That cheeky comment startled him so that he laughed. “Ye’re no’ one to mince words, are ye, lass?”
She glanced at him over the top of her fan. “Why do you act surprised, my lord? If I were a man, you’d agree with my observation.”
“Aye, but ye’re no’ a man.”
“Honestly, women wear low décolletage so men will notice them. All rational adults are quite aware of it. Why not let’s just admit it?”
“To admit it would take the sport from the game,” he said, feeling mildly disappointed she was not playing the game with her modest neckline.
Her brows knit in confusion and her fan stopped waving. “What game?”
“A game ye’d understand were ye a man. Now, Miss Addison, if ye’ll excuse me, I’ll leave ye to the counting of yer sister’s dances.”
“What?” she asked, lowering her fan. “You’re going so soon? I thought you’d at least make an effort to put a mark on my dance card.”
Diah, the woman was astonishingly brash—so brash, in fact, that she reminded him a wee bit of his sister, Mared. As if sensing his reluctance, Miss Addison jiggled her wrist before him, making her card dance.
He laughed. “Mo chreach, woman, ye’re an impudent one! I donna believe a lady has ever been so forward as to ask me to stand up with her!”
“Another bothersome custom,” she said with an insouciant shrug. “Why shouldn’t a woman ask a man to dance if she pleases? And besides, I should think you of all people would appreciate my impudence, sir, considering the impudence you’ve brought to London.”
Whatever could she mean by that? The remark astounded him. “Me?” he choked. “Ye think me impudent?”
“Perhaps not outwardly,” she demurred with a smile, “but you do have your secrets, do you not?” And she laughed.
He narrowed his gaze, openly studying her. If she knew something, she gave not even the slightest hint of it, and, in fact, smiled brightly, jiggled her dance card before him again. Women like her, he knew from experience, had to be put in their proper place before they ran amuck.
“And here I believed ye to be no’ so enamored of the dance, Miss Addison,” he said gruffly.
“I should have clarified that it depends on the circumstance. In this circumstance, I am willing to give it a go.” She jiggled her wrist again. “Do you truly find it so objectionable? I’m really quite a good dancer,” she added cheerfully.
He would have liked nothing more than to walk off, leave her standing in all her glorious cheek.
“I’ll leave you quite well alone afterward,” she said.
He hoped to heaven that was a promise, and muttering a slight Gaelic curse under his breath, he reached for her dance card… which was near to empty. He glanced up at her. “What’s this, then? Have ye no’ thought to threaten yer fellow countrymen with a dance?”
Her rosy cheeks turned rosier; she tried to pull her hand and the card away from him.
“How is it that I have become the object or yer badgering instead of any number of the fine Sassenach dandies in there?” he demanded, gesturing toward the ballroom.
She shrugged, tried to move her arm again, but it was too late for that—she had started this silly game, and Grif was not the least deterred. He suddenly took hold of her wrist, his fingers closing around the fragile bones, and pulled her arm toward him to have another look at the card. “I swear I donna understand why ye think to vex me so, lass, but ye’ve succeeded,” he said hotly. “If a dance is all that is required to free me of ye, then—”
She gasped and tried to jerk her hand from his grasp, but he held tight. “What are you doing?” she cried. “You think all of London won’t see you hold me in your grip? Unhand me, sir! I was merely amusing myself—you needn’t stand up with me if you are so revolted by the notion!”
“Ach, What foolishness!” he said shaking his head. “Ye canna deceive me. I donna give a damn what London might see, but ye wanted yer dance well enough to ignore every wee bit of decorum, and now, by God, ye shall have it!” He gave her a determined grin as he lifted his free hand and yanked the small pencil tied with ribbon to her wrist. He hastily wrote his name on the card, then tossed the pencil onto the floor behind them. “Ye’ll no’ be needing it by the look of things. There we are—ye’ve an entry for the next waltz, which, ye may have heard, is just starting. Shall we?” he asked, and extended his arm with a cold smile.
An expression darkened her copper eyes, and for a moment Grif thought she might actually resort to punching him. She lifted her chin defiantly, slapped her hand down on his arm with a little too much force. “Why, I’d be delighted, my lord.”