All Through the Night by Connie Brockway Page B

misjudgment. I want to”— she spread her fingers across his chest; it was hard and the skin beneath his waistcoat was warm—“demonstrate my appreciation.”
    He looked down at her. “That isn’t necessary, Miss Sophia.”
    “Oh, but I want to.”
    He shook his head, his smile rueful and apologetic. “I’m old enough to be your father.”
    “I already have a father.” She put her hands atop his shoulders, rose on tiptoe, and pressed her body against his.
    “You are too kind, Miss Sophia,” he said. “But this is not the time, this is not the place, and I, I fear, am not the man you think.”
    He reached between them and gently traced her jaw with a crippled finger. The movement, though tantalizing, effectively broke her contact with him. She dropped flat to her feet, thwarted and unhappy.
    “Are you feeling quite recovered?” he asked mildly.
    She might not have made her bold advance for all the effect it appeared to have had on him. He must have enjoyed any number of extreme encounters to be so blasé. The thought titillated her.
    “For the moment, Colonel,” she said, allowing him to turn her around and lead her back. “For the moment.”

    Anne Wilder moved slowly past Lady Dibbs, craning her head surreptitiously as she scanned the crowded ballroom.
    “Have you lost your charming young relative, Mrs. Wilder?” Lady Dibbs asked with amusement.
    “Dear me, no. I just wished to see that she is enjoying herself.”
    Anne contrived to look unconcerned, but Lady Dibbs could see her words had struck a nerve. Satisfaction spread through her.
    Seven years ago Lady Dibbs had been the reigning toast of the London season—for all of two weeks. That was when Anne Tribble, a pocket-size nobody from nowhere, had arrived and promptly taken the ton by storm. Not only that, but she’d managed to snare Matthew Wilder, a man who had, for that same two weeks, shown definite signs of succumbing to Lady Dibbs’s attractions.
    But that was not the primary reason Lady Dibbs disliked the dark widow. She disliked Anne Wilder for the simple fact that she alone of their peers knew that Lady Cora Dibbs, the wealthy wife of an ancient, bedridden baron, recanted on her donations. Every time she saw the widow, she was reminded that she was a fraud and a sham. Yes, she definitely loathed Anne Wilder.
    “Where ever do you suppose she could have got off to?” Lady Dibbs asked innocently.
    “I believe she’s dancing. These young girls can dance for hours.”
    “Dancing?” Lady Dibbs echoed. “I thought for sure I saw her leaving the room with Colonel Seward.”
    That sharpened the interest in Anne’s thin face.
    “I know that in your youth you allowed yourself to be familiar with those others would have chosen not to know, but I feel you really should warn your young relative off.”
    “Do you?”
    Lady Dibbs could not help her sliver of admiration for Anne’s cool expression. Too bad her eyes ruined the effect. They were quite, quite hot.
    “Yes,” she said, adjusting her gloves. “I know for a fact that Colonel Seward is quite base and”—she looked to either side before bending closer—“he seeks the company of the lowest type of woman.”
    “You don’t know that.” Anne’s voice was taut.
    Good Lord, Lady Dibbs thought in amusement, she has developed a tendre, an honest-to-God tendre for him! Several women she knew had declared their interest in Devil Jack, but interest of a purely physical nature. None of them would seriously consider him anything more than an exciting diversion.
    “But I do, my dear. He’s been seen procuring their company.”
    “I can’t think why you would be telling me this, Lady Dibbs,” Anne said stiffly, thereby betraying herself.
    Lady Dibbs laughed. “Why, my dear! Because of Miss North, of course. Why else?”
    Ruddy color rushed to Anne’s wan cheeks. She lifted her chin. “I thank you for the advice.” She looked beyond Lady Dibbs and her features flooded with relief.