending me out into the wild this evening,” he said instead.
“Do you liken ladies of the ton to denizens of the wilderness?” she asked with mirth dancing in her sea-blue eyes.
Lucien recalled the women who had thrown themselves in his path when he tried to make his way to Miss Bexley and tilted his head in gentle acquiescence. This made her laugh as they arrived at the dance floor and took their positions from one another.
It was a quadrille this time, though Lucien would have much preferred for it to be the waltz again. In this dance, they would be separated often, sharing each other with the couple they danced across from.
Their conversation continued in snatches and quick, one-word replies as they danced from one partner to another before finally ending up together once more. Yet somehow, it wasn’t maddening but enjoyable. Each separation made him all the more eager for her return to hear what she truly did think of the puffed sleeves that were newly into fashion and exactly how large might be too large.