Louise Allen - The Outrageous Lady Felsham

‘Not at all, I would be delighted.’ She showed him the virtually empty card and smiled acceptance as he indicated the first waltz.

‘Very daring of him,’ Miss Layne observed as her brother went in search of his next partner. ‘I do hope he has learned the steps.’ They both observed in anxious silence as Mr Layne went down the first measure of the country dance without error. ‘Thank goodness. He must have been taking lessons. He has been rather preoccupied learning to manage our uncle’s estate for the last two years; I was beginning to despair of him ever getting out into society.’

‘And meeting a nice young lady, perhaps?’ Bel teased.

‘Indeed. Our uncle is Lord Hinckliffe and Patrick is his heir—he is taking that all rather seriously. I was worrying that he would end up an elderly bachelor like our relative at this rate.’

Mr Layne was a long way from that condition, Bel realised a little later, as he swept her competently into the waltz. Far from having to temper her steps to a learner, she found he was testing her own rusty technique to the limit. They were laughing as they whirled to a stop and well on the way to being very well pleased with each other’s company. He was coaxing her into allowing him another dance when Bel saw Reynard making his way towards them.

Patrick Layne’s voice faded and the air seemed to shimmer as the crowded room became a mere background to the man in front of her. Bel wondered dazedly if she was about to swoon.

She blinked and the illusion of faintness vanished, leaving her startled and confused. It was not simply that Reynard was a handsome, personable man. She had just spent five minutes, very pleasantly, in the arms of another man who could fairly be described in the same way. This was different. This was something she could only try to understand.

With an effort she kept her voice normal as she agreed to dance the cotillion with Mr Layne later in the evening. Then she turned, smiling, to take Reynard’s outstretched hand with a sense of surrender that filled her with nervous delight. The deep-sea eyes smiled at her and she stopped fighting the apprehension. A die had been cast; the problem was, she did not know what game they were playing.

The steps of the country dance were intricate enough to keep Bel’s full attention on her moves. After the first circle she found herself standing next to her partner. His soft chuckle had her glancing up at him, disconcerted.

‘What is it?’

‘You are frowning Lady Belinda. If I was a nervous man, I would think I had displeased you; as it is, I am hoping you are concentrating on your steps.’

‘I do beg your pardon,’ Bel said hastily, then saw the skin at the corner of his eyes crease in amusement. ‘Oh! You are teasing me. I was not frowning at all, was I?’

‘Not at all,’ Ashe confessed. ‘But you were concentrating very hard and I was rather hoping for some of the stimulating conversation one usually indulges in during these dances. We are off again.’ He took her hand, twirled her and began to promenade down the double line. Army life had allowed for numerous scratch balls in the most unlikely places and with the most unconventional partners. Now he did not even have to think about the steps.

‘Unless things have changed a great deal while I have been in mourning,’ she retorted, ‘that means exchanging platitudes about the music, the temperature and what a crush it is this evening. Surely you do not find that stimulating?’

Ashe steered her into place and grinned. ‘It depends on the company. I suspect your view of the social scene may be a little more entertaining than most, Lady Belinda.’ He had her attention now; she was not anxious about her steps or smiling over that lad she had just been dancing with. He was conscious of an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy. The young man, whoever he was, had made her laugh, had brought colour to her cheeks and she had seemed very relaxed in his company.

He had nothing to feel jealous about, for heaven’s sake. The first time they had met he had embarrassed himself and escaped considerably more lightly than he deserved. The second time had been a mere social exchange, although he had applauded the fierce indignation that had made her defend the wounded soldiers and the quick wits that had provided a plausible excuse for their previous meeting. Now they were nothing more to each other than casual acquaintances.

Only…there were none of his casual acquaintances whose back-door keys were in his possession. His valet had found the key in his pocket and wordlessly placed it on his dressing table amidst the litter of cards and notes. Whenever he picked up his cologne, or replaced his brushes, the metal clinked. There was no excuse for leaving it there. He should have wrapped it up and sent it back with the roses, he knew that. Why he had kept it, why he had not mentioned it, he was carefully not examining.

But Lady Belinda had not asked for the key back. Obviously she had not thought about it, forgotten it, or perhaps she had taken the precaution of having the locks changed. He stepped into the circle and took the hands of the lady opposite, twirled her round and restored her to her new place in the set, watching while Belinda was twirled in her turn.

Not a conventional beauty, Ashe told himself, trying to look at her dispassionately. It was difficult to be objective for some reason. He did his best. Speaking grey eyes, glossy dark hair, those were admirable—but a connoisseur would say her nose was a little too long, her chin rather too decided and her mouth too mobile. He watched it now, intrigued. A polite smile for the man who had just turned her became serious, her full underlip caught between white teeth as she thought about the next moves. Then she gave a secret smile of relief when she remembered what she had to do next.

A dancer moved too energetically, knocking against Belinda, and the smile became a fleeting wince, then she caught his eye and smiled and he found himself smiling back as uninhibitedly as though they were alone on a hillside with no one for miles around. It shook him, and it seemed to have surprised her too, as though she had shared the feeling.

Her expression was serious again in an instant, although he was conscious of her glancing at him sideways from under the sweep of her lashes, a feminine trick that always amused him in other women. Now, he felt the urge to whirl her out of the set, catch her face between his palms and lock eyes with her, to read what was going on in her mind.

Ashe gave himself a brisk mental shake. This was not how he had ever felt about a woman before, and he could not account for it. But then, he knew he was not feeling quite himself somehow. Perhaps he would be back to normal when he had bitten the bullet and gone home for a while.

The lines of dancers were facing each other now, men on one side, women the other. The ladies advanced, bringing them together, so close that the provoking swell of Belinda’s breasts was almost against his waistcoat. She glanced up, saw goodness knows what in his expression, blushed and retreated. When it was his turn to come forward she did not raise her eyes to his, suddenly endearingly shy.

It was the effect of living with a dull man, no doubt. She was unused to other men, unused to even the mildest flirtation. It was rare in a married woman to see maturity combined with such an air of innocence. Why that made him feel both aroused and protective, both at the same time, was the mystery.

The music came to a crashing finale, everyone clapped politely and left the floor. Ashe returned Belinda to her seat and nodded coolly to the young man who had been dancing with her earlier, noting his likeness to Miss Layne. Her brother, no doubt. Young whelp, Ashe thought with a sudden burst of irritation, striding off to find his partner for the next dance. London was definitely not what it was.