“It’s like this,” he repeated in a low voice, just for her. “I’m not that sort of man. I don’t wait for the things I want.”
And without permission…without any music…Mr. Wright spun her into a waltz.
“Like so,” he said, leading her with firm, graceful movements. “One, two, three. One, two, three. Very good. You’re learning the rhythm now. It’s not so difficult, is it?”
She shook her head. It wasn’t difficult at all, with him in the lead. He must have been pretending to be drunk. No one drunk could dance so beautifully, so effortlessly.
Eliza ceased trying to choose her steps and simply surrendered to his lead, allowing him to sweep her about the drawing room in stately circles. How she wished the skirts swishing about her legs were watered pink silk, rather than printed summer muslin. But she couldn’t have dreamed a more handsome or thrilling partner. This wasn’t just a dance—it was a brush with danger.
After two turns of the room, a devilish gleam stole into his eye. “Let’s try it a bit faster, shall we?”
Then they were off, circling the room at a comic pace.
He twirled her faster and faster, until she was dizzy. When they broke apart a minute later, she was surprised to find that they were both laughing.
The scoundrel. She was years from any hope of her debut. He knew it, and he’d stolen her first dance.
And most unforgivably of all, he’d made it glorious.
I don’t wait for the things I want, he’d said.
Did that mean he wanted her? The idea made her shiver.
“I haven’t twirled like that in years,” he said, clutching his side and working for breath.
She smiled despite herself. “Neither have I.”
She shouldn’t have admitted it. It was letting him win, and he was already so smug with pride for his mischief. Stealing her dance, and preventing Philippa and Brentley from finishing theirs.
But it was true. She hadn’t twirled like that in years, reaching this point of pure, dizzy, breathless joy.
She curtseyed, because she felt like it. “I thank you for the dance, Mr. Wright.”
He bowed, just as a gentleman ought. “The pleasure was mine.”
Sir Roland—
My friend Mr. Wright is new in the neighborhood, and I have promised him an excursion to view the Roman ruins. The plan has been struck for Wednesday afternoon. Should the Misses Cade care to join our party, we would be most delighted to include them.
—Brentley
“WHAT AN INSPIRING AFTERNOON.” Philippa swept her hand across the fringe of tall grasses. “I can’t imagine a better day to view the ancient ruins.”
“It almost feels as though we’re walking back in time,” Lord Brentley said. “Or is that fanciful?”
“Not fanciful at all.” Philippa paused and closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her heart. “One senses the eternal quality of the human spirit.”
“I feel positively pagan,” Mr. Wright announced. “What about you, Miss Eliza?”
Eliza declined to comment.
Oh, that man. As they made their way toward the ruins, he carried with him the last remnants of their picnic—an overripe nectarine.
Eliza didn’t like the way he ate that nectarine. Gone was the gentleman who’d suavely waltzed her about the drawing room. There was something so uncivilized and so…shameless…about the way he devoured the fruit in large, wolfish bites, allowing the juice to trickle down his hand and fingers.
He caught her staring as he licked a drop of nectar from the side of his hand.
He smiled. “Care for a taste?”
“No, thank you.”
Farther up the path, Brentley and Philippa paired off. They walked alongside one another, smiling and speaking of only poets knew what. Just as they’d been doing all week.
If Brentley meant to exchange more than words with Philippa, today was his best chance.
The day was fine; the vista from atop the ridge was lovely. Birds sang; gentle breezes blew. There couldn’t be a more perfect time and place for a marriage proposal. Or at least a courtly kiss. Surely the man would seize this opportunity to declare his love.
Eliza just had to contrive some way for Philippa and Brentley to be alone—which meant she must distract Mr. Wright.
The only solution that came to her was clichéd and transparent and honestly beneath a young lady of her intelligence, but…
“Oh!” she cried, stumbling dramatically and catching herself on a nearby tree.
Her companions turned to face her.
“Are you well, Miss Eliza?” Brentley asked.
“What is it, dear?” asked Philippa.
“My ankle. I’ve turned it.” Eliza took a feeble hop toward a boulder. “I’ll have to rest here, I’m afraid. I’ll just have a seat on that stone.”
Mr. Wright moved in her direction, holding his free hand outstretched. “Allow me to be of service.”
Eliza hopped faster, bouncing toward the stone on one foot. “Thank you, but I’m sure I don’t need your assistance.”