Regina Scott - The Rake's Redemption

She patted Elisa’s hand. “There, now. I shan’t kick up a dust. But someone must put a stop to her.”

“This is her first Season,” Elisa said, dropping her hand. “She was only presented to the queen two weeks ago. Perhaps she doesn’t know the rules.”

“I understand she was raised in the back of beyond,” Kitty agreed with another sniff, this time of decided superiority.

Imogene had heard the rumors, too. The girl was an orphan with only three male cousins for guardians. That might have been enough to put Imogene in charity toward her, except her rival was also a beautiful heiress, with her own title no less, and the respected Lady Claire Winthrop was her sponsor. Where the young gentlemen of London were concerned, those factors conspired to make Samantha, Lady Everard, very popular indeed. But that her friends should be ignored while every gentleman danced attendance on the upstart—well, that was something Imogene would not tolerate.

“I don’t intend to rip out her hair,” Imogene informed them, to which Kitty muttered, “Whyever not?” Imogene shook her head. “But something must be done. Look, this set is ending, and the musicians are likely to take a short break. I for one plan to have a partner when they strike up the music again.” Before her friends could say another word to dissuade her, she lifted her white skirts and swept across the room.

Her way was impeded immediately. Couples promenaded past, gazes entwined. A collection of dowagers debated the latest fashions. Distinguished gentlemen gestured with crystal goblets, intent on making their points on politics.

But by far the largest single group, at least three deep, was clustered in the corner. Imogene couldn’t even make out the lady at the center. That truly did seem excessive. A girl on her first Season should expect a loyal group of followers but not at the expense of every other young lady on the ton.

Imogene put on her prettiest smile and tapped the rear gentleman on the shoulder. Short as she was, it was difficult to tell his identity from the back, but she recognized him the moment he turned.

“Mr. Wainsborough,” Imogene informed him, “I am quite vexed with you.”

He blinked blue eyes as if suddenly finding himself transported to the farthest reaches of the Empire. “Lady Imogene, I have no idea what I could have done, but I most sincerely beg your pardon.”

Imogene raised her chin. “You are forgiven, so long as you march yourself over to Miss Elisa Mayweather and ask her to dance.”

“Miss Mayweather?” He glanced around the room, and Imogene nudged him to the left so he could see Elisa standing against the wall. He looked back at the crowd of gentlemen, then returned his gaze to Imogene as if begging for mercy.

She narrowed her eyes at him. He slumped in defeat. “Of course. Delighted. Your servant, Lady Imogene.”

She waited only until he was on his way before tapping the next nearest fellow. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”

He jerked around, sandy brows up in surprise. “Why, Lady Imogene, what do you mean?”

Imogene put her hands on her hips. “Here you stand while my good friend Kitty Longbourne pines away for a moment on the dance floor.”

“She’s pining?” His head turned as if he expected to see Kitty reclining on a divan with a cold compress on her forehead.

Imogene caught his coat, pointed him toward Kitty and gave him a push. “Go on, now. There’s a good lad.”

As he started off, she pulled up her long gloves and tapped the next fellow.

By the time the musicians started tuning up again, she had succeeded in peeling away all but five of Lady Everard’s admirers, and every girl who needed a partner had one for the next set. All Imogene required was one for herself. She put her hand to the closest broad shoulder. The man turned.

And Imogene froze. She recognized the platinum hair held away from his lean face in an old-fashioned queue at the back of his neck, the sharp angles of cheek and chin. Instead of the black cloak that had enveloped him the last time he’d called, he wore a tailored black coat and breeches with a black-striped waistcoat and an elegantly tied cravat. Those dark eyes had looked merciless as the footman had sent him away for the third time. Now they were merely curious.

“There you are,” she exclaimed. “I believe you wanted to dance.”

One pale brow went up. “Forgive me. Have we met?”

“We must have met,” Imogene insisted, taking his arm and threading hers through it. My, but he was strong; his arm felt like a mahogany banister under hers. “How else would I know you wished to dance?”

His mouth quirked. “How else indeed.” He glanced over his shoulder at Lady Everard, then settled Imogene’s arm closer. For a moment, she had the oddest feeling of being trapped. It shouldn’t have felt so pleasant.

“Very well, then, my dear,” he said, voice low and warm, like the purr of a tiger she’d seen in the Tower zoo. “Let us rise with the notes of the song and dance upon its joy.”

The phrase sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it. In fact, as Imogene strolled with him toward the line of dancers, she was very much aware of another sound, for her heart had started drumming again.

* * *

Vaughn Everard stood across the line from the young lady who had accosted him. It wasn’t the first time he’d been approached. He was a published poet, and some ladies imagined they had been his muse or understood his character because they’d read his work. A few even sought him for his reputation as a duelist, as if they thrilled to flirt with danger. A frown was often enough to send them scampering back to their mamas.

But not this young lady, he sensed. The look in those light jade eyes was challenging, and even the chestnut color of her curls, springing on either side of her creamy cheeks, seemed to crackle with energy. The grin on her peach-colored lips could only be called mischievous. Couple all that with a lush figure that showed to advantage in her simple, high-waisted white satin gown, and he found himself quite disposed to dance.

She looked to be a little older than his cousin Samantha, perhaps nineteen or twenty. Certainly younger than his twenty-six years and just as certainly a lady, or the high-stickler Mayweathers would never have allowed her to join them at their stuffy little ball. He had only been invited, he was sure, because he was one of three guardians to a beautiful young heiress making her debut in London Society. The Mayweathers coveted a relationship with the new Lady Everard. They were willing to suffer her ne’er-do-well cousin if necessary.

But why had this young lady insisted on a dance? She was watching him as if she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with him as he bowed and she curtsied to the first measures of the music. Testing her, he kept his gaze locked with hers until they had passed shoulder to shoulder in the center of the lines. She did not look away, but her cheeks turned the same delectable color as her lips as she moved back into place.

When she placed her hands over his for the turn, he let his fingers caress her palms. She raised her pointed chin but did not jerk away.

Interesting. If she was bent on an assignation, she should be responding in kind. If she was a green girl, she’d be dashing from the set in embarrassment. As it was, her assessing look said she didn’t intend to fall for nonsense. For some reason, that made him want to behave like a gentleman for once.

And that would be a mistake.

He had no right to the title; his grandfather and father had made that abundantly clear. And his purpose at this ball had no noble motive. He’d been sure his quarry would attend, yet he’d searched every room, and Robert Devary, the Marquess of Widmore, was nowhere to be found.