“You like this music, don’t you?” he said after a moment.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
He gestured to her sandaled feet. “Your feet are dying to dance. They’re tapping along in time with the music. I like those gold toenails, by the way. Dashing, as well as pretty.” He rose to his feet. “Shall we dance?”
She blinked at the unexpected request. “But I can’t.”
“You can’t waltz, or you don’t have permission?”
“I know how to waltz, of course, though I’ve never danced it in public. But I don’t have permission. For some reason I’m only allowed to waltz after one of the patronesses of Almack’s gives me permission. Seems ridiculous to me, but that’s what I was told.”
“I see. And that’s why you were prepared to sit them out in wallflowery boredom with Messrs. Frinton and Grimswade.”
“Both gentlemen to whom you introduced me,” she reminded him acidly.
“Then let me atone.” He held out his hand. “Will you do me the honor of dancing this waltz with me, Miss Bamber?”
She hesitated and looked around. The courtyard was still deserted, as was the terrace overlooking it. “Nobody will see,” he said, his voice low and deep. “Come on, you know you want to.”
“Very well.” She rose and took his hand. It was warm and firm. No gloves on matadors or priestesses. His other arm wrapped around her waist.
He danced well, swirling her around with grace and assurance. Dancing alone in the courtyard, in the moonlight, with the lanterns creating pools of light among the shadows—it felt strangely intimate, as if they were alone instead of only a few yards away from the loud, colorful throng inside.
Too intimate. She could smell his cologne, feel his breath against her hair. She was achingly aware of how his costume hugged every line of his lean, lithe body. And that her costume was too loose, too floaty and insubstantial. And that she was pressing up against him in a way that would not be approved of in polite circles.
She had to break this feeling of . . . intensity. Conversation, that was the thing. “What made you dress as a matador?” she asked.
He shrugged infinitesimally. “There was a costume in the shop. And I liked it. I saw several bullfights in Spain.”
“Weren’t they very terrible?”
He smiled. “For the bull, yes, but very exciting to watch.”
She shuddered. “I could never watch such a thing. You were in Spain for the war, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” After a moment he added, “I’d like to go back there one day, now that peace has come. It’s a fascinating country.”
“You want to travel again?” It surprised her. Most Englishmen she’d met—admittedly not all that many—seemed to dislike the idea of foreign travel.
He appeared to think it over, then gave a decisive nod, as if he’d just made up his mind. “Yes. I do. I have a mind to join the diplomatic service.”
“Really? Don’t you have responsibilities here? I mean, isn’t there an estate or something you’re supposed to look after?” Not that she knew anything about a nobleman’s duties.
“My father controls all that. There’s nothing for me here.” They circled the courtyard again, and he added, “What about you? If you had the opportunity to travel, would you take it?”
In a heartbeat, Lucy thought. But it was not to be. “I’m marrying a lordly octogenarian, remember?” she said lightly. “I doubt I’ll get to travel.”
“About that. I think I have the solution to your problem.”
She looked up at him. “Oh yes?”
For a minute or two he said nothing, just twirled her around in the moonlight. Then, just as she was sure he wasn’t going to speak, he cleared his throat and said, “Become betrothed to me.”
She dropped his hand and stepped away. “What? No. Marry you?”
He held up his hands pacifically. “Calm down. I didn’t say ‘marry me’—I said ‘become betrothed.’ ”
“No. That’s ridic—”
“Hear me out. You don’t want to marry a lord, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, but—”
“But in order to save Alice from whatever your father has threatened her with, he needs to believe you are going to marry a lord.”
She frowned. “Ye-es.”
“A formal betrothal would convince him, would it not? If it was officially announced in the Morning Post and the Gazette, and the banns called in St. George’s, Hanover Square.”
She thought about it. If Papa believed it was a done deal, and he probably would, with it being all formal and official, it could, just possibly work. Though he did say he’d come to her wedding. “Maybe.”
“Then you and I will announce our betrothal.”
She shook her head. “But you can’t! You don’t want to marry me!”
“Don’t worry. We can call it off as soon as Alice gets those letters back from your father. Actually you will call it off. A gentleman cannot honorably withdraw once the announcement has been made.”
“Why not?”
“A gentleman cannot break his word.”
She snorted. “Rubbish. Men break their word all the time.”
“Perhaps, but not if they’re gentlemen. I should have said a gentleman cannot honorably break his word. A gentleman’s promise—his word of honor—is the foundation of his status as a gentleman.” Seeing her skepticism, he continued, “That’s why gambling debts between gentlemen are called ‘debts of honor’—and are paid before any other kind of debt. It’s also why being caught cheating at cards will result in a gentleman being expelled from his club, disgraced in society and, in some cases, banished by their family to another country.”
“What about ladies? Isn’t a lady’s word of honor just as important?”
“No, ladies aren’t expected to keep promises. Being the weaker sex, it is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
She bristled. She hated that term, the “weaker sex”, but she’d struggled with enough lustful lords to know it was true enough, physically, at least. It had been her brains and agility that had kept her safe, not her physical strength, not to mention her willingness to kick a man in his cods—a strategy taught to her by the father planning his absence. “You’re saying that women have no sense of honor?”