It Happened One Autumn
Page 53
Suddenly it hurt to be near him. “Then I suppose this waltz will be our first and our last,” she said lightly. “Good evening, my lord, and thank you for—”
“Lillian,” she heard him whisper.
Turning from him, she walked away with a brittle smile, while goose bumps rose on the exposed skin of her neck and back.
The rest of the night would have been a misery for Lillian, had it not been for a timely rescue in the form of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent. He appeared beside her before she could join Evie and Daisy, who were sitting together on a velvet bench.
“What a graceful dancer you are, Miss Bowman.”
After being with Westcliff, it seemed awkward to look up into the face of a man who was so much taller than she. St.Vincent stared at her with a promise of wicked enjoyment that she found difficult to resist. His enigmatic smile could have been offered to a friend or an enemy with equal ease. Lillian let her gaze slip downward to the slightly off-center knot of his cravat. There was a hint of disarray in his clothing, as if he had dressed with a bit too much haste after leaving a lover’s bed—and meant to return there soon.
In answer to his easy compliment, Lillian smiled and shrugged a bit awkwardly, remembering too late the countess’s admonition that ladies never shrugged. “If I appeared graceful, my lord, it was because of the earl’s skill, not mine.”
“You’re too modest, sweet. I’ve seen Westcliff dance with other women, and the effect wasn’t nearly the same. You seem to have patched up your differences with him quite nicely. Are you friends now?”
It was a harmless question, but Lillian sensed that his meaning was multilayered. She replied cautiously, while she noticed that Lord Westcliff was escorting an auburn-haired woman to the refreshment table. The woman was glowing with obvious pleasure at the earl’s interest. A needle of jealousy stabbed through Lillian’s heart. “I don’t know, my lord,” she said. “It’s possible that your definition of friendship does not match mine.”
“Clever girl.” St. Vincent’s eyes were like blue diamonds, pale and infinitely faceted. “Come, let me escort you to the refreshment table, and we’ll compare our definitions.”
“No, thank you,” Lillian said reluctantly, even though she was parched with thirst. For her own peace of mind, she had to avoid Westcliff’s proximity.
Following her gaze, St. Vincent saw the earl in the company of the auburn-haired woman. “Perhaps we’d better not,” he agreed in a relaxed tone. “It would undoubtedly displease Westcliff to see you in my company. After all, he did warn me to stay away from you.”
“He did?” Lillian frowned. “Why?”
“He doesn’t want you to be compromised or otherwise harmed by association with me.” The viscount slid her a baiting glance. “My reputation, you understand.”
“Westcliff has no right to make any decisions about whom I associate with,” Lillian muttered, swift anger burning through her. “The top-lofty, superior know-all, I’d like to—” She stopped and fought to marshal her rearing emotions. “I’m thirsty,” she said tersely. “I want to go to the refreshment table. With you.”
“If you insist,” St. Vincent said mildly. “What shall it be? Water? Lemonade? Punch, or—”
“Champagne,” came her grim reply.
“Whatever you desire.” He accompanied her to the long table, which was surrounded by a long line of guests. Lillian had never known a purer sense of satisfaction than the moment Westcliff noticed that she was in St. Vincent’s company. The line of his mouth hardened, and he stared at her with narrowed black eyes. Smiling defiantly, Lillian accepted a glass of iced champagne from St. Vincent and drank it in unladylike gulps.
“Not so fast, sweet,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “The champagne will go to your head.”
“I want another,” Lillian replied, dragging her attention away from Westcliff and turning toward St. Vincent.
“Yes. In a few minutes. You look a bit flushed. The effect is charming, but I think you’ve had enough for now. Would you like to dance?”
“I would love to.” Giving her empty glass to a nearby footman with a tray, Lillian stared at St. Vincent with a deliberately dazzling smile. “How interesting. After a year of being a perpetual wallflower, I’ve received two invitations to dance in one night. I wonder why?”
“Well…” St. Vincent walked slowly with her to the crowd of dancers. “I’m a wicked man who can, on occasion, be just a bit nice. And I’ve been searching for a nice girl who can, on occasion, be just a bit wicked.”
“And now you’ve found one?” Lillian asked, laughing.
“It would seem so.”
“What were you planning to do, once you found the girl?”
There was an interesting complexity in his eyes. He seemed like a man who was capable of anything …and in her current reckless disposition, that was exactly what she wanted. “I will let you know,” St. Vincent murmured. “Later.”
Dancing with St. Vincent was an entirely different experience from dancing with Westcliff. There was not the sense of exquisite physical harmony, of movement without thought …but St. Vincent was smooth and accomplished, and as they circled the ballroom, he kept throwing out provocative comments that made her laugh. And he held her with assurance, with hands that, despite their respectful clasp, bespoke a wealth of experience with women’s bodies.
“Lillian,” she heard him whisper.
Turning from him, she walked away with a brittle smile, while goose bumps rose on the exposed skin of her neck and back.
The rest of the night would have been a misery for Lillian, had it not been for a timely rescue in the form of Sebastian, Lord St. Vincent. He appeared beside her before she could join Evie and Daisy, who were sitting together on a velvet bench.
“What a graceful dancer you are, Miss Bowman.”
After being with Westcliff, it seemed awkward to look up into the face of a man who was so much taller than she. St.Vincent stared at her with a promise of wicked enjoyment that she found difficult to resist. His enigmatic smile could have been offered to a friend or an enemy with equal ease. Lillian let her gaze slip downward to the slightly off-center knot of his cravat. There was a hint of disarray in his clothing, as if he had dressed with a bit too much haste after leaving a lover’s bed—and meant to return there soon.
In answer to his easy compliment, Lillian smiled and shrugged a bit awkwardly, remembering too late the countess’s admonition that ladies never shrugged. “If I appeared graceful, my lord, it was because of the earl’s skill, not mine.”
“You’re too modest, sweet. I’ve seen Westcliff dance with other women, and the effect wasn’t nearly the same. You seem to have patched up your differences with him quite nicely. Are you friends now?”
It was a harmless question, but Lillian sensed that his meaning was multilayered. She replied cautiously, while she noticed that Lord Westcliff was escorting an auburn-haired woman to the refreshment table. The woman was glowing with obvious pleasure at the earl’s interest. A needle of jealousy stabbed through Lillian’s heart. “I don’t know, my lord,” she said. “It’s possible that your definition of friendship does not match mine.”
“Clever girl.” St. Vincent’s eyes were like blue diamonds, pale and infinitely faceted. “Come, let me escort you to the refreshment table, and we’ll compare our definitions.”
“No, thank you,” Lillian said reluctantly, even though she was parched with thirst. For her own peace of mind, she had to avoid Westcliff’s proximity.
Following her gaze, St. Vincent saw the earl in the company of the auburn-haired woman. “Perhaps we’d better not,” he agreed in a relaxed tone. “It would undoubtedly displease Westcliff to see you in my company. After all, he did warn me to stay away from you.”
“He did?” Lillian frowned. “Why?”
“He doesn’t want you to be compromised or otherwise harmed by association with me.” The viscount slid her a baiting glance. “My reputation, you understand.”
“Westcliff has no right to make any decisions about whom I associate with,” Lillian muttered, swift anger burning through her. “The top-lofty, superior know-all, I’d like to—” She stopped and fought to marshal her rearing emotions. “I’m thirsty,” she said tersely. “I want to go to the refreshment table. With you.”
“If you insist,” St. Vincent said mildly. “What shall it be? Water? Lemonade? Punch, or—”
“Champagne,” came her grim reply.
“Whatever you desire.” He accompanied her to the long table, which was surrounded by a long line of guests. Lillian had never known a purer sense of satisfaction than the moment Westcliff noticed that she was in St. Vincent’s company. The line of his mouth hardened, and he stared at her with narrowed black eyes. Smiling defiantly, Lillian accepted a glass of iced champagne from St. Vincent and drank it in unladylike gulps.
“Not so fast, sweet,” she heard St. Vincent murmur. “The champagne will go to your head.”
“I want another,” Lillian replied, dragging her attention away from Westcliff and turning toward St. Vincent.
“Yes. In a few minutes. You look a bit flushed. The effect is charming, but I think you’ve had enough for now. Would you like to dance?”
“I would love to.” Giving her empty glass to a nearby footman with a tray, Lillian stared at St. Vincent with a deliberately dazzling smile. “How interesting. After a year of being a perpetual wallflower, I’ve received two invitations to dance in one night. I wonder why?”
“Well…” St. Vincent walked slowly with her to the crowd of dancers. “I’m a wicked man who can, on occasion, be just a bit nice. And I’ve been searching for a nice girl who can, on occasion, be just a bit wicked.”
“And now you’ve found one?” Lillian asked, laughing.
“It would seem so.”
“What were you planning to do, once you found the girl?”
There was an interesting complexity in his eyes. He seemed like a man who was capable of anything …and in her current reckless disposition, that was exactly what she wanted. “I will let you know,” St. Vincent murmured. “Later.”
Dancing with St. Vincent was an entirely different experience from dancing with Westcliff. There was not the sense of exquisite physical harmony, of movement without thought …but St. Vincent was smooth and accomplished, and as they circled the ballroom, he kept throwing out provocative comments that made her laugh. And he held her with assurance, with hands that, despite their respectful clasp, bespoke a wealth of experience with women’s bodies.
