Mary Balogh - Seducing an Angel

Cassandra looked at the earl curiously as they took their places in the set. How could he have abandoned his poor bride on her wedding day? But her lips twitched with something like amusement when she thought that perhaps /he/ was looking just as curiously at /her/, wondering how she could possibly have killed her own husband. With an axe, no less.

The orchestra began to play and they danced while Cassandra looked about. They were the focus of much attention, she and the earl. The two notorious ones. But why watch them? What did people expect to happen?

What did they /hope/ would happen? That she and the Earl of Sheringford would suddenly clasp hands and make a dash for the ballroom doors and freedom and a reckless elopement?

The mental image caused her to smile openly, though with a contemptuous curl of the lips. And she met the glance of the Earl of Merton at the same moment. He was dancing with the lady with whom he had been talking before the first set began.

He smiled back at her.

It was definitely at her he smiled. He looked at no one else before returning his attention to his partner and bending his head to listen to something she was saying.

Stephen danced the second set with Vanessa. He would have danced it with Lady Paget if he had not already reserved it with his sister. He was very glad to see that Meg and Sherry had gone to speak with her at the end of the opening set and that Sherry had led her out for the second.

Stephen felt sorry for her.

That was doubtless a foolish waste of sympathy. Where there was smoke, there was usually /some/ fire, even if just a tiny spark. He really did not believe the axe murder story – though it was more description than story, as it came without supporting details. He was not sure he believed the murder story at all, in fact. She would be in custody if it were true. And since a year or more had passed since her husband's death, she would probably be long dead herself by now. Hanged.

Since she was very much alive and here tonight at Meg's ball, either she was not her husband's murderer at all or there was sufficient lack of evidence that no arrest had yet been made.

She looked bold enough to fit the part of murderess, however. And that startlingly glorious hair of hers suggested a passionate nature and a hot temper. Despite what Nessie had said about a woman's ability to heft an axe, Lady Paget looked strong enough to him.

All of which were thoughts and speculations that were unworthy of him.

He knew nothing about either her or the circumstances of her husband's death. And none of it was any of his business.

He did feel sorry for her, nevertheless, knowing that almost everyone else in the ballroom was having similar thoughts to his own but that many would not even try to rein them in or allow her the benefit of any doubt.

He would dance the next set with her, he decided, before remembering that it was to be a waltz and that he liked to choose one of the very young ladies for the waltz – one who was more his ideal of feminine beauty than Lady Paget was. He especially wanted to do so this evening, as the third set was also the supper dance and he would be able to sit beside his partner during the meal. He had several candidates in mind, though all were much in demand as partners and all might already be engaged for the waltz. A few, of course, could not dance it anyway because they had not yet been granted the nod of approval by one of the patronesses of Almack's Club. The waltz was still considered rather too risquГ© a dance for the very young and innocent.

He would dance the set after supper with Lady Paget, then. Maybe some other gentleman would have the courtesy to dance with her or at least converse with her during the waltz. Perhaps she would not even still be here after supper. Perhaps she would slip quietly away now that she had discovered that her reputation had preceded her to London. It would be something of a relief if she /did/ leave. He did not particularly want to dance with her.

Miss Susanna Blaylock had already promised the waltz to Freddie Davidson, Stephen discovered when he approached her after the second set. She looked quite openly disappointed and told him that she was free for the /next/ set. Stephen reserved it with her. It was, of course, the dance after supper.

And then, before he could continue with his quest for a waltzing partner, a few of his male acquaintances drew him into their group to ask his opinion upon whether one of them ought to purchase a set of matched bays or matched grays to pull his new curricle. Which would look more sporting? Which would be more manageable? More fashionable? Faster?

More suited to the colors of the curricle? Which would the /ladies/ prefer? Stephen joined in the discussion and the bellows of amused laughter it occasioned.

If he did not draw away soon, he thought after a couple of minutes, there would be no lady left to dance with him – and he hated not to waltz.

"Why not one gray and one bay?" he suggested with a grin. "Now, /that/ would draw you all the attention you could possibly desire, Curtiss. But if you fellows will excuse – "

He was turning as he spoke and did not finish his sentence because he almost collided with someone who was passing close behind him. Sheer instinct caused him to grasp her by the upper arms so that she would not be bowled entirely over.

"I do beg your pardon," he said, and found himself almost toe-to-toe and eye-to-eye with Lady Paget. "I ought to have been looking where I was going."

She was in no hurry to step back. Her fan was in her hand – it looked ivory with a fine filigree design across its surface – and she wafted it slowly before her face.

Oh, Lord, her eyes almost matched her gown. He had never seen such green eyes, and they did indeed slant upward ever so slightly at the outer corners. Viewed against the background of her red hair, they were simply stunning. Her eyelashes were thick and darker than her hair – as were her eyebrows. She was wearing some unidentifiable perfume, which was floral but neither overstrong nor oversweet.

"You are pardoned," she said in such a low-pitched velvet voice that Stephen felt a shiver along his spine.

He had noticed earlier that the ballroom was warm despite the fact that all the windows had been thrown wide. He had not noticed until now that the room was also airless.

Her lips curled into a faint suggestion of a smile, and her eyes remained on his.

He expected her to continue on her way to wherever she had been going.

She did not do so. Perhaps because – oh. Perhaps because he was still clutching her arms. He released them with another apology.

"I saw you looking at me earlier," she said. "I was looking at you, of course, or I would not have noticed. Have we met somewhere before?"

She must know they had not. Unless – "I saw you in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon," he said. "Perhaps I look familiar because you saw me there too but do not quite recall doing so.

You were dressed in widow's weeds."

"How clever of you," she said. "I thought they made me quite unidentifiable."

There was amusement in her eyes. He was not sure if it was occasioned by real humor or by a certain inexplicable sort of scorn.

"I do recall," she said. "I did as soon as I saw you again tonight. How could I have forgotten you? I thought you looked like an angel then, and I think it again tonight."

"Oh, I say." Stephen laughed with a mingling of embarrassment and amusement. He seemed particularly inarticulate this evening. "Looks can deceive, I am afraid, ma'am."

"Yes," she said, "they can. Perhaps on further acquaintance I will change my mind about you – or would if there /were/ any further acquaintance."

He wished her bosom were not quite so exposed or that she were not standing quite so close. But he would feel foolish taking a step back now when he ought to have thought to do it as soon as he let go of her arms. He felt it imperative to keep his eyes on her face.