But Lord Ravensberg did not look away from her. He raised his eyebrows inquiringly while laughter danced in his eyes. He awaited an answer from her own lips. No true gentleman would have done so. And there was no necessity for her to reply when Joseph had done so for her. She had merely to place her hand on his arm, smile disdainfully, and walk off. It was a quite unexceptionable way in which to deal with unmannerly pretension. But she did none of those things.
Lord Ravensberg had not been coerced. He had complimented her eyes, however foolish the flattery. And he was undeniably attractive.
“Thank you, Joseph,” she heard herself saying, “but perhaps I have the energy to dance one more set before taking refreshments.”
She stepped forward, set her hand on the viscount’s sleeve, and allowed him to lead her onto the open space of the dance floor. Would she have done so if Joseph had not spoken up to protect her? Or if Lord Sutton had not been bringing her another partner? She did not know. But she did realize suddenly, now that it was too late to change her mind, that the next set was to be a waltz—the intimate dance, still considered slightly scandalous by the highest sticklers, that she had once considered wondrously romantic. But that had been when she had danced it with Neville at her wedding eve ball. And never before or since.
“Such a grave look,” the viscount murmured as she turned to face him. “ Are you tired? Would you prefer after all that I escort you to the refreshment room?”
“No. Thank you.” It was strange how such a small rebellion had lifted her spirits. And she was actually glad that the dance was to be a waltz. Perhaps she could lay to rest more than a few ghosts tonight.
The orchestra began playing the opening bars. Lauren raised her left hand to his shoulder and set her other hand in his. She could feel his right hand come firmly to rest against the arch of her back. His height made their positioning seem more intimate than it had felt with the taller Neville. She could not easily avoid gazing into his face. She could not avoid feeling his intense physical presence. She could feel the warm strength of both his hands. She could smell the subtle musk of his cologne. She drew a slow breath and looked into his eyes.
They smiled warmly, knowingly back into her own—as if he felt her discomfort and was amused by it. A dangerous man indeed, she thought. She had never been comfortable with such men. She had avoided them all her life.
He led her into the waltz.
For a while the bitter memories of her wedding eve ball and the day that had followed it threatened to overwhelm her. She calmed herself by deliberately counting her steps and concentrating on the rhythm of the music and the movement of her feet. But it did not take long to realize that she was partnered by a man who was an accomplished dancer. It was easy—it felt almost like second nature—to fit her steps to his lead and to follow the graceful, twirling pattern he set about the perimeter of the ballroom floor. It was easy to feel comfortable with his height, to appreciate the fact that she could look over his shoulder and see her surroundings.
She had not enjoyed the evening so far—and that was an understatement. But she had consoled herself with the knowledge that her appearance at such a squeeze had served a useful function. Now, suddenly, unexpectedly, she was enjoying herself. The lavish floral displays and the gowns of the other lady guests all merged into a glorious kaleidoscope of color. The candles in the chandeliers became swirling bands of light. And there was something undeniably exhilarating about waltzing with a man who not only knew the steps but also surely felt the magic of the dance as she did.
But that thought brought Lauren firmly back to reality after several minutes. She was dancing about Lady Mannering’s ballroom in the arms of a stranger whom she had first seen just a week ago in shocking, scandalous circumstances. Joseph had tried to prevent her from dancing with him this evening. Was the viscount not respectable, then, despite his title and his presence at a ton ball? Had her first instinct about him been correct? Was he a rake?
Part of her did not care, was even surprisingly titillated by the possibility, in fact. But it was a part of herself with which she was thoroughly unfamiliar, a part of herself that must be reined in.
“Do you attend many balls, my lord?” She concentrated her mind upon making polite conversation and setting some sort of safe social distance between them. “I must confess this is my first this year.”
“No, I do not,” he replied. “And yes, I know.”
She was indignant at the brevity of his answer. Did he know nothing about polite conversation? And then she was struck by its oddity. What did he mean— yes, I know. If he did not attend many balls himself, how did he know that she had attended none?
“It is a grand squeeze,” she said, trying again, clinging to clichй. “Lady Mannering must be well pleased with the success of all her efforts.”
“Successful indeed.” His laughing eyes did not waver from hers.
“The flowers and other decorations are both lovely and tasteful,” she said, laboring onward. “Do you not agree, my lord?”
“I have not looked to see, but I will take your word for it.”
He was flirting with her, she realized in sudden shock. He was implying that he had eyes for no one but her. And indeed, he was matching action to implication. She felt an uncomfortable and unfamiliar rush of physical awareness—and then indignation again.
“Now it is your turn to choose a topic of conversation,” she said, her voice deliberately disdainful to mask her discomfort.
He laughed softly. “A man does not need to converse when he is dancing with a beautiful woman,” he said. “He can be content merely to feel. To indulge all his five senses to the full. Conversation is a mere distraction.”
It was not just the outrageous words that made her heart beat faster. It was the way they were spoken. Softly. In a low, velvet voice that wrapped itself about her as if she were somehow naked to its touch. As if the two of them were alone together in the ballroom—or perhaps somewhere altogether more private.
And then suddenly they were alone and in relative darkness. She had not noticed that they were dancing close to the French windows until he had twirled her right through them and they were alone—or almost so—on the balcony beyond the candlelight.
Lauren was shocked to the depths of her soul.
“And light can be a distraction too,” he said, tightening his hand at her waist so that for a moment she became even more aware of his nearness and feared that her bosom would brush against his chest. His head dipped closer to her own as he spoke so that she felt the warmth of his breath kiss her cheek. “As can crowds of people.”
How dared he! She had been quite right to suspect . . . No gentleman . . .
But he had not stopped dancing, and with one more twirl they were back in the ballroom, having entered it through the other French windows less than a minute after leaving it. The withering setdown that was forming on her lips died unspoken as she met his laughing eyes and was once more caught up in the magic of the dance with a virile, attractive partner. Her little rebellion was proving undeniably enjoyable, she admitted ruefully to herself. He was a practiced charmer, of course. Lauren Edgeworth was not the sort of person with whom men flirted. She never had been even when she had been young and happy.
Now for the first time in her life she was being flirted with. And it felt rather pleasant—provided she did not for a moment allow herself to be beguiled by it.
She did not attempt any further conversation. Neither did he.
When the waltz was over, Viscount Ravensberg offered his arm to escort her back to her own party.