Page 37 of The Scoundrel and the Lady

She’d tried to explain as much to Lucy, but the fact that Iris had been born into the aristocracy meant that she didn’t truly understand where Lucy was coming from. She hadn’t been borne into this life; she’d simply been dropped into it by way of her brother. All things considered, she was doing a remarkable job. After all, things could be much worse. She could be as bad as Lady Dearborn, the American heiress that Lord Dearborn had married to salvage his family’s coffers. The woman was crude, to say the very least. Her family had made their money in tobacco, and the poor woman had never quite shaken off the dirt.

Iris had even gone so far as to point out the woman to Lucy so she could watch her and recognize that she was, in fact, doing better. At least Lucy was English and didn’t have that crass American accent.

A gentleman approached, and the four of them—Iris, Harriet, Agnes, and Lucy—all curtseyed when he arrived. There was no hint as to why he’d stopped by their group or which lady had caught his eye. Iris had never met him, but it seemed that Agnes knew him because the man and her brother Christopher were acquaintances.

“Lord Vesper,” Agnes said.

“Lady Agnes, I was hoping you would introduce me to your charming friends,” he said, his eyes locked onto Lucy.

This was potentially a good thing. Thus far, all the gentlemen who had approached Lucy for a dance or an introduction had been much older than her, or had any number of other faults that Iris had seen—too rotund, too poor, too bald. Still, a dance was a dance, and it was good practice for Lucy. And the girl seemed to enjoy dancing, regardless of what her partner looked like.

Agnes went about introducing each of them to Lord Vesper, and he nodded appropriately,but his gaze lingered longest on Lucy. A good thing indeed. He then requested a dance, and it just so happened that the girl had an opening at the very next quadrille, so he led her gracefully to the ballroom floor. There was not too much touching in the quadrille, a perfect dance for a potential suitor.

It was on Iris’s tongue to ask Agnes about Lord Vesper, but at that moment Lord Wakefield came by to collect Agnes for their dance, the first of two he’d requested for the evening. Agnes had never been overly fond of dancing, but she seemed willing, perhaps even eager—if Agnes could ever be said to be eager about anything—to dance with him. Interesting. Then again, it could simply be that he was the man that Agnes had selected for her own redemption project. The Merritt to her Fletcher.

Harriet, too, had been pulled away for something, and Iris was left alone to watch the couples on the dance floor. From her right, though, she felt eyes on her. She tilted her head to look and found Merritt’s steel-blue gaze. He lifted a glass in her direction in a silent toast. It was a small movement, and one that most would miss, but she had caught it.

He was watching her.

Warmth spread through her, and she knew she likely blushed, but there was naught she could do about it. If anyone were to ask, she’d have to feign a headache or the like, but dear heavens, he was handsome. She could scarcely pull her eyes from him, and then they’d dart back of their own will like a moth to the proverbial flame.

He cut a striking figure in the ballroom. He stood taller than most. His raven-black hair fell in subtle waves as if they minded no one, and perhaps on another man it would have appeared untidy, but on him, it was perfect—and rather seductive as it beckoned for her to run her fingers through the soft curls. But she couldn’t very well do that here.

Good heavens, what was the matter with her? It was all those kisses he’d stolen from her. And the sensations he’d managed to pull from her body, as if she were an instrument and he the finest of musicians. He’d turned her into a wanton. And the other night in the carriage… Now her cheeks truly flamed. She turned her body away from him so that even if she wanted to, she could not see him, lest she turn around again. Thankfully, the set ended, and her companions had returned to her side.

Lord Vesper had no sooner deposited Lucy next to Iris than he backed into a footman carrying a tray of champagne glasses. They shattered on the floor around them and splashed onto Lord Vesper’s trousers and shoes.

“You daft fool!” he barked. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? Don’t simply stand there, clean me off!”

The footman nodded, and Iris cringed. The servant couldn’t have been more than ten and seven, ten and eight at the very most. His ruddy cheeks darkened, and his lip quivered ever so slightly. He fell to his knees and began wiping at Lord Vesper’s feet and legs.

Lord Vesper kicked out and nearly toppled the boy over. “You’re spreading it around.”

“Here, let me help,” Lucy said, then knelt by the footman and began gathering shards of the crystal glasses and setting them back on the tray.

Lord Vesper’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head at the sight. “What are you doing?”

“Helping,” Lucy said, a frown furrowing her brow.

“Get up,” Lord Vesper said. “People are watching.”

Lucy looked affronted. “I care not if people watch. The man needs assistance, and I am able bodied enough to do so.”

“It is true what they say, then. You are lowly born and merely performing a duty true to your social standing,” Lord Vesper spat.

Lucy balked.

Iris stepped over to the man and told herself to be careful. She squared her shoulders. “You have insulted my friend.”

“She is the daughter of a merchant.”

“She is the sister of an earl,” Iris said.

Lord Vesper snorted. “An earl by accident, by the demise of a very distant relation.”

“Perhaps, but she has more nobility in her right arm than you have in your entire body. And furthermore, she does not need to abuse a servant to explain away her clumsiness.” Then she turned away from him, knelt, and began to assist Lucy and the footman. Harriet and Agnes joined in as well.

She was breathing so heavily from anger and exhilaration she nearly felt faint. And then he was at her side.

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