Page 9 of A Murder in Mayfair
“Where have you been?” she asked.
I pulled her aside. “You know how they say you shouldn’t eavesdrop when someone mentions your name?”
“Because you won’t hear a good thing about you?”
“Yes.”
“Who? What?”
“A few so-called gentlemen in a room off the side corridor. I didn’t mean to listen, but?—”
Claire grabbed my arm. “Why, I’ll be! He’s walking toward us.”
“Who?”
“The Duke of Steele.”
Much too soon, he was in front of us. A tall, broad-shouldered presence who blocked everyone behind him from view. Everything about him was daunting, from his towering height to his commanding physique. Much as every other gentleman in the room, he was dressed in formal evening clothes. But while most other men’s attire somehow seemed pedestrian, his were the epitome of sophistication and elegance.While I was busy taking his measure, he offered a very fine leg to my friend. “Lady Edmunds.”
She curtsied in turn. “Your Grace.”
Time seemed to stand still as his silver gaze found me. Unsettling and mesmerizing, it left me both strangely exposed and drawn to him. As it had done in the past.
“Lady Rosalynd,” his deep voice sent shivers down my spine. After he bowed and I curtsied, he held out his hand. “Would you honor me with a dance?”
Not likely. “I’m afraid I’m?—”
Digging an elbow into my side, Claire answered for me. “She’d be happy to.”
I shot her an incendiary glance. But the truth of the matter was I had no recourse but to accept his offer, even as I wondered why he’d made it in the first place.
Unfortunately, the dance was a waltz, a particular aversion of mine. Not only that, I was roasting. “The ballroom is rather warm, Your Grace. Would you mind if we moved closer to the terrace? Our hostess seems to have thrown open the doors. It should provide cooler air.”
“As you wish.”
I rested my hand on the arm he extended, and together we made our way in that direction.
During our walk, we maintained silence. Seemingly, he’d reached the same conclusion I had. No sense talking when all around us, guests were practically shouting to make themselves heard. Once we arrived at a space that was blessedly devoid of people, he stopped and turned to me. “Will this do, Lady Rosalynd?”
“Yes, thank you.” I gazed pointedly at him. “Why did you ask me to dance, Your Grace?”
He appeared to be momentarily taken aback by my question. Still, he answered me readily enough. “It is the thing one does at a ball, is it not?”
“And yet, I sense you have a specific purpose.”
He offered a subdued, controlled upturn of the lips. Not the first time I’d seen that gesture on him. “I believe you overheard a conversation about the petition you submitted to the House of Lords.”
“You’re right. I did. How did you know?”
“Selfgren called out your name. Once your conversation with him ended, I followed you.”
“For what reason? Surely not to claim a dance. You’re not in the market for a wife. And I wouldn’t qualify as a mistress.”
His silver gaze grew flinty. “You’re angry.”
“How very observant of you,” I spat out through gritted teeth. “But you’re wrong. I’m not angry. I’m furious. How dare you think women are too stupid to vote?”
“I did not say that.”
