The orchestra came to her rescue with a decisive chord before she could make any other sharp retort.
He set his right hand against the back of her waist and took her right hand in his left as she placed her hand on his shoulder. And . . . Oh, and he was very different from Mr. Alton. He was taller for one thing. His hands were firm and long-fingered and warm. His shoulder was solid muscle and broad. And he had . . . an aura? There was body heat, certainly, accentuated by a faint, enticing cologne. But it was more than body heat and more than cologne. Whatever it was, it wrapped about her even though he stood a very correct distance away. It was more than an aura too. An aura was sexless, or at least she thought it was. This was raw masculinity.
Could it be deliberate? Or was it a part of him, just as the blue eyes were and the dark hair and the handsome face?
The music began.
Imogen’s first thought was that he certainly knew how to waltz. Her second thought was that he had a feel for the soul of the dance to a degree that he did not need to show off with fancy steps and exaggerated twirls. Her third thought was that dancing had never ever been so exhilarating. And then all thought ceased. She was too caught up in the moment, in pure feeling. And feeling involved all five senses as she saw colors and light swirl about them and heard the melody and the rhythm and smelled cologne and somehow tasted the wine she had drunk at supper and felt the warmth of hands touching her and leading her and making her feel cherished and exhilarated and happier than she had felt since . . . Well, since.
But inevitably thought intruded at last, just before the music ended, and with it came a tidal wave of resentment. Against him, for it was all deliberate with him, all artifice. And against herself. Oh, overwhelmingly against herself. For she had allowed herself to be beguiled, to be swept beyond simple enjoyment into mindless euphoria. She could not even blame him entirely or perhaps at all. She had acquiesced without a struggle.
“Thank you,” she said when the dance ended and everyone applauded, as they always did after the waltz.
She dropped her hand from his shoulder, but his arm was still about her waist, and his clasp on her other hand was still firm. His eyes, she saw when she looked into them, were regarding her keenly. And then he stepped back, bowed, and smiled.
“Ah, no,” he said. “Thank you, Cousin Imogen.”
He was using his polished, charming manner again. His shield of unknowing.
He took her hand once more and set it on his sleeve before leading her off the floor to join Elizabeth and Sir Matthew. He stayed to converse for a few minutes before strolling off to solicit the hand of Louise Soames, who looked in danger of being a wallflower for the final set of the evening. Mr. Wenzel claimed Imogen for the second time that evening.
She wished—oh, she wished, wished, wished—she had gone home with Aunt Lavinia.
And she had to share a carriage with him on the way back. Just the two of them.
* * *
He had been here exactly a week, Percy thought, and it seemed like a year. It amazed him that he was still here, when it would be the easiest thing in the world to leave. Hardford was not the epitome of comfort—he had found when he went to bed last night that the window curtains, a tasteful match for his bedcover, had been replaced by draperies of a heavy dark brocade, and they were somehow stuck on their rod and would not open unless held back by hand. They had been put there to hold out some of the draft, Crutchley had explained when summoned. His lordship had been fortunate so far that there had not been much wind. When there was, he would soon discover that it blew through his bedchamber window almost as though it was not there. He would be far more comfortable in the guest room at the back.
Percy was beginning to wonder half seriously if someone was deliberately trying to nudge him out of his own room—and perhaps out of his own house?
He should not need nudging. There was almost nothing here with which to alleviate his boredom. And no one with whom to strike up a close friendship. No one like his usual friends, anyway, though he found himself feeling kindly disposed toward Sir Matthew Quentin and even Wenzel when the man was not foisting his attentions upon Lady Barclay. He was forced to share his home with three women and a menagerie of animals, one of which stuck to him like glue. It was a wonder Hector had not turned up at the assembly rooms tonight. There were the other strays too, the ones of the human variety. And there was a steward who appeared to be gathering dust along with the estate books and must somehow be persuaded to retire. There was an estate going to ruin. There was . . .
Well, there was the woman beside him in the carriage, silent, stiff, as cold as marble again. He had no idea what he had done to offend her this time. If they had quarreled, she had started it—What part are you playing now? . . . You are neither smiling nor oozing charm. She had seemed to thaw a bit after that, though. She had even apologized for her rudeness. But now . . .
He had no idea why she was so prickly. What was more, he did not care—or should not care. She irritated him beyond endurance. She alone was enough to drive him back to his own world, except that he had discovered a stubborn streak in himself this week. Had it always been there? He was almost sure he did not like her. And there was nothing particularly attractive about her. Or beautiful—despite an earlier thought to the contrary.
There was that curled lip, though.
A curled upper lip did not an attractive woman make.
He kept to his own side of the carriage seat and looked out onto darkness. She kept to her side and did the same. Not that it was possible to put much distance between oneself and another on a carriage seat or prevent the occasional touch when the carriage turned the slightest of bends or hit a rut, which was a lamentably frequent occurrence on English roads. The air was cold. They could have seen their breath if there had been any light to see by.