The Dangerous Lord by Sabrina Jeffries Page B

instead!
    If she’d known Mr. Gerard was the object of Katherine’s affections, she would never have encouraged it. But she’d naively imagined some squire’s son with less fortune than Lady Hastings wished. Not a servant, for pity’s sake, who was doubtless a fortune hunter! Drat it all!
    Katherine was supposed to turn St. Clair down flat, then marry a man at least marginally suitable to her genteel class. The foolish girl.
    Now, for all her trouble, Felicity had a hornet on her tail. No wonder Lord St. Clair had spent luncheon baiting her—he must be furious! She watched him approach with growing unease. The man had an uncanny ability to keep his true feelings buried ten feet under, and that made him more difficult to manage than a man easy to read. If she had any sense at all, she’d run.
    A pity she had nowhere to go.
    â€œLord St. Clair is coming this way, my dear,” LadyBrumley said beside her, with a nod of her elaborately coiffured head. “Shall I introduce you?”
    â€œThank you, we’ve met.” No doubt the marchioness would make much of that. Lady Brumley hadn’t reached sixty without learning how to turn the sparest comments into fodder for gossip. Felicity relied on the Galleon of Gossip for half her column, and sometimes wondered if Lady Brumley had guessed who wore Lord X’s pants.
    God knows, she wished it were anyone but herself just now.
    Then the troublesome viscount was upon them, wearing a smile so alarming she could barely manage one in answer. He nodded briefly at the marchioness, then bowed to Felicity. “Miss Taylor, would you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
    The scoundrel. He wanted to get her off on the dance floor so he could rail at her, and he knew she dared not refuse with Lady Brumley drinking in every word.
    Well, she had to face his wrath some time. “I’d be happy to dance with you,” she lied, extending her hand. Though I’d be happier still if I’d never met you .
    He led her to the floor with the practiced ease of a gentleman, then settled one hand on the curve of her waist as the other closed tightly around her gloved fingers.
    She groaned. God preserve her, she’d agreed to a waltz, and waltzes were not her forte. Her dancing in general left much to be desired, but with some figures, like the quadrille, she could follow her fellows and hide her missteps in the crowd. That was impossible with a waltz.
    â€œLord St. Clair—” she began, meaning to warn him. But he’d already whirled her onto the floor. One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three , she chanted in her head, futilely trying to keep from stumbling or making a misstep.
    â€œMiss Taylor—” he began.
    â€œShh,” she muttered, casting an envious glance at the others who so deftly managed the dance’s intricacies. Herfingers dug into his shoulder. “I’m counting.”
    â€œCounting?”
    â€œThe measure. I’m very bad at the waltz.”
    He eyed her with suspicion. “You must be joking.”
    She trod on his foot completely by accident. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered as she sought to find her footing again, nearly bringing them to a halt.
    He half dragged her back into step, remaining silent until she found the measure again. “How could you not have mastered the waltz? You go to a different social affair every night.”
    â€œYes, but I don’t go to dance.” She resumed her death grip on his shoulder. Maybe he could simply carry her about the room. He was certainly large enough, and she’d already ruined any appearance of ladylike grace by clinging to him like a drowning woman.
    When he didn’t answer her comment, she risked a glance up into his face.
    It was shuttered, his eyes impersonal as gems. “I forgot—you go to hear gossip.”
    â€œTo gather material.” His condescension and obvious ease at the waltz irritated her.