Page 49 of Thief of the Ton
“Oh dear,” Eleanor said, a stricken expression on her face. “I’ve done it again, haven’t I? Forgive me. I meant no insult.”
“None taken, my dear friend,” Lavinia said. “Brutal honesty is always to be favored over flattery.”
She glanced about the ballroom. The dance was in full swing, bodies colliding with each other as they whirled around. The dancers were occupied with each other and the rest of the guests were either focused on their drinks, or observing the dancing. None had any interest in the small group of women hiding like wallflowers at the edge of the ballroom.
Her time had come when she could slip away unnoticed to embark on her quest.
She rose to her feet. “Would you excuse me?” she asked. “I must…see to my needs.”
“Your—needs?” Eleanor asked.
“I drank a little too much water before coming tonight,” Lavinia said. “Would you tell my aunt, if she asks, that I’ve gone to take the air?”
Eleanor nodded, then lowered her gaze to the floor.
Lavinia skirted the perimeter of the ballroom, making her way to a small side door, through which she could slip out unnoticed. According to Lady Betty, who had once indulged in a tryst with Lord Houghton, Lady Houghton’s dressing room—the obvious location of Mama’s necklace—was on the first floor, somewhere in the east wing. With all eyes on the dancers, her friends ready to make her excuses, and a folded piece of paper bearing the Phoenix’s calling card in her reticule, her time had come.
She was fewer than ten paces from the door when a male voice spoke in her ear.
“Miss de Grande. Where are you going?”
She turned and looked up to see a pair of clear hazel eyes staring directly at her—accusation in their expression.
“L-Lord Marlow!”
He tightened his grip and pulled her toward him. “Did you think you could escape me?”
His eyes darkened, and her heart flip-flopped in her chest.
“E-escape?”
“Why else would you scuttle across the ballroom?” he asked.
“Must you respond with a question of your own?” she asked. “And, I don’tscuttle—or do you think me a black beetle?”
“There are worse creatures to be—real and mythical.”
Her stomach clenched, twisting into knots.
He knows.
Then his mouth curled into a smile, and he bowed his head.
“Forgive my forwardness, Miss de Grande, but when a gentleman approaches a lady to ask her to dance, he cannot be condemned for feeling a little hurt on seeing her flee from him like a fox from a pack of hounds.”
“So, I’m a fox, now?”
“Were you not running from me?” he asked. “Or…” His eyes narrowed again. “Perhaps you’re up to no good?”
Curse him!Why did he have to be so sharp-eyed?
But boldness, not fear, was her best defense.
“I fear I’m constantly up to no good tonight,” she said, “at least in my aunt’s eyes. She’s been lecturing me all day about the absence of names on my dance card, so I decided that the only way to avoid her disapproving looks would be to take a turn about the terrace.”
“Then permit me to restore your reputation—at least in the eyes of your aunt.” He offered his hand. “Shall we?”
She glanced toward the door—so tantalizingly close, yet so far out of reach.
