Page 40 of Saving Miss Pratt

As the man grew closer, his gaze never left hers. But when he had stumbled, then limped the rest of the way, her blood chilled slightly.

Red hair.

Handsome.

Young.

Limping.

Gracious. Could it be Timothy?

Here? At her first foray back into society?

It was both wondrous and frightening at the same time.

When they came together during the steps of the dance, she leaned closer, keeping her voice low. “Are you injured, my lord?”

“Pardon?”

“You appear to be limping.”

“A minor injury to my ankle. Nothing to worry about.”

She shifted her gaze sideways, trying to catch his expression. Did he recognize her voice?

Ninnyhammer. Of course he doesn’t remember you.

“Are you quite certain you’re able to dance, my lord?”

At that, he faced her, his moss-green eyes locked onto hers, his lips curling into a smile. “Are you suggesting I’m unfit?”

Movement of the other dancers prevented her from stopping mid-step lest she break the form of the line—although the urge to run and hide became almost unbearable. “Well . . . no . . . I didn’t mean to imply.” Since she didn’t trip over her own feet, her tongue more than compensated. Tiny hairs prickled the back of her neck.

“And I’m not a lord. So you can drop the pretense.”

His words faltered a bit after the wordlord,as if he wanted to add something but thought better of it. The bite to his words sent a warning to Priscilla.

Was he angry? Priscilla scrambled to redeem herself and salvage the situation. “Yet, tonight are we not all considered lords and ladies per the duke’s requirement? We would be ungrateful guests if we were to disobey his instructions.”

Slipping his hand in hers as they executed the steps of the dance, he leaned in, whispering, “I merely suggest that if you’re seeking to form an attachment with a titled gentleman, not all here are of the peerage.”

Rancor narrowed her eyes. His words cut like a blade across her tattered reputation. Would she never escape the ignominy of her past? “I’m here to dance and enjoy myself. Not seek a husband. And I resent your implication, sir. I would remind you it was you who approached me.”

All doubt fled from her mind. This had to be Timothy. No other man could raise her ire so quickly and yet send shivers of attraction throughout her body.

Chagrin painted his face—what she could see of it under his blue demi-mask. “I beg your pardon. You are correct. That was quite rude. Perhaps we might start over?”

She jerked her chin at him. “That depends. Do you plan to continue such boorish behavior, or will you act like a gentleman—lord or not?”

“I accept your chastisement and promise to be on my best behavior.”

“Very well, then.” She kept her tone cool—reserved, but inside heat pooled in her belly as she remembered the repartee they’d shared in the cottage. Not to mention the warmth of the bed they’d shared. Her face burned with the memory.

“You’re flushed,” he said, the concern in his voice touching and reminding her of the softer side of Timothy Marbry.

“It is a bit warm in here.”

He scanned the room as if searching for something, his gaze landing on the double doors leading to a balcony outside of the ballroom. “It’s too cold to go outside. Perhaps a less crowded room?”

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