The Rake's Revenge. Gail Ranstrom

do not usually indulge in self-pity. Bear with me, Seymour. I will regain my balance in another day or two.”

      Afton was touched by his obvious dismay. She was certain he did not often betray himself in such a blatant manner.

      “No doubt,” Martin said. He turned to her and Grace, then bent in a debonair bow. “Ladies, please excuse our lapse of good manners. The McHugh and I grew up not three miles apart, and I have not seen him since…before Algiers.”

      “How nice,” Grace said. “It is always a pleasure to reacquaint oneself with old friends, is it not?”

      “Without a doubt,” Seymour said. “Are you ladies enjoying yourselves?”

      “We have not been here long,” Grace answered. “Mr. Julius Lingate claimed Dianthe for a waltz upon our arrival, and we have been awaiting her return to us. I believe she was claimed for another dance, but—”

      “Ah, there she goes again.” Martin laughed, gesturing at the waltzing couples. He nodded toward the dance floor and reached for Afton’s hand. “We should join her, Miss Lovejoy. Since you are standing here, you cannot be spoken for.”

      Afton did not like being manipulated, but she could not disengage her hand without appearing rude. “Oh, Sir Martin, I am a poor partner. You can be nothing but disappointed. I had scant opportunity to practice waltzing in Little Upton.”

      “Leave it to me, Miss Lovejoy. I have enough skill and practice for us both.” He paused long enough to bow again in Grace’s direction and call a farewell to Glenross as he led her toward the dance floor. “Come ’round to my club later, Rob. We’ll reacquaint you with some late entertainments.”

      Afton felt heat creep into her cheeks when she wondered what sort of late entertainments that would be, and before she knew it, she was dancing her first waltz.

      Her partner smiled. “I say, Miss Lovejoy, you look quite fetching in violet. You ought to wear it more often.”

      “Thank you, Sir Martin,” she murmured as she scuffed the toe of his boot with her slipper. She liked the rhythm of the music, but she did not care to have Martin Seymour mere inches from her face. Nor did she quite understand what steps would be required of her next.

      Her partner’s hand on her waist gave her no guidance. Her foot landed squarely on top of his boot and he winced, trying, no doubt, to cover a look of annoyance.

      “Oh, I am sorry. Perhaps I am not suited.”

      “I shan’t hold it against you, Miss Lovejoy. You will learn.”

      She wondered if she would. She suspected she was more suited for country reels and quadrilles. Then a sudden thought occurred to her. Sir Martin was eminently qualified to court Dianthe. “My sister is much in demand. Have you danced with her?”

      “I have, indeed. She is light of foot, but she hasn’t your fire.” Sir Martin gave her a meaningful look.

      “You like red hair, sir?”

      “Your locks are more a reddish-blond, and I like it very much, indeed. My inquiries have revealed that you have been in town six entire months, Miss Lovejoy. How is it that you are yet unattached?”

      “Luck?” she ventured.

      He grinned. “My good luck. I should have been distraught if you’d been spoken for before I had my chance.”

      Afton blinked in surprise. Was he asking if his attentions were welcome? “I…I have not been much in society, sir. Did your inquiries reveal that I am my aunt’s companion?”

      Sir Martin affected a wounded look as he spun her in a tight circle. “Miss Lovejoy, say you do not think me so parsimonious as to be a fortune hunter.”

      She laughed. “Sir, most women are judged as worthy as their fortunes, and I come with more liabilities than assets.”

      “Noted. And yet I am undaunted.”

      What will it take? Afton thought. Ashamed of herself, she smiled. “You are very kind, sir.”

      “Not at all. Bloodlines are also important, would you not agree? You are of a good family, and your father was only once removed from a title, I think?”

      “The Lovejoy pedigree stands up to scrutiny.”

      The waltz ended. Sir Martin offered his arm as he escorted her back to Grace. He leaned close to her ear and whispered, “We shall waltz again, Miss Lovejoy.”

      She put on a polite smile. “Do not forget Dianthe.”

      The moment Sir Martin departed, Grace took Afton’s hand and led her apart from the little group she’d been standing in. “Glenross said he’d be back to claim a dance. He was asking about you, Afton, and your circumstances.”

      “What if he suspects I am…”

      “I pray that is not possible. Though he seemed to study you overmuch, you betrayed nothing of your identity.”

      “I am certain of it. I was swathed head to toe in Auntie Hen’s disguise. Why, I even wore gloves to cover my hands. I lowered my voice and spoke with an accent. Still, he was behaving oddly.”

      “Then he must be smitten with Afton Lovejoy.”

      “Also impossible, Aunt. From the on dit, Glenross is notorious for being blind to a pretty face. I’ve heard that from too many sources to doubt it. And he is still mourning his late wife, Lady Maeve.”

      “Did you see that in the cards?”

      “Heavens!” Afton laughed. “You mustn’t believe such silly stuff. Who would know better than I what balderdash that is? A parlor game, Aunt Grace. Put no more stock in it than that.”

      “Then perhaps you ought to tell your own fortune, Afton. But later. Here comes Glenross again.”

      “I think I am not meant to dance the waltz, Lord Glenross. I fear I have lamed poor Sir Martin for life.”

      He deflected her mild protest with an unarguable counter. “Allow me to worry over the state of my own feet, Miss Lovejoy. You cannot know just how sturdy I am.”

      She laughed, thinking it would be interesting to make a comparison between him and Sir Martin. She offered her hand.

      “When you ran off last night, I thought I might have offended you in some way,” he said when the music started.

      “Not in the least, my lord.” She placed her right hand across his left palm and was fascinated by how small it looked in his. As he settled his warm right hand at her waist, a quiver of excitement traveled up her spine. She was acutely aware of his size, his scent, his proximity and the odd gentleness of his touch despite his rough strength. No, he did not offend her in the slightest possible way.

      “That is a relief,” he said as he led her into the dance. “I am usually deliberate when I am giving offense, but I must allow for the occasional faux pas. You will correct me if I err, will you not?”

      “With alacrity,” she teased. “I thought you had been back long enough to have reclaimed your social graces.”

      He gave her a curious look, his cool eyes searching hers. “I have, Miss Lovejoy. What you see before you is the polished version of Rob McHugh.”

      “I suspected as much, my lord.” Indeed, he was so polished that he left her breathless. His admission that she was looking at that side of him made her ashamed of teasing him. Thus far, as Afton, she had seen little of the cold, dangerous, fierce reputation that the ton gossiped about. Ah, but as Madame Zoe she had experienced a decided frost.

      She took a deep breath and stiffened her spine. She had to be very careful not to betray the tiniest hint of Madame Zoe to Glenross. She suspected he would not take kindly to being deceived.

      Seeking a change of subject, she realized she had not stepped on his toe once since the dance began.