But this ball—held in honor of young girls who had just been presented at court—surpassed anything he’d seen to date.
Crystal flutes of champagne and wine seemed to float on silver trays, carried high above the crowd by skilled footmen. Pristine white floral arrangements, made up of roses, orchids, daisies, and irises, littered the corridors and ballroom in enormous porcelain vases. Beeswax candles burned brightly in silver chandeliers. The strains of a six-piece orchestra floated throughout the mansion, and a dining room had been set up with three rows of long, cloth-covered tables upon which dozens of china settings had been placed.
In the ballroom, Grif’s smile of pleasure deepened. There she was, Miss Lucy, a vision of beauty, waiting for the dancing to begin. Not surprisingly, she was surrounded by men. Foppish, overly elegant men. Men who wouldn’t last a day in the Highlands, who could not, by the look of them, even wield as much as a fencing sword without spraining a wrist.
It was into that petit-ma?tre milieu that Grif confidently strode, smoothly stepping around the many debutantes being honored tonight with nothing more than a smile for their hopeful looks.
As he neared Miss Lucy, she smilingly tried to extract herself from the attentions of one of the bothersome gnats that surrounded her.
Grif ignored them all, walked straight to her, boldly extending his hand for hers. “Miss Lucy,” he said, bowing over the hand she graciously gave him and kissing her gloved knuckles. “How bonny ye are this night.”
“I’m charmed, Lord Ardencaple,” she said silkily, withdrawing her hand.
“I had hoped to find ye here,” he said meaningfully, smiling down at her. “There is, I hope ye will recall, the matter of a dance.”
“Of course I do recall.” She glanced demurely at her dance card. “As it happens, I am without a partner for the fourth dance,” she said, lifting her gaze to him. “It’s next. A waltz.”
“I’d be quite honored if ye’d allow me to put me name just there.”
Miss Lucy smiled, held out her arm, and as Grif wrote his name with the little pencil that dangled from her wrist, she looked past his shoulder and lit up like a bloody lighthouse. “Mr. Lockhart,” she said happily, turning from Grif. “Might I assume, sir, that you deigned to come and take a peek at my dance card after all?”
“Is it necessary?” Lockhart asked. “I thought we had an agreement, you and I. A waltz, was it not?”
“Oh yes, that’s right,” she said clasping her hands together. “Unfortunately, I’ve just given away the last one,” she added with a deceptively sweet smile.
A look passed over Lockhart’s face that was not the least bit pleasant. Miss Lucy, however, seemed to enjoy his displeasure. “Ah, there it is now, they are playing the fourth dance,” she said, looking wistfully at the dance floor before turning her smile to Grif and extending her hand. “Lord Ardencaple?”
Grif took her hand, laid it on his arm, put his hand protectively over hers, and flashed a smirk at Lockhart for good measure before leading her to the center of the dance floor. The music began; she curtsied, placed her hand very lightly on his shoulder. Grif slipped his arm around her back and pulled her close to him as he swept her into the rhythm of the music.
She smiled politely and looked away.
Grif took the opportunity to smile at her cleavage. “Now that I’ve succeeded in standing up with ye, I must gain yer promise for a walkabout.”
Miss Lucy kept her gaze on the dancers around them. “Perhaps you will call one afternoon when we might enjoy the sunshine.”
“But I had in mind the moon. On the veranda this very evening, I’d hoped we might gaze together at the moon. Perhaps we might stroll the grounds, aye?”
“I suspect you’re rather indecorous beneath that charming exterior, my lord,” she said coyly.
“Would ye like me to be?” he asked low, squeezing her hand a little. “I’d be happy to oblige ye.”
She tilted her head and glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “You’re quite bold! I shan’t take as much as one step onto the veranda without your solemn promise to be a perfect gentleman.”
“Ye ask too much, lass. I can only promise I’ll be perfect,” he said with a grin, and winked.
“My lord!” she exclaimed, feigning shock. “I insist you speak of something else altogether!”
Grif laughed at her false modesty. “All right, then. Perhaps ye might help me. My friend Mr. Fynster-Allen is quite smitten with a lass, and it would be me pleasure to put his name on her dance card.”
“Then why don’t you?” Miss Lucy asked, her gaze drifting to the other dancers again.
“Because I donna know who she is. He’s only mentioned her by her given name.”
That instantly gained Miss Lucy’s attention. “Her given name?” she repeated suspiciously. “How very odd! Pray tell, what is the given name?”