Her expression had shuttered, and all the warmth that had been all but spilling out of her had vanished.
Gray had stopped short, two paces away from them; he’d stared, but neither had noticed him, and he’d turned and slipped away through the crowd.
Devlin, the damned fool, had muffed it!
In between repolishing his social skills by chatting and conversing with numerous guests while artfully avoiding the ladies who sought to detain him, Gray had continued to review all he now knew of Devlin’s marriage. He tried to tell himself that it was none of his business, that it wasn’t up to him to meddle, much less interfere, but some part of him wouldn’t let the matter rest.
When he found himself quitting the side of the room and, as if drawn by an irresistible lure, heading toward Devlin and Therese, Gray gave up and surrendered to the inevitable. How many times had he hauled Devlin’s arse out of the fire? Admittedly not as often as Devlin had rescued his, but the habit had been set in stone long ago.
He timed his approach so that he fetched up beside Therese just as the musicians once again set bow to string. When she turned and smiled at him in polite welcome, he smiled charmingly and bowed. “Lady Therese, might I have this dance?”
Therese was mildly surprised—there were any number of ladies Child might have approached instead of the very-much-married wife of his oldest friend—but she recalled the plans she had for him and decided that confirming his expertise in the waltz wouldn’t go amiss. She allowed her smile to widen and offered her hand. “Indeed, my lord, you may.”
Child’s expression stated that he felt honored, but Therese didn’t miss the sharp look he sent Devlin as the pair exchanged an outwardly cordial nod. What was that about?
She was aware that it was perfectly possible that Child had requested the dance purely to prod Devlin; in some respects, the pair seemed to share a relationship of schoolboyish one-upmanship. Perhaps understandably. As she allowed Child to lead her toward the area clearing in the middle of the room, over her shoulder, she threw an amused look of resignation at Devlin—and saw his rather tense posture fractionally relax.
He’d been growing increasingly tense as the evening progressed; she had no idea why.
Child reached the open space and turned to face her. She held up her hand, allowing him to grasp it, and settled her other hand on his shoulder as his palm splayed over her back. Then the music began, and they stepped out.
Within seconds, they were part of the whirling throng. Within a minute, she was sufficiently reassured that Child could waltz more than creditably.
He met her gaze and arched a weary brow. “Do my poor skills pass muster?”
She laughed. “You know very well that they do.”
Before she could ask him how old he’d been when he’d quit England, the better to gauge his experience of the ton, he said, “You seemed rather pensive earlier.” Far from being playful or teasing, his expression was serious when he faintly raised his brows and went on, “If it’s something to do with Devlin, perhaps I can help. I have known him since childhood, after all.”
Therese felt her eyes instinctively narrow. It was difficult not to question what was behind such an offer, yet…she sensed that Child was being entirely sincere. And the more she saw of him and Devlin together, the more their relationship—for all its schoolboy moments—seemed one of long, still-close, and well-weathered friendship. A friendship borne of common experience that had lasted through the decades.
Without conscious thought, she followed Child’s lead, and the world continued to revolve around them as he patiently waited for her to decide.
She drew a slow breath. Given the uncertainty roiling inside her, if Child had any insight to offer, she wanted to hear it. She focused on his face. “How close were you and Devlin as children—before you both went to Eton?”
He grinned, and from his expression, she suspected he was remembering those days. “We were the only boys of our age and station in the neighborhood, so our parents encouraged our association, and whenever we had the chance, we spent our free hours together. Early in our lives, that meant a lot of our waking hours. We rambled and, later, rode and explored as avidly as boys are wont to do.” He met her gaze and shrugged lightly. “We were more or less inseparable.”
She nodded. “And then came Eton.”
He confirmed that, explaining that they were not only in the same year, but also in the same house. “And we attended all the same classes, of course.”
“More or less inseparable again?”
His smile was almost fond as he nodded. “We enjoyed ourselves more than either of us expected, and on top of that, we spent most of our holidays running wild together as well.” He went on to describe some of their exploits, confirming Therese’s sense of the one-upmanship that seemed to have survived to this day. When she put that to him, Child admitted it. “We might have been—might still be—close friends, but we always had an underlying sense of rivalry, too.”
He met her gaze openly. “That said, we would never, ever, do anything that would…hurt the other. Our rivalry has always been of the sort that grows out of a deep and abiding understanding of each other—of what drives each other. We challenge each other, but only in the sense of making each other reach farther, do better.”
She considered him for a moment, then ventured, “My brothers are a little like that—competitive in a sense—but they would always, unquestionably, have each other’s back in a fight.”
Child nodded. “Then you understand. Devlin and I aren’t brothers by blood, but we are very definitely brothers in experience.” He glanced around as he steered her through the more rapid turn at the end of the long room, then refocused on her face. “That being so, I will admit to being insatiably curious over how you and Devlin met.” He arched his brows. “Was it in the ton, at a ball such as this?”
She admitted it was, and he asked how long it had been before Devlin proposed. Having more or less done the proposing herself, she skated around that point and asked if his interest was due to him assessing the possibility of marriage for himself, and while rather coyly avoiding a direct answer, he allowed her supposition to stand.
The rhythm of the music slowed, then the waltz ended. Child released her and bowed, and Therese curtsied.
As she straightened, Child nodded toward the archway leading to the refreshment room, then glanced up the now-crowded room to where they’d left Devlin, closer to the other end. “Shall we see what’s available to slake our thirsts before we undertake the trek back?”
As she hadn’t yet broached the question she most wanted to ask him, she inclined her head. “By all means—I’m quite parched.”
He gave her his arm, and they strolled into a decent-sized anteroom. A long table was manned by Lady Cassington’s staff, all busily pouring libations for thirsty guests.
Child drew her to the side of the room. “Champagne?”
“Please.” She waited while he went to the table and, in short order, returned with two slim flutes. She accepted the glass he offered her. “Thank you.” She took a sip, then another; she truly was parched. Then she lowered the glass and fixed her gaze on Child’s face. “What can you tell me about Devlin’s parents’ marriage?”