Daring Miss Danvers by Vivienne Lorret Page B

her easy escape as a challenge and wrote his name in bold letters for the fourth set. The waltz.
    Oh dear .
    “Miss Danvers,” he said with bow, returning her card in such a way as to dare her to accept it.
    With his mother and grandmother watching—as well as half the ton , no doubt—she withdrew the card from his fingers and offered a curtsy. “Lord Rathburn.”
    Before he left the gallery, he passed by her slowly. “I look forward to seeing you on the dance floor.”
    His words were more of a promise than a threat, and yet, she wondered if he meant to suggest that he planned to watch her while she was with other partners. A way of keeping his eye on her.
    “Then I shall do my best to procure the most elegant partners for you to admire,” she answered just as quietly and smiled to herself when he stumbled a half-step, his grand exit thwarted.
    He paused at the top of the stair and cast another hard look over his shoulder. Possessive . Another frisson raced through her, this time making the fine downy hairs at her nape stand on end. It was exhilarating as much as it caused her anxiety, and she wondered which sensation would win out in the end. Had he truly always looked at her this way?
    “Allow me, Miss Danvers. After all, as your fiancé, it is my duty to guide the most elegant partners to you.”
    Before she could inform him that she could acquire her own partners, especially without a glowering brute standing over her, Rathburn turned and swept down the stairs.
    “A valiant battle, my dear,” the dowager said, clucking her tongue. “But I’m afraid my grandson bested you this time. Right now, he’s below stairs finding you the dullest and most repellent partners in attendance.”
    She narrowed her eyes as she watched the top of his ash blond head weave his way through the crowd. It didn’t matter if he did find her dimwitted or unattractive partners. So long as the gentlemen were eligible, she could still find a way to win the battle. After all, he needed a reminder that they were not actually engaged.
    D uring the first set, she danced with Mr. Bastion, a distant cousin of the Dorsets’. He was exactly her height, with thinning brown hair, fleshy lips, and the unfortunate propensity to spit whenever he spoke. Although ashamed to admit it, she was actually thankful that he seemed too preoccupied with her bosom to offer up many topics of conversation.
    Lord Mosley partnered with her for the second set. She managed to endure thirty minutes of his company without falling asleep. He was a gentle soul, but his conversation was limited to his mother and their home in Derbyshire. Even when she tried to interject a comment about the weather, he responded with the fact that his mother preferred cooler springs that were less sunny.
    She hid a yawn behind her fan as he escorted her to the gallery stairs. If she weren’t suddenly so exhausted, she could honestly murder Rathburn. If he thought for a moment that she hadn’t noticed him smirking at her, he was mistaken.
    Her partner for the third set, a widower who was not much younger than her father, was nowhere in sight. She breathed a sigh of relief.
    “Pardon me,” a stranger said from behind her. “I believe this dance is mine.”
    Closing her fan, she pasted on her best smile and turned to greet him. Only he wasn’t the same gentlemen she’d been introduced to before. For starters, there wasn’t a single gray hair on his head. Instead, it was black as midnight, even darker than Merribeth’s. His eyes were a captivating pale gray that shimmered in the light of the chandeliers as if they were made of silver satin.
    Entranced for an instant, she had a difficult time remembering he wasn’t her partner for the third set. Then she felt his hand at the small of her back as he guided her to the dance floor. Before she could open her mouth to object, he already removed it, grinning down at her with a knowing air.
    She paused on the fringes of two lines of