Page 48 of To Woo and to Wed
And nearly ran headfirst into West.
“Oh!” Sophie reared back like a spooked horse.
“I beg your pardon.” His words came out stilted, almost accusatory. She felt a flash of annoyance. From above his elaborately knotted cravat, he seemed to be looking down his nose at everyone present, which did not improve her temper.
“I didn’t see you—I’m sorry.” She sounded stiff, even to her own ears; she didn’t know how to speak to him anymore.
The thought was sharp, like a razor sliding against her skin.
“It was my fault,” he replied, gentlemanly as ever. “I’ll just allow you to—” He stepped back, as if to allow her to pass; she was about to doso when suddenly, so quickly she nearly missed it, his eyes dropped to her neckline.
A spark raced down her spine at the sight. His eyes dropped to her décolletage once more. This time, they caught there—not for so long that it felt lecherous, but long enough that she felt a strange surge of awareness of her own power. He might be a marquess—might be the heir to one of the most powerful men in England—but now, in this moment, he was inherthrall.
A moment later, his brain seemed to catch up to his eyes, and he wrenched them north again. The polite thing to do would be to pretend she had not noticed. But instead, she looked him directly in the eye.
And raised both eyebrows.
And then—then! The faintest trace of color appeared in his cheeks.
She had made the Marquess of Westonblush.
She felt nearly giddy as their eyes locked, he looking embarrassed and frustrated and a dozen other terribly human emotions that she was not accustomed to seeing him permit himself. Or at least not permit himself to show.
He cleared his throat, offered a brief nod, and walked away.
Her jaw dropped, though she quickly wrenched it shut—surely, surely things had not progressed to so dire a state that she was to start gaping like a fish in a crowded ballroom. This was the single rudest thing she had ever seen West do—not just to her, but to anyone, with the exception of the unfortunate Marquess of Sandworth, whom he’d held by the throat against a hedge that fateful night that they’d discovered him in Maria’s company. West was always exquisitely, excruciatingly polite; even in the six years since their aborted courtship, he still always had a courteous nod or bow for her.
But this!
A slow smile began to creep across her face as she considered the matter. In the past two minutes, she had caused West to gape openly at her décolletage, and then left him so agitated that he’d forgotten his manners completely and turned his back on a lady without a word of farewell.
He wasflustered.
He still wanted her.
He wouldn’t do anything about it—this was proven by the way he had all but fled from the sight of her breasts (an intriguing event in and of itself; she had not been aware that her rather modest bosom possessed this sort of power!). But the true question was: What wasshegoing to do about it?
“Lady Fitzwilliam, can I possibly be the luckiest man in Christendom, to have discovered you alone and not surrounded by a pack of admirers?”
She glanced up, startled; Jeremy, the current Marquess of Willingham, was standing before her. He had the exact same shade of golden hair that his elder brother had had, she thought sadly.
Jeremy had a reputation as something of a rake, a reputation bolstered in the years since he’d assumed the title after his brother’s death. They had spoken occasionally, danced every now and then, but Sophie tended to avoid him—he was too close to West. Best to keep herself far away.
But tonight, she was not feeling at all cautious.
“Lord Willingham.” She offered him a slow, flirtatious smile. “You’ve caught me whilst I was attempting an escape from this crush.”
A slightly pained expression crossed his face. “Please—Jeremy. My friends call me Jeremy.” The slightly strained note in his voice made herthink this was not a simple matter of preference for his given name, but she did not question it, and his expression eased nearly as quickly as it had tightened, that lazy, appreciative gleam reappearing in his eye as he gazed at her.
“And are we to be friends, then?” she asked coyly, and he blinked, then gave her a slow, seductive smile.
“I can think of nothing that would make me happier,” he said. “Is your next dance taken?” He projected an air of boyish hope that did not fool Sophie for one moment, though it did amuse her. And it was nice, she thought, to converse with a gentleman and not feel an emotion stronger than amusement.
And a bit of attraction, too, she thought, glancing at Jeremy from beneath her lashes as she consulted her dance card.
“I appear to have promised this dance to Lord Risedale,” she said.
“Risedale is currently making sickening cow eyes at his wife over there”—he jerked his head to the left—“and no doubt will not be too put out if he cannot find you to claim his dance.”
