It’s Marriage Or Ruin. Liz Tyner

for you. But I assume it’s the curse of the younger brother,’ she said.

      ‘I have a younger sister, who is married and in Staffordshire. She is a treasure. And I would have to agree with your assessment that it can feel a curse to have a younger brother,’ Marcus said.

      ‘There is one younger male than you in your family?’

      ‘Yes. He is dancing with Miss Geraldine now.’

      She gasped. He felt it. ‘Oh, I thought him the eldest.’

      ‘He just looks older. It’s all the dancing he does. It wears on him.’

      ‘Then it really must chagrin you,’ she spoke as he swirled her around, ‘when people confuse the two of you.’

      ‘They don’t often.’

      ‘And you are a wonderful conversationalist,’ she added. ‘I dare say you could carry on a conversation with…a…a teapot?’ She frowned. ‘That did not come out exactly right, did it?’

      ‘Perhaps you should have said anyone.’

      She shrugged. ‘I’m not very good at speaking with people. It’s I who lack conversational skills.’

      ‘Perhaps you could practise.’

      ‘I prefer to speak through my canvas. I know nothing of the subjects that other people talk about.’

      ‘The trick is to listen and encourage them to speak more.’

      ‘A brilliant theory.’ She paused. ‘And what interests do you have?’

      He firmed his lips, set his jaw, then gazed at her. ‘Beautiful women. Fine refreshments.’ He gave a slight twist to his lips. ‘A night of dancing.’

      She raised one eyebrow. ‘You have your conversational skills honed.’

      ‘I practise.’

      ‘And what interests do you truly have?’

      ‘I gamble, on occasion. Small amounts. Drink. Small amounts again. And then, of course, I prefer an occasional soirée, but not masquerades. I know the object is to pretend to be someone else, but it’s too frivolous for me.’

      Her mouth opened, then her lips turned up. ‘I saw a reproduction of Dressing for a Masquerade once and the event looked exciting.’

      Marcus took a moment before speaking. ‘I’ve witnessed that particular portrayal of Thomas Rowlandson’s and I would advise strongly that you take caution when you see anything with his name on it. He doesn’t consider that a woman might view what he creates.’

      ‘I live for drawings and oils and charcoals. And sometimes the life that is reproduced is not always polite.’

      ‘Miss Catesby, that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be. The world doesn’t begin and end at the end of a paintbrush, and artists should only create to educate.’

      ‘Well…’ she moved within the waltz and the distance between them lessened ‘…the world doesn’t revolve around gambling, women and drink for me.’ She beheld him through her lashes. ‘Please allow me my vice.’

      ‘I would prefer to credit you with only virtues.’

      She laughed. ‘Yet you prefer me to presume only vices for you.’

      ‘Where you are concerned, that is probably for the best.’ He’d so wanted to dislike her, but when she laughed, the sound resonated inside him and made him want to hear it again. ‘And accurate.’

      ‘Shame on you, Lord Grayson. If I may be so straightforward, you have a dashing profile.’

      He bowed in acknowledgement of the compliment.

      ‘What did you think of Lady Avondale’s portrait?’ she asked. ‘I know you said it is good, but…’

      He glanced down. ‘I should like to view a likeness of you.’

      She gasped with pleasure. ‘That is so kind of you. Are you fascinated at all by art?’

      He blinked. ‘No. I don’t see colours the same as other people. I can’t tell the difference between most of them.’

      She closed her eyes for a moment. ‘I am so sorry you have missed out on the beauty of hues.’ She shook her head. ‘I will try not to be bothersome to you, Lord Grayson. I feel for you. I could not live without the colours of my paints.’

      ‘I am sorry I have missed out on the beauty as well.’

      When the music ended, they stopped, but didn’t immediately separate. He imagined her in a portrait. On his wall. To gaze at. He swallowed. His conversational skills had evaporated.

      ‘Would you like a stroll in the gardens?’ he asked.

      She studied him. ‘You don’t like art?’

      He firmed his lips. ‘Not usually.’

      ‘Oh…’ She peered beyond his shoulder. ‘If you will pardon me, your brother is beckoning me.’

      Neither spoke as they went in opposite directions.

      Emilie walked away from the couples, feeling she’d just stumbled, instead of dancing. And she was certain she’d not missed the steps.

      Mr Westbrook strolled her way and she asked him if he liked watercolours, and he regaled her with a day his father had hosted the caricaturist Gillray, years before, and Mr Westbrook continued on, discussing prints he’d seen, and agreed that he, too, dabbled with paints. The talk of tints and hues should have been more interesting. But it wasn’t really.

      Then he led her into the swarm of dancing people and she beamed in all the right places and feigned all the fascination she could and hid her relief as the music ended.

      When she reached her mother at the refreshment table, she peeked at Lord Grayson. He was observing Lady Elliot and her two daughters.

      Then, another man approached the group. The man glared at Grayson, which was wise of him, and offered his arm to the younger Miss Elliot. She accepted the invitation and they sauntered away.

      Then Grayson turned, an indulgent smile on his lips. He gave Emilie the barest glance before he turned to the elder daughter, spoke and she tucked her hand under his arm and let him lead her to the Roger de Coverly.

      Emilie tapped with her fingertips against the side of her lemonade glass, watching Lord Grayson with Miss Elliot—the woman dancing was obviously revelling in the experience of being so close to him.

      Grayson spoke to his partner when they met. He moved as if he had wings on his boots. The woman floated along, too.

      He gazed at the woman as if he’d never had such a captivating audience.

      When he changed position, Emilie knew he’d perceived she was observing him.

      He spoke again to the woman and indicated the doorway.

      That wasn’t appropriate. He would likely take that woman to the gardens as he had suggested to Emilie. True, the garden had many guests conversing in it, but a later meeting could be planned.

      That unrepentant rake. That scoundrel. He was aware she watched.

      Well, if he wished her to be aware, then she would give him a taste of his own medicine. Emilie turned to her mother.

      ‘Did you notice how Lady Elliot appears pained?’

      Her mother’s brows furrowed and she inspected Lady Elliot, her grey hair swirled at the edges of a feathered band. ‘No,’ her mother said at Emilie’s side. ‘I perceive nothing out of the ordinary about her.’

      ‘I should ask her to take a turn around the gardens,’ Emilie said. ‘For