He spoke in a low voice. “Well, it’s plain to see you’re a selfish creature. Last year, you were happy enough for your oldest sister to marry Sir Snail-Face, just so you could flaunt your bosoms at Peter Everhart. Now you’d gleefully pair Miss Philippa with a man who’s all wrong for her.”
“Are you speaking of Lord Brentley? He and my sister make a handsome, well-suited couple. Anyone can see it. And Sir Roland hasn’t the face of a snail.” Under her breath, she added, “Just the personality.”
He laughed, and the sound was a low, dark, seductive rumble. Like port wine, she imagined. Not that she’d ever tasted port wine.
If he kissed her right now, she would taste it.
Oh, Lord. Where had that thought come from? This was very bad. She was in true danger.
He knew it, too.
“Be careful, Miss Eliza. You’re starting to like me.”
She lifted her chin. “I don’t like you. You’re ill-mannered, carelessly attired. Rotten as the devil and almost as ancient.”
“Ouch. I’m not that old.” His demeanor changed, became serious. “Listen, my dear. Don’t encourage your sister to fall in love with Brentley. I know you’re thinking it would suit your purposes if he’d marry her. You’d be one step closer to your own freedom. But Brentley won’t marry her.”
She couldn’t believe the man. “Who are you to say what Lord Brentley, a viscount and peer of the realm, may or mayn’t do with regards to love and matrimony?”
“I am his best friend. And I know him better than anyone. Just as you hold a unique position of influence with your sister. The two of them, together… It can’t end well. We must do what we can to discourage them.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“Very well, then.” As he reached to turn the page, he flicked his fingers and sent the sheet music scattering to the floor.
Eliza was forced to stop playing. Philippa and Brentley were forced to stop waltzing.
“I’m so sorry,” Eliza said, jumping from the bench to gather the music. “I’m so clumsy. Just wait right there a moment, and I’ll begin again from a few measures back.”
“Sometimes it’s best to begin from a few measures back.” Caroline Farnsworth fanned herself. “If you know what I mean.”
“I never know what she means,” Mr. Wright murmured as Eliza began to play again. “Do you know what she means?”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “Don’t attempt to puzzle it out. That way lies migraine.”
He laughed under his breath. “Be careful, Miss Eliza. Now I’m starting to like you.”
She went hot all over. The pianoforte keys felt slick beneath her fingertips. “If you think I’ll help you part my sister from Lord Brentley…you don’t know me at all.”
“Oh, I know all about you. For instance, I know that you were once a twirler.”
“A twirler? What does that even mean?”
“It means that you loved to twirl. In your girlhood, of course, when you were permitted to do such things. I’d guess that you loved nothing more than to find an open, sunny patch of grass and stand in the middle of it, arms flung to the sides”—he paused to calmly turn the page of her music—“and twirl. Spin round and round, until your heart and stomach floated, and your brain went to cotton wool.”
Eliza tried, very hard, to ignore his words and concentrate on the music before her.
“And now you’re too old to twirl,” he continued. “But you haven’t outgrown the desire for it. That’s why you need a man.”
“I beg your pardon?” She couldn’t let that pass unremarked.
“A man to waltz you around a ballroom. Spin you round and round, until you’re breathless and giddy. That’s the sort of girl you are, Miss Eliza. A twirler. And if I were the sort of man you think you want, I’d beg to be your first waltz.”
She risked a glance in his direction, and his green eyes snared hers.
“No matter how many years it takes,” he said, “I’d vow to be there at your debut just to claim that first dance. If I were that sort of man.”
“Well,” she managed. “I’m glad you’re not that sort of man.”
“Happy coincidence. I’m glad I’m not, too.”
He turned another page, and in the process, leaned indecently close. He whispered a single word against her ear. “Faster.”
Eliza’s fingers stumbled. The music came to an abrupt halt, and so did Philippa and Lord Brentley in the middle of the room.
“Don’t be vexed, Miss Eliza,” Mr. Wright said, loud enough for all to hear. “Really, this is one of those dances you can’t possibly master unless you’ve danced the thing yourself. Surely Sir Roland will permit an educational exercise.”
Before Sir Roland—or anyone else—could think to object, Mr. Wright rose from the bench and took Eliza by the hand, pulling her to her feet. He led her to the center of the room.
“It’s like this.”
He lifted her free hand and placed it on his upper arm. Intriguing muscles flexed beneath her touch, and Eliza swallowed hard. Then he fit his free hand between her shoulder blades, drawing her close.
She promptly forgot how to breathe.