It was still two hours until midnight.
“Would you like another sweetmeat?” Peter’s eyes were on her, always on her.
“No, thank you.”
“Another sandwich, then?”
“No, thanks, the last one was quite filling.”
Montgomery wasn’t dancing. He was at the edge of the ballroom, hands clasped behind his back, talking to guests, too many of them women with debutante daughters in tow or men who looked eager to talk politics.
Another dance ended, and Hattie approached, her red hair frizzy. She was vigorously fanning her gleaming throat.
Peter swooped. “May I bring you ladies some refreshments?”
“Some of the pink champagne, please,” Annabelle said quickly.
The pink champagne bowl was on the other end of the ballroom.
“Your wish is my command,” the curate exclaimed, and flung himself into the milling crowd.
Hattie promptly took Annabelle’s arm.
“I have to tell you, Tomlinson has been most attentive,” she murmured. “In fact”—she meaningfully waggled her tawny eyebrows—“he has mentioned taking some fresh air on the terrace.”
“Do not go onto the terrace with him.” The words were out before Annabelle could take the sharpness out of her voice.
Hattie’s face fell.
“Just . . . don’t,” Annabelle repeated, softer now.
“But it’s in full view of the ballroom.”
“Even worse. Do you want to marry him?”
Hattie flinched. “Marry? Why, no. He’s not titled.” She surreptitiously eyed the young man, who was presently thumping Lord Palmer’s back and braying with laughter. “And he’s not exactly a Gabriel,” she conceded.
“Then you really do not want to be caught in a compromising position in full view of the ton.”
“But—”
“No terrace. No alcoves. No dark, empty hallways,” Annabelle said. “Forgive me for sounding like a governess,” she added, attempting to make light of things.
“You do sound rather like Miss Mayer right now,” Hattie said, sounding like a very lovely, very rich girl who was pondering whether to take advice from a woman about two dozen steps below in social rank.
It stabbed like a little dagger between Annabelle’s ribs. “I’d rather you not get hurt,” she said softly.
Tomlinson had sensed that he was an object of discussion; he half turned and raised his champagne flute to them. With his shiny eyes and fluffy hair, he looked as threatening as a poodle pup.
He was still a man.
“Hattie,” Annabelle said. “Men . . . they sometimes do outrageous things when they find themselves alone with a lady.”
Hattie frowned. “My dear, I might not be as clever as you are in managing the gentlemen, but I assure you I know how to fend off an admirer.”
“And what if you don’t want to fend him off?”
Hattie’s eyes widened. “Are you implying I’d . . . let him?”
“No, no, not like that,” Annabelle said hastily, “but there are some gentlemen who will promise anything, and I mean anything, and unless you are perfidious yourself, it’s very hard to see him for what he is.”
Hattie’s mouth relaxed into a small smile. “But he can promise whatever he likes, can he not? As long as he doesn’t try to, well, you know”—she lowered her voice to a whisper—“kiss me.”
“And what if he kisses you and you like it so much that you forget all about fending him off, and when you come to, you realize he has maneuvered you behind a yew hedge.”
“A . . . yew hedge?”
Annabelle flushed. “Any hedge.”
Hattie’s eyes had grown soft and dreamy rather than appalled. “To be kissed like that,” she sighed. “Oh, just once in her life every woman should be kissed in such a way that she forgets herself.” She ducked closer, her voice curious. “How do you know these things, Annabelle?”
Oh, hell’s bells.
Lord Palmer saved her from speaking a grave lie by strolling over to fetch Hattie for the next dance.
Peter had not yet returned. Rather than sit back down, Annabelle took a couple of steps to loosen her legs . . . and found herself face to face with Lady Lingham.
The countess looked comely in icy blue silk with matching fan and earbobs. She was still squarely overshadowed by the young gentleman by her side. Lord. He was one of the most beautiful men she had ever seen—imposingly tall, but neither bulky nor lanky, just right, as if he had been made with ideal proportions in mind. Gleaming auburn hair fell in soft waves around his high-cut cheekbones and perfectly angled jaw. A face suitable for any one of the archangels. His loud pink waistcoat said he was anything but a heavenly creature. It was, in fact, a magenta-colored waistcoat.
She must have stared at the man a moment too long, for his amber eyes shifted to her and promptly began to smolder. Her belly clenched with unease. She knew a predator when she saw one.
“Miss Archer.”
To her dismay, Lady Lingham’s fan was beckoning.
She approached the pair reluctantly.
The countess appraised her with a deliberate glance, her mouth smiling as if she were greeting a long-lost friend. “Miss Archer. How splendid you look tonight,” she said. “It’s a Celeste, is it not?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Consider yourself fortunate,” said Lady Lingham. “Her designs are unforgiving.” She pointed her fan at her stunning companion. “Miss Archer, allow me to introduce Lord Tristan Ballentine. Lord Tristan, it’s a pleasure to present Miss Archer.”
Lord Ballentine dipped his head. A diamond stud winked at Annabelle from in his right ear.
“Lord Tristan has just returned from a ghastly little war in the colonies,” Lady Lingham said. “He received the Victoria Cross for outstanding bravery on the battlefield a few days ago.”
“You are humbling me, my lady,” Ballentine said, not sounding humbled at all. His eyes were busy examining Annabelle’s cleavage. “How come I have never made your acquaintance before, miss? I’m usually familiar with all the great beauties of the ball.”
Lady Lingham pursed her fine lips. “Miss Archer is from the country.”
He looked up and raised a brow. “The country? Whereabouts?”
“Kent, my lord,” Annabelle said.