Diana trembled with the desire to slap his insolent face. He smirked and stood opposite her as the music’s tempo increased. It was a simple reel, and they were one pair in two long lines, but she felt alone, exposed, and vulnerable, like a rabbit caught on open ground as a hawk swooped overhead.
He danced well, light and elegant, and acted as if he were aware of it. Every time their hands met, he smirked, inviting her to admire him.
Diana caught a glimpse of her father near the refreshment table, staring at her, and of Lady Cathcart smiling and tapping her toes to the tune. And she saw the Earl of Whitelock. He wasn’t dancing. He had one hand in his pocket, looking out over the dancers with his piercing blue eyes—not that she could tell they were blue from this distance, but she remembered …
Would this set never end? How long must she keep this smile pressed onto her face?
Fitzroy chuckled as they promenaded down the long line, taking their turn as top couple. “You look brittle enough to snap in two. Relax, my dear. You’re the envy of every woman here tonight.” He had his head bent, as if they were sharing a delightful secret. She leaned away, concentrating on the steps.
At last the music ceased, and the ladies curtsied once again to their partners. She would’ve turned away from him, but he caught her hand and threaded it through his elbow. “Oh no, my sweet. You can’t run off on your own. I’ll escort you back to your keeper.”
But rather than return her to Lady Cathcart’s side immediately, he clamped her hand tight against his ribs, placed his other hand over hers, and pulled her in the opposite direction. In what must have been a well-rehearsed maneuver, he pivoted and placed Diana between one of the high windows and an enormous potted palm. His body shielded her from view, and he loomed over her.
“On second thought, I can’t bear for you to get away, my dove. I do wish to get to know you better. We could have quite good sport together.”
The scent of his pomade cloyed in her nostrils, and a quiver shot through her chest. How dare he? If they were spotted conversing this way, her reputation could suffer. Her father’s rage would be palpable if she stepped even an inch out of line. She edged to the side, hoping to slip past him, but he shifted his weight to block her escape.
“I’m considered a good catch, you know. Not that I would allow myself to be caught just yet, but many girls would leap at the chance to be showered with my affections. In fact, many have.”
“I am not one of those girls. Now let me by.” Her lips felt stiff, and she gripped her folded fan. As weapons went, it wasn’t much, but perhaps she could fend him off if necessary. The music for the next set began, and Lady Cathcart would be looking for her.
At that moment, a hand reached through the palm fronds and grasped her wrist. “I believe this is my dance.”
With a tug, Diana was released from Fitzroy’s custody and swirled into the arms of … the Earl of Whitelock. Before she could stop him, his hand was at her back, her fingers nestled in his other palm, and they were twirling to the three-quarter time of a waltz, the newest dance from the Continent, which had only arrived in Britain the previous year.
She was so stunned, she followed his lead. He wasn’t as adept at the steps as her dance master at school had been, but he moved with conviction.
“I hope I haven’t intruded, but you didn’t appear to be enjoying the viscount’s attentions.”
How had she gotten into this? The earl, with the best of intentions, had rescued her from one dilemma and landed her squarely in the middle of an even greater one.
No debutante was allowed to waltz—considered by some to be a thoroughly scandalous dance because of the continual proximity of the participants—until she had been given permission by one of the Patronesses. To flaunt their authority was to commit social suicide.
Her father would kill her. Lady Cathcart would need smelling salts. Percival would probably give her a slap.
And Cian. What would her father do to the baby in retaliation for her behavior?
Her steps faltered, and the earl’s arm tightened to steady her.
“What’s wrong? You did want to get away from Fitzroy, right?” His breath brushed her temple and sent a shiver through her.
Oh yes, she had wanted to get away from him. Not just because he was a disgusting rake, but because she had feared she might cause a scene by smacking the leering face of Viscount Fitzroy, the man who was both her sister’s seducer and Cian’s father.
What was wrong with the girl? Was his dancing so terrible? He’d practiced for hours today with one of the housemaids at the Haverly townhouse until Marcus had pronounced him proficient enough to brave the ballroom. Diana moved as if made of wood, her eyes unfocused, her face pale. Or was it that Fitzroy had shocked her? If that were the case, Evan would see about calling the man outside to settle things.
She winced, and he realized his fingers had squeezed her hand too hard.
“Sorry.”
“Please, we must stop.” Her words, pitched low, were filled with panic.
“Are you ill?”
“No, no, but we have to stop.” She pressed herself back, away from his embrace, not really struggling, but clearly distressed.
In that moment, he wondered if she thought him cut from the same cloth as Fitzroy, a roué who just grabbed women up against their wishes. Or had she not truly wanted to be rescued from the bounder and resented Evan’s interference? Or did she consider Evan beneath her, a commoner boasting of a title he didn’t deserve, not good enough to dance with a duke’s daughter? These thoughts flashed through his mind, and his hold loosened. She stumbled backward, and he caught her quickly, steadying her and then letting his hands fall away.
With a stiff bow, he muttered, “My apologies. Can you find your way back to your chaperone, or do you require an escort?”
“I … I …” Her hand fluttered to her throat and then to her lips. She appeared unable to move.
He took her elbow and guided her off the dance floor toward the row of settees along the wall where most of the matrons had a good field of fire to see their charges. As they threaded their way through the crowd, people whispered, frowned, and shook their heads.
Evan gritted his teeth. He knew he didn’t belong here, but they didn’t have to act as if he had mange and would infect them. Scanning the area for danger, he spied Marcus angling toward him. And ahead, the Duke of Seaton stood with arms crossed, face like a blood pudding. What had jammed his rifle?
At sight of her father, Diana stopped, and a tremor went through her. She seemed to shrink a bit, become more vulnerable, and Evan wanted to put himself between her and her father, or even better, to wrap her in his arms and whisk her away. Something about the duke made the hairs on the back of Evan’s neck stand up, like when he knew the enemy was lying in ambush and if he wasn’t on his guard, his next step might be his last. His heartbeat increased, and hyperawareness raced along his skin.
Shaking his head at such nonsense, he took a few deep breaths, willing down the unease. What possible danger could be lurking at a fancy ball put on by a bunch of swells? Evan tightened his grip on Diana’s arm.
Also on an intercept course that would bring them together all at once, Evan spied a pair of the harpies who ran this place’s social register. They looked like they had just ingested spoiled mackerel.