A Matter of Class (9 page)

“Thank you, sir.” She inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment.

And the music began.

If the
ton
had expected him to clump about the ballroom with vulgar ungainliness, they were to be disappointed. He danced gracefully and was light on his feet. He knew all the steps and intricate figures without making one false move. His fingers were warm and sure about Annabelle's when the dance required them to join hands and steady on her waist when he twirled her down the set between the row of ladies on one side and gentlemen on the other.

He had, of course, attended balls before tonight, though most of the
ton
had probably not noticed him. Annabelle had seen him more than once. She had never danced with him, though—until now.

Oh, she could have enjoyed it under different circumstances. But these were not different circumstances.

He gazed steadily at her throughout the almost half hour of the set. He made no attempt to converse, and he did not once smile.

It was most disconcerting. It was, she guessed, meant to be.

She smiled—dazzlingly—at him the whole while.

He spoke again as the music drew to an end.

“Walk out on the balcony with me,” he said. “It is as hot as hell in here.”

“Perhaps you do not understand,” she said, “that two people do not monopolize each other's company for two sets in a row or for more than two in a whole evening.”

“Coal thickening the blood makes one slow of understanding,” he said—in his father's thick north country accent.

Lord Huey and Miss Coolidge were beside them and must have heard the exchange. They would be falling all over their feet to return to the sidelines to repeat it, Annabelle thought.

“Come anyway,” Mr. Mason said. “This is my engagement ball, and if that does not entitle me to take my betrothed onto the balcony when I choose, then what use is a betrothal?”

“An interesting question,” she said, “to which I have no definitive answer. Lead the way, sir.”

And she laid her hand on his sleeve and half-trotted beside him as he strode in the direction of the French windows without glancing to left or to right.

Was he being deliberately... uncouth?

But of course he was!

“They expect it of me,” he said as they stepped out onto the balcony, as though he had read her thoughts.

“And you always give people what they expect?” she asked.

“Oh, always,” he said with a weary sigh, “when it suits me.”

He took her to stand by the rail across from the ballroom and stood with his back to it—in full view of anyone inside who cared to glance their way.

“One would not wish to sully your reputation, after all,” he said by way of explanation, “by skulking in the shadows.”

“I am overwhelmed by your consideration for my reputation,” she told him.

He looked at her and pursed his lips.

“This has all been very hard on you, has it not?” he said.

She smiled and fanned her cheeks.

“But not at all on you,” she said.

It was not a question.

He raised his eyebrows.

D
espite her white gown, she looked breathtakingly lovely. There were silver threads in the fine fabric, and they shimmered in the candlelight. The garment, what little there was of it, had probably cost a king's ransom. It was cut low at the bosom, which was lifted enticingly by her stays, and clung in soft folds to her slender, shapely form. It left little to the imagination, but in her case reality surpassed even the most salacious of imaginations. She was not particularly tall, but her legs, outlined beneath the flimsy fabric, were long and slim.

Her very blond hair was piled high in intricate curls, with wavy tendrils left to trail artfully along her neck and over her temples. Her eyebrows arched over thick-lashed blue eyes. A straight little nose drew attention downward to a mouth that was graced with soft, very kissable lips.

She was a rare beauty.

It was a pity she had eloped with a coachman. She might have married a prince. Or Illingsworth, who would be a duke one day and had been besotted with her until she disgraced herself. And very rich, of course.

It was a pity she was now doomed to marry a coal merchant's son.

Reggie, well aware that he was on public display even if they
were
outside the ballroom, looked her over coolly—even insolently—while he stood with his back to the balcony rail and she stood a few feet distant, half turned toward him, half toward the ballroom as if she would flee for safety at any moment if he gave her mortal offence.

She
had just given
him
mortal offense. Did she believe all this business had caused her more suffering than it had him? That she had some sort of exclusive ownership of the suffering business?

Guests strolled by arm-in-arm inside the ballroom, waiting for the next set to begin. A few couples came out onto the balcony and strolled farther along. All, without being at all obvious about it, were observing the two of them, hoping for . . . what?

“What, do you suppose,” he asked, “are they all expecting?”

“Of us?” She turned her head to look fully at him. All evening, even when she had been smiling, she had looked cool and aristocratic. The ice maiden. Except, of course, when he had provoked a blush in her pale cheeks and a flash of indignation in her eyes with his question about virginity. He enjoyed discomposing her. “A cool civility, I suppose.”

“And is that what we are going to give them?” he asked her. “How tedious!”

“You would prefer,” she said, “that I walk away and ignore you for the rest of the evening?”

“That would be even more tedious,” he said.

She raised the fan that was dangling from her wrist, opened it, and wafted it before her face despite the fact that it was rather cool out on the balcony.

“You do not intend, surely, to keep me at your side all evening?” she asked. “People might begin to think that we
welcome
this situation in which we find ourselves.”

“On the other hand,” he said, “they might think me blind and daft if I do not show
some
sign of appreciation for the beauty my father's fortune has bought me. You made a bold move choosing that particular gown to wear this evening, even if it
is
a virginal white. It is also rather . . . provocative, is it not?”

Her fan closed with a snap.

“You would have me dress in a black shroud, then?” she asked him. “Or in sackcloth and ashes?”

“It might be itchy,” he said. “The sackcloth, I mean. And ashes might make me cough when I dance with you. And black? No, I think not. You will note that I have not complained of your choice of attire. I would have to have nothing but tar running in my veins not to appreciate it.”

“You are being deliberately . . . ” She made circles in the air with her fan, but could not seem to draw from the air the word she wanted.

“Vulgar?” he suggested. “Uncouth?”

“Annoying,”
she said. One white-slippered foot was tapping a tattoo on the wooden floor of the balcony. She opened her fan with a flourish again. “As though all this were a
joke
.”

He shrugged.

“I always have preferred comedy to tragedy,” he said.

The orchestra began playing, and the dancers within bowed and curtsied and pranced into vigorous action. It was one of those country dances that tested one's endurance. A number of nondancers stood, as though by
chance, close to the French windows, one eye and one ear turned to the balcony. If they could have stretched out their closer ear as they could an arm, they would surely have done so.

“Step closer,” Reggie said.

“What?” She looked startled, and her fan stilled again.

He reached out one hand toward her and, after regarding it suspiciously for a few moments, she set her free hand in it. He closed his fingers about hers. Through her glove her hand was warm and slender.

“Step closer,” he said again.

“Why?” She looked at him with considerable wari - ness, but she took three-quarters of a step in his direction.

He inhaled the subtle scent of lilies-of-the-valley. “I believe,” he said, “the
ton
would be thrilled—
scandalized
and thrilled—if I were to steal a kiss from you.”

The light was behind her. He could not swear that her cheeks were aflame, but he guessed they were. Certainly her eyes widened.

“You would not dare!” she exclaimed.

“Would I not?”

He regarded her lazily and guessed that a sizable number of the ball guests were already fully aware that
they were on the balcony together, he and Lady Anna - belle Ashton, and that they were holding hands and standing rather indecorously close to each other. How very foolish high society was. It was quite willing to condone almost any vice, provided it was performed discreetly and privately. It was titillated and outraged by any mark of apparent affection between two people who were affianced.

Especially two who had been forced together under scandalous circumstances.

“It would be unpardonably vulgar,” Lady Annabelle said.

“Which is what the highest sticklers expect of me,” he said. “It is even what they
want
of me so that they may go on their way tonight satisfied that they have not wasted an evening of the Season on the usual bland entertainment.”

“We should go inside now,” she said. “I am chilly.”

“Liar,” he said. Her hand had turned hot in his, though whether with embarrassment at the thought of being kissed or desire that it happen was not clear. “And a kiss would have another positive result. It would restore some sympathy for you, especially if you were to return to the ballroom immediately afterward, smiling bravely
but in obvious distress. You would be seen to be suffering dreadful consequences for your great indiscretion.”

“You are
enjoying
all this, are you not?” she said from between her teeth.

He thought about it. Actually he was.

“And you are not enjoying
yourself
?” He gazed deeply into her eyes, shadowed as they were by the darkness of the night.

“Papa has made it very clear to me,” she said, “that if I am ever to be fully forgiven by the
ton
, there must not be even a
hint
of scandal in my behavior for the rest of my life.”

“I will not stand for such a boring wife,” he said. “You will have to choose between Papa and me.”

“No,” she frowned. “I will never do that. I have never been willing to do that.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“But you will owe me obedience after we are married,” he reminded her—just to be provocative.

He was not disappointed.

“If you ever try to hold me to that ridiculous marriage vow,” she said, bristling visibly and raising her voice, “I will fight you to the death with every weapon in my arsenal. And don't think I do not possess a few.”

Someone—Reggie did not turn his head to see who—had stopped strolling a short distance away on the balcony and was giving them unabashed attention.

The unhappily betrothed pair were already quarreling.

Reggie grinned.

“That sounds promising,” he said, waggling his eyebrows and keeping a wary eye on her fan.

“I
mean
it.”

She obviously did. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes glared. Her one hand was rigid in his own. The other tightened predictably about her fan.

“I sincerely hope you do,” he said soothingly. “You can fight me any day you want, Lady Annabelle Ashton—or any night for that matter.
Especially
any night.”

Indignation did marvels for the bosom of a lady wearing stays and a flimsy gown. Hers heaved and looked for a moment as if it might pop free of her bodice. Alas, it did not happen. But it drew Reggie's eyes, and it heated his blood.

“This is not kind of you,” she said, lowering her voice again.

He searched her eyes, but they were huge pools of shadow and darkness.

“Is it not?” he murmured.

“No.” There was a slight tremor in her voice.

He pulled slightly on her hand and lowered his head and set his lips to hers. They were soft and warm and slightly moist. He set the tip of his tongue to the seam at the center of her lips and pressed it hard and deep into her mouth.

She made a low and startled sound in her throat.

He withdrew his tongue and his lips and released her hand. He leaned back against the rails again and smiled at her with half-closed eyes.