He led her into the next room, where people were beginning to form sets. “So, Miss Bamber, you’ve only just arrived in town.”
“Apparently so.” Imitating the haughtiest of her former schoolfellows, a girl she’d christened Lady Languid, Lucy gave him the sort of smile she hoped looked both cool and enigmatic. And repellant.
“Are you enjoying living in London?”
“It’s tolerable.” Lady Languid always spoke in an affected drawl. Nothing was ever fun or even enjoyable; everything was tolerable or intolerable or barely tolerable or insipid or dreary.
They danced on.
“Where were you living before?”
Lucy gave him a cold glance, but otherwise ignored him.
Apparently unaffected, he continued, “You’re quite a mystery, aren’t you? Everyone is wondering where you’ve sprung from.”
She arched a brow and said languidly, “They must have very dull lives to be so easily intrigued.”
They separated in the dance, and when they came back together, he seemed to have dropped—thank goodness—his interrogation about her origins. “You’re very light on your feet, Miss Bamber. You clearly enjoy dancing.”
“It’s tolerable.”
“What else do you enjoy? Music?”
“It’s tolerable.”
“Do you play an instrument?”
“No.” Would the man never give up?
“Sing?”
“No.” Only for her own enjoyment. Never for performance. What was it Frau Steiner had told her? Your technique is execrable, your instrument barely mediocre—Lucy’s “instrument” being her voice. Opera singers. What did they know? Singing was for joy, not just for performance.
She glanced over to where Alice was dancing with her tall admirer. If she knew how Lucy was treating her nephew at his own birthday party, she’d probably be appalled. Lucy was a bit appalled herself, but she had to ensure Lord Thornton wanted nothing to do with her in future.
And to give nothing away.
But Lord Thornton seemed unaffected by her haughty behavior. Perhaps he was used to this kind of conversation. He probably knew lots of much haughtier ladies—the haughtiest lady Lucy had met here tonight was his mother, which made sense. The other girls she’d met had been quite friendly—especially after she’d called them over to talk with Lord Thornton.
The dance continued. He circled around her, regarding her thoughtfully.
“You know, I have the strongest feeling we’ve met before.”
Curse the man. Couldn’t he take a hint? Lucy sighed ostentatiously. “That line didn’t work the first time, and to repeat it is really rather . . . sad.” How long would this wretched dance go on for? Any minute he was going to work out where he’d seen her before, and then it wouldn’t just be embarrassing for her; it would be awful for Alice.
“I mean it,” he continued. “Your face is oddly familiar to me. I just can’t place it.”
“Nonsense, I have a very ordinary face. There are girls like me everywhere.”
He seemed to take that as an invitation to look at her in quite a personal manner. “I don’t find you ordinary at all.”
Lucy felt her cheeks warming, and it was with relief that she launched into the next stage of the dance, “stripping the willow,” in which she had to twirl around all the other men in the set, and conversation was impossible.
But the minute conversation became possible again, Lord Persistent said, “Perhaps I’ve met some of your relatives, and what I’m noticing is a family resemblance.”
It wasn’t easy to shrug while dancing, but Lucy managed it. “Perhaps.”
“Would I have met any of your relatives?”
“I’ve no idea.” She gave him a wide-eyed, limpid look. “Would you?”
His eyes narrowed, and at that point Lucy decided to give up on the Lady Languid imitation. It wasn’t putting him off in the least. Time to change the subject.
“I understand you were at Waterloo, Lord Thornbroke. What was that like?”
“Thornton,” he corrected her. “Lord Thornton. War is not a pleasant subject for ladies. The best I can say of it is that it put an end once and for all to the depredations of Napoleon.”
“You’re not worried he will escape again?”
“No, his rule is well and truly broken. His time is over.”
“And so you’ve sold your commission and returned to civilian life. How are you finding that?”
“Tolerable.” His expression made it clear he’d chosen the word deliberately and was indicating that what was sauce for the g—no, she wasn’t even going to think about geese.
“And so today is your birthday?”
“Yes.”
Was he being deliberately difficult? She tried a different subject. “So, tell me, Lord Thorncliffe, are you a sporting man?”
“Thornton, it’s Lord Thornton,” he said grimly. “I played cricket at school, of course, but if by ‘sporting’ you mean riding to hounds, no. I don’t hunt. I’ll shoot game, as long as it’s for the pot, and I enjoy fishing when I get the chance.”
“And where do you like to go fishing?”
He glanced at her. “Are you really interested in my fishing habits?”
She smiled sweetly. “Not at all, but one must make conversation, mustn’t one?”
He let out a huff of laughter, which wasn’t at all her intention. Then, thankfully, what had felt like the longest dance in the history of dances finally ended. “Thank goodness that’s over,” she said as they bowed and curtsied to each other.
One dark brow rose. “You didn’t enjoy the dance?”
She smiled. “It’s just that I’m frightfully thirsty.” She glanced around and saw the other Lady Charlton signaling him, a grim expression on her face. “Oh, look over there—your mama wants you. Hadn’t you better run along?” As if he were eight instead of eight-and-twenty.
He didn’t even glance in his mother’s direction. “I did not survive years at war with Napoleon’s forces only to dance to my mother’s tune,” he said, escorting Lucy to a nearby seat. “I’ll fetch you a drink. And then, perhaps you’ll grant me a second dance.”
Lucy had to admit she liked his matter-of-fact attitude, but she couldn’t afford to let him get to know her any better. The minute he’d gone, she jumped up and hurried across the room to where Alice was standing with her tall admirer.