“Amelia.”
Her brow wrinkled as she thought of it. “Amelia,” she repeated. “I don’t believe I know any Amelia. Perhaps one of the debutantes? But why should Mr. Fynster-Allen be interested in a debutante? He’s practically… old.”
Fynster was a year or two older than Grif. “Ah well, perhaps he’ll manage fair enough on his own, then,” he said, and twirled her about.
Grif attempted to make small talk, but Lucy was too intent on the others on the dance floor to converse much. When the music at last came to a halt, Grif brought them to a full stop. “Ye willna forget me, lass, on the veranda, aye?” he asked as he let go her hand.
“How could I ever forget you?” she demurred, dipping into a curtsey.
How indeed. Grif led her back to the edge of the dance floor, and just before they reached her contingent of admirers, he nodded toward the doors on the opposite end of the ballroom, whispering, “I’ll meet ye just there,” before he bowed and walked away.
He found Fynster, who was, as usual, staring wistfully at a woman on the dance floor. Grif felt a little sorry for the man, and passed a bit of time remarking on the lovely gowns as the ladies passed, exchanging smiles with more than one of them. But when he began speculating about the color and shape of their drawers, the gentleman in Fynster would not engage in Grif’s play and excused himself, wandering around the edge of the room until he came to where Miss Crabtree was sitting. How odd, Grif thought, that Fynster flipped his tails and took the seat next to the little mouse.
Never mind that—Grif was ready for his moonlit stroll, and looked across to where Lucy was standing, catching her eye. He nodded almost imperceptibly at the doors leading to the veranda. The lass nodded slyly and opened her fan, which Grif took as a positive sign. He walked the length of the ballroom floor before slipping outside.
It was a wee bit chilly out, and there were only a few hardy souls about on the veranda. Grif withdrew a cheroot from his pocket and lit it, then made his way to the corner to have a look at the gardens below.
Before too long, he’d smoked half the cheroot, and wondered idly what could be keeping Lucy. The orchestra had begun a minuet, and a few more people strolled out onto the veranda for a breath of the cool night air.
When the minuet ended, it was painfully clear to Grif that Lucy was not going to join him as she had said. He tossed what was left of his cheroot into a planter in the corner, tugged on his waistcoat, and was about to return to the ballroom and find the wench when he heard the sound of a woman’s footfall behind him. Lucy. With a smile, he turned about—but his smile instantly faded.
“Lord Ardencaple, how do you do?” she drawled.
It was not Lucy at all, but her older and permanently vexing sister, dressed in a pale pink gown of shimmering satin with a very modest décolletage. Her hair was simply done up at the crown, and from her ears single pearl drops hung.
Grif bit back the frown of disappointment, trying not to scowl impolitely as she dipped into a curtsey.
Miss Addison rose and clasped her hands behind her back before stepping to the railing to stand directly beside him. From there she looked out over the garden. “How surprising to find you wiling away the time here—after all, you seem to enjoy dancing so.”
Grif gave her a sidelong look. “Yer powers of observation are quite keen, are they? Why is it ye’re no’ enjoying the dance instead of standing off in the corner?”
He meant to startle her, but she just laughed and gave him a bright smile. “I’m not as enamored of stiflingly crowded ballrooms as my sister. She enjoys them enormously, you know—why, I believe this is her third waltz, and her second dance with Mr. Lockhart,” she said, and snapped her fan open, waved it lazily at her face, smiling a little at the frown Lockhart’s name brought to Grif’s face. “Dear Lucy, she must be exhausted—she’s not missed a dance, I think, and there are so many more to come.”
Envious, was she? Well, she should be—Lucy was light and angelic to her darkly exotic look, Lucy’s eyes bright where this one’s dark copper eyes glistened with a devilish gleam. There was something about her that seemed almost forbidden—an exotic woman dressed in such an angelic color.
“How fortunate for yer sister that ye enjoy keeping count of her dances.”
Miss Addison just smiled and looked away, but her fan went perceptibly faster. “I pay her dancing no mind, my lord.”
“Aha. Just Lockhart, then.”
Did he detect a wee bit of spine stiffening?
“Apparently, so do you.”
“No’ in the least,” he said with a wry smile. “My attentions are only for the ladies.”
“Or their décolletages,” she muttered.