Lady of Pleasure by Delilah Marvelle

corridor as if he had been waiting for the opportunity to do so all night. “Of course.”
    Lord Whittle brought his stubby, gloved hands together, appearing quite pleased. “Enjoy your evening. I should probably go find my wife.” He glanced around. “I can never seem to find that woman.” Smoothing his mustache, as if checking for dangling spittle, he disappeared into the ballroom.
    Lovely. Turning toward Lord Gifford, Caroline managed a smile.
    Though Gifford was two and forty, he had a face full of freckles and rusty red hair to match, which made him look more like a young buck of nineteen. He wasn’t a bad looking man. Quite the opposite. There was a dashing, boyish charm to him. His demeanor lent to it, of course. He seemed very genuine and warm, which, in her opinion, was rare amongst the male ton over forty who were usually cool and reserved. “Good evening, Lord Gifford. We meet again.”
    He inclined his head. “Lady Caroline. It’s a pleasure to see you outside the riding path.” Bright blue eyes intently held her gaze. “Would you like some wine or lemonade or anything? Before I take you to your brother?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you.”
    He hesitated and glanced toward the entrance of ballroom just a few stride away. “I have been meaning to ask you something. If I may.”
    “Of course.”
    He returned his gaze to hers. “I haven’t seen you dancing at all tonight and I mean to change that. Is the waltz available?”
    And here it was. Exactly what she didn’t want: the attention of a widowed man looking for a wife and a mother to his four children. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. She did. She just didn’t want him liking her . Aside from her own affection toward Caldwell, Lord Gifford had no idea what her family was really like. His poor children would have to be kept from visiting her mother lest they all faint from whatever left her mother’s mouth.
    Caroline made certain her dancing card, which was attached to her wrist by a velvet string with her fan, was well-covered and buried in her skirts. “Sadly, my lord, the waltz is already spoken for.” It wasn’t, but he didn’t need to know that.
    His eyes trailed to the dance card she was hiding. His jaw tightened and he half-nodded, clearly knowing what she was about. “I understand.” He adjusted his evening coat and averted his gaze, his freckled features visibly falling. “I’m getting too old to dance anyway.” He sighed. “Come. I promised to deliver you to your brother.”
    Why did she feel like she had just slapped a puppy? God save her, she sometimes wished she was incapable of feeling sorry for people. She heaved out a breath and despite all common sense, held up the card. “I lied, Lord Gifford. It isn’t spoken for. I was merely worried you might see me as a potential prospect, but that is no excuse. To make amends for my behavior, I ask that you please take the waltz. If you still want it, that is.”
    His gaze jumped to her face. “You don’t have to offer me a dance, Lady Caroline. I know most women aren’t comfortable with the idea of me being a father.”
    Now she really felt like a goose. “I was being rude. And there was no reason for it. Please. Honor me. I insist. In fact, I am writing your name beside the waltz right now.” Flipping over the card on her wrist, she used the small pencil attached to the velvet ribbon to scribe in his name. When she was done, she released the pencil and card, letting them cascade against her gloved wrist, the ribbon keeping both in place. “There. Now you can’t object.”
    His brows came together. “I don’t think I have ever known anyone to be so forthcoming with their thoughts.” He shifted toward her, searching her face. “Are you always like this?”
    She shrugged. “I find it’s better to survive a few minutes of being honest as opposed to feeling guilty for hours and maybe even days.”
    A laugh escaped him. “Is that so?” He held out an arm.