The Further Observations of Lady Whistledown (Lady W 1) by Julia Quinn Page A

and as they swirled onto the dance floor, he noted that her shoes were red. And then one of them trod on his left foot.
    “I’m so sorry,” she gulped, flushing.
    “No need to apologize,” he returned, smiling and hoping his eyes wouldn’t water. She didn’t appear that sturdy, but—
    Miss Liza stepped on him again. “Oh no!”
    “No worries, Miss Liza,” he grunted. Good God, unique as she was in appearance, she danced with the grace of an elephant.
    “I should have warned you,” she mumbled, “dancing is not my forte. Perhaps if we counted the steps aloud?”
    His left foot was going numb, but he couldn’t help being amused. “The danger makes the adventure more worthwhile,” he returned.
    To his surprise, she laughed, and then, less amusing for him but to the obvious enjoyment of the nearest couples, she began counting. “One, two, three. One, two, three—oh drat.”
    He managed to avoid stumbling over her as she tripped on her own gown, then caught Sir Royce Pemberley staring at the two of them. A moment later he came forward, blocking their path.
    “Might I cut in?” he asked tightly.
    Maximilian met his gaze. He’d thought to find anger, or the snide disdain he was used to from Londoners, but instead he found himself nodding and stepping back, allowing Sir Royce to take his place. They said nothing else, but as Miss Elizabeth took Sir Royce’s hand and met her partner’s gaze, Maximilian abruptly realized that Anne had told the truth about the snow angels incident being nothing more than a moment of amusement. Royce Pemberley was not at the Shelbourne ball for Lady Anne Bishop. He’d already found his love.
    Limping slightly, Max returned to the dessert table. The more circling Lord Howard did, the more nasty looks turned in Max’s direction. He wondered whether Desmond Howard had ever bothered to tell Anne about the young maid he’d ruined when they’d both been at Oxford, and how much the viscount had resented Maximilian’s intervention in seeing the girl safely to a position with his mother.
    The air stirred. Without turning, he knew that she’d entered the room. Anne. His Anne. Straightforward as he’d been in stating he would leave with or without her, he wasn’t quite certain he could manage to go a day, much less a lifetime, without her by his side.
    He managed to intercept her before Howard. “You wore yellow,” he murmured, taking her hand and brushing his lips across her knuckles.
    Green eyes glowed in the chandelier light, and not just from the excitement of the dance, he thought. Could she be as drawn to him as he was to her? Dear God, he hoped so.
    “Something put me in mind of daffodils, today,” she returned, the soft timbre of her voice not quite steady.
    “You outshine them all. Will you dance with me?”
    “Maximilian—”
    “Just dance with me,” he insisted, drawing her toward the dance floor. Any protest that began with his name couldn’t be good, and if he didn’t take her into his arms at once, he had the distinct feeling he would expire.
    She must have felt the same, because with an exhaled breath she relaxed and nodded. “One dance, and then we need to talk.”
    “Two dances,” he countered. “After all, this piece is already begun.”
    “I can’t dance twice in a row with you.”
    “Who’ll notice? Besides, we’re betrothed.”
    This was perfection. Holding her as close as she and etiquette would allow, he didn’t even mind the additional maneuvering required to avoid crashing into Miss Elizabeth and Sir Royce. Unlike her ice skating, Anne’s dancing was incomparable. With her swaying in his arms, he could forget he was in London, forget that a hundred other guests milled and chatted and gossiped around them, forget that Lord Howard waited in the wings for him to return to Yorkshire.
    “Are you truly leaving tomorrow?” Anne asked, long lashes hiding her eyes from him.
    “I can’t stay forever,” he returned, hoping that was regret he