Chapter Twenty-One
At precisely half past nine on Friday night, Nick decided he’d had quite enough of Lady Davenport’s ball. He had only come for Adelaide’s sake, but she seemed content to ignore him. Instead, she’d spent the last ten minutes flirting with Wessex, who was only too delighted to flirt back.
Their banter had caught the attention of Lady Margaret, who sidled closer. She spoke to Adelaide while keeping her gaze on Wessex.
“How are you, darling girl? My dance card is almost full,” Lady Margaret said, although no one had asked. She swayed slightly left. Adelaide took a small step away, ceding the space.
Fascinating. It was like watching a battle, with matrimony being the spoils of war. Lady Margaret made a rather fine general, Nick thought with some amusement. Adelaide, on the other hand, seemed to be lacking a soldier’s instinct for blood.
“I have only the supper dance left.” Lady Margaret’s expression turned coy behind her fan. “A lady always hopes for an interesting partner.”
Wessex blinked. “Ah.” He glanced at Adelaide.
Nick did not like that.
Neither, apparently, did Lady Margaret.
Again she stepped closer to Adelaide, and again Adelaide retreated. Nick grimaced. For God’s sake, why was she allowing Lady Margaret to win?
Not that he wanted Adelaide to win, if winning meant sitting next to the duke for supper. It wasn’t jealousy. He did not wish Adelaide to spend supper annoyed, and from what he could tell from their limited dealings, the duke was a very annoying man. And despite Wessex’s protestations, Nick could not believe the duke’s intentions were altogether honorable.
Lady Margaret pivoted so that Adelaide was now completely boxed out. “Have you already found an interesting partner for the supper dance, Your Grace?”
But to his credit, Wessex was not so easily manipulated. “I have, as a matter of fact. Miss Bursnell, may I write my name on your card?”
Adelaide, who had been gliding away—to find a corner to read her book, no doubt—froze. Slowly she turned.
Say no.
“Of course, Your Grace.”
As she stepped forward to hand Wessex her card, she tripped over something—Nick suspected it was Lady Margaret’s foot—and lurched forward. The duke grasped her elbow, steadying her.
“Do be careful, Miss Bursnell.” Lady Margaret closed her fan with a snap of her wrist. “Clumsiness is so unbecoming in a dance partner.”
“It is rather, isn’t it?” Adelaide admitted cheerfully. She gently freed her elbow and handed the duke her card. “You must be sure to mind your toes, Your Grace.”
Wessex grinned as he scrawled his name with a flourish. “My toes look forward to annihilation, if it comes from the charming foot of Miss Bursnell.”
Nick rolled his eyes. Surely Adelaide was not falling for this drivel? He glanced at her. Her cheeks were pink, as was the swell of her breast.
Oh.
How nauseating.
What was it about Wessex that turned otherwise reasonable ladies into half-wits?
He stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Miss Bursnell, this dance is ours.”
She frowned and studied her card. “No, I believe—”
“It is,” he insisted. He guided her to the queue of couples, giving her no further choice in the matter.
“Really, Nick. Was that necessary?” she murmured. “I don’t have permission to waltz.”
A waltz? How fortunate. She would be close enough to hear every word of his lecture. “Pretend you are Alice. No one will know.” He frowned. “But you have been in London for nearly a fortnight. Why haven’t the matrons of Almack’s given you their approval?”
Adelaide glanced guiltily to where the spinsters and wallflowers congregated.
His eyes narrowed. “You never asked permission. You spent waltzes with your book.”
She did not try to deny it. The music swelled, and he took her in his arms. She was soft and smelled faintly of lilacs.
“You must not understand the meaning of the waltz, else you would not waste such a prime husband-catching opportunity on a book.”
“Time with a book is never wasted.” She looked again at the spinster corner, wistfully this time.
He felt a sudden unreasonable urge to set the damned library on fire.
Which was ridiculous. He could not burn every book, and so long as there was even one book in the world, Adelaide would find it.
He turned more sharply than he ought, causing her to lean into him for balance. His grip at her waist tightened. “See now,” he whispered. “Is this not more likely to land you a husband?”
“Not if I am with you.” She tilted her head. “Unless you are attempting to make other men jealous by making me seem desirable?”
“I have already found a man who thinks you are desirable.” His chest suddenly felt tight, as though an invisible hand were squeezing his heart. “What think you of the Duke of Montrose?”
She laughed. “He was very kind to me. But I would not think to aim so high.”
“He is a gentleman. You are a lady. There is no reason he should not consider you.” The invisible hand squeezed again, but he ignored it. “Furthermore, he would make an excellent husband. He does not gamble, he is not a debtor, and he keeps no mistress.”
Adelaide pursed her lips. “Is that not also true of Wessex?”
He looked up to see the duke’s eyes on them. “Not him, Adelaide,” he growled. “Not Wessex. He’s a rake. He’ll only hurt you.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows arched. “Will he seduce me and steal my virtue, do you think? How disappointed he will be when he discovers I haven’t any.”
No virtue? If that were true, Nick would have her bent over a desk—or a chair, or his arm, he wasn’t picky—with her skirt up before she could blink.
He bit hard at the inside of his cheek and forced himself to focus on the pain rather than the beguiling bluestocking in his arms. Why on earth was a gentleman’s coat cut to reveal everything? Did tailors not understand the waltz, either?
“Virtue is not a thing that can be stolen, angel. The word you’re thinking of is virginity.”
She stumbled slightly, but he held her firmly as she recovered.
“They are one and the same, are they not?”
“No,” he said. “They’re not.”
Which was rather beside the point, since Wessex would not be taking either. Her virtue was regrettably intact, and her virginity was already his.
She frowned at him.
He gave her his blandest smile, one intended to be less conquering marauder and more trusted confidant, but she just pursed her lips suspiciously.
“I don’t believe I should take your word on it,” she said. “You have no virtue.”
“Quite so,” he agreed. “And I assure you, I did not lose it to a lady. In fact, I did not lose it, at all, since it was never mine to begin with. I was born bereft of any such goodness, as my family has reminded me my entire life.”
And then he bit his cheek even harder, because he hadn’t meant to say that.
Good God.
Was this what society life would make of him? A babbling fool whining about childhood slights? He wanted none of that.
He wanted none of the pity he saw in her face, either.
Her lips parted.
He did not want to hear it.
He lowered his head.
“Not one word, Adelaide, or as God is my witness, I will kiss you right here while we waltz, in front of the entire ton. Your father will have no choice but to call me out. Blood will be shed. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Her dark eyes widened, and her mouth snapped shut.
He smiled. “A very wise decision, angel.”
She glared. “You—”
He made a sudden movement that had her jerking back in horror.
“Did you say something?” he asked.
She shook her head mutely.
“A pity,” he murmured.
The fiery spark in her eyes could have incinerated an icicle. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to hear her speak. Not that he would mete out her punishment in the middle of the waltz, as he had threatened. No, he would find a dark corner somewhere so he could do a thorough job of it. He would kiss her until she couldn’t remember how to speak, not even her own name.
But perhaps he would let her say his.
Just one more. Let them have just one more moment, and then he would hand her over to Montrose without fuss.
He eyed the various doorways as they whirled about the room. Surely one of them led to a library. He would wager his future marquessate that there was nothing more arousing to the woman in his arms than a room full of books.
He moved them closer to where they could more easily sneak away without drawing notice to themselves.
The music stopped.
She looked up with a start, as though sensing sudden peril. Her eyes searched his face. “Nick,” she whispered.
He would enjoy punishing her for that later.
He moved her through the arched doorway, his hand on her lower back. They were nearly safe. It was only a few steps farther.
And then he heard a quiet voice say, “Miss Bursnell.”