And that, it turned out, was an utter disaster.
Chapter Eight
“It won’t work.”
Elliott jolted at the sound of Amber’s words. They were spoken low, but the misery in them was palpable. “What? Why not?”
“Look at it,” she said as she gestured at the portrait of the young Lady Morthan at her presentation.
He was looking. He saw the brooch clear as day. A square-cut ruby surrounded by diamonds.
“Can you tell if the ruby has a bevel setting, or is it pronged?”
He didn’t even understand the words, but it didn’t matter. “It’s a smear of red.”
“Exactly. I can recreate the general idea, but anyone who knows the piece will be able to tell it’s a fraud.”
Oh hell. The whole scheme was dependent upon the countess not knowing exactly what her feckless grandson had done. And if there was one thing the lady knew, it was her jewelry.
“Is there another portrait?” she asked.
“None that I am aware of. But perhaps Lord Morthan knows of one.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “He’s here somewhere. Probably at the sideboard drinking all the port.” And how had his life become so deuced ridiculous that he was searching a ball for a man who might help him forge a piece of jewelry, all because the country had forgotten to care for its own soldiers? “Come along. I’ll walk you back to my sister. Did you want some lemonade before I return you?”
She blinked, her eyes wide with hope as she spoke. “I can stay?”
He frowned. “Stay? Stay where?”
“Here. At the ball. Even though I can’t make the brooch.”
“Of course, you can stay. What kind of man would I be if I took away your fun simply because my plans didn’t work out?”
She didn’t answer, but then again, she didn’t need to. The only men of his set she knew were the ones who frequented the Lyon’s Den. Not the best examples of humanity, by his standards, and so he lifted her hand and bowed over it.
“It should be my greatest pleasure to allow you to stay until the candles are blown out, and your feet ache abominably.”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice a bare whisper. “My lord, I cannot express—”
He waved her to silence as he took her arm. “Come on. Let us try Lady Morthan’s minimally acceptable lemonade.”
She gave him a dazzling smile, set her hand on his arm, and hopped twice on her tiptoes as they walked. And he nearly copied her, because he was pleased to see her so happy.
The evening’s agenda was set. She was to have a marvelous time, and he was to do what he always did at these affairs. He danced where he ought, discussed where he needed to, and watched the clock for the minute he would be able to escape the ladies in favor of the more serious-minded work of running the country. Except this time, instead of watching the clock, he watched her.
It was a pleasure to lead her out for her first set, to feel her fingers grip his, and to see how easily her body moved through the dance steps. But then the dance was over, and he had to watch while another man drew her to the floor, looked into her bright eyes, and spoke of whatever nonsense had her smiling. And then another and another.
He watched with growing impatience until the first waltz, which was hard to do given that he was attending to his mother and sister, not to mention all the hopeful ladies who had his name on their dance cards.
“What has you scowling so fiercely?” his sister chided. “Is it that law for the soldiers?”
“Yes,” he lied. “I have had a setback.”
“Does it have anything to do with the mysterious Miss Gohar?” she asked. “You seem to be frowning at her quite often.”
Had he? At her dancing partners, more like, but he couldn’t say that to his sister. She would start to get all sorts of errant thoughts. “She is not the cause of the problem,” he said honestly, “but the solution, I hope.” He all but growled as a young heir to a worthless title bowed over her hand. The idiot would eventually have a vote in the House of Lords, so it was useful to be polite to him, but that didn’t mean the twit should slobber all over Amber’s hand as he bent to kiss it.
“Then, I hope you will remember that we are at a ball, and you are to make merry, not make morbid.”
It took him a moment to hear what his sister said. And then he turned to her with a frown. “What?”
She rolled her eyes. “Come now. I haven’t seen you this grumpy since Gwen threw your first speech into the fire.”
“She called it ludicrous!”
“No, she called you ludicrous. She called your speech twaddle.”
Sadly, Gwen had been absolutely right. In fact, her destruction had saved him from making a fool of himself before the House of Lords. “Gwen was being mean,” he finally said.
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re scowling now. And look, now you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to partner with Miss Cork.”
“What? Damn.” His sister was correct, and there was poor Miss Cork staring at him as if he’d just murdered her dog.
Bowing his goodbye to his sister, he hurried over to the neglected lady and tried to make up for his mistake. He did a poor job of it, and while he tried to tease her into forgiving him, his gaze kept wandering back to Amber.
She did look lovely in that gown, but it was the lion in her hair that drew the eye. Unless, of course, one wished to look at her face. At the sweet curve of her cheek or the impish shape of her nose. Was that her laugh, dancing above the notes of the orchestra? Or had he completely lost his mind? What was he doing thinking such things of a tradeswoman who was simply a means to getting his resolution passed? Albeit a fascinating tradeswoman with a laugh that made his heart lighter at the sound.
He resolved to think no more of her but failed completely at that. And then, finally, it was time for their waltz. He should have claimed all her waltzes, but that would have set tongues to wagging. He had to be content with this one dance when he could pull her into his arms. She stood stiff at first, and she bit her lower lip as if she were nervous. But then he squeezed her hand, and her gaze shot up to his.
“My lord?”
“Do you know why I love the waltz?”
She shook her head. “I only learned it a few hours ago.”
He smiled. The orchestra was starting. “It’s because I can do this.” He tightened his grip, and he started moving them around the dance floor.
It took her a moment to settle in. Dancing required strength—of which she had a great deal—and trust—which he had to seduce her into giving him. He did that by smiling at her, by getting lost in the light in her eyes, and by knowing he was the perfect guide in this. He knew how to hold her, how to match his steps to hers, and how to time his breaths so they flowed together.
It was exhilarating. Not just the dance, but the way she slowly surrendered to him. By the end, her head was tilted slightly back, her hips were nearly touching his, and they moved like they were flying.
Then the music ended, and they slowed to a stop. He held her still, looking down at her. Her cheeks were flushed, and her lips parted to release an ecstatic sigh. She would look this way after lovemaking, he realized. Only she’d be naked, and he would be seated inside her.