Stop looking like you’re standing before a firing squad,” murmured the earl’s sister as she fluttered a cheery wave at a pair of turbaned matrons by the punch bowl.
“If I appear terrified, it is because your elbow is a lethal weapon,” grunted John, rubbing at the sore spot on his ribs. “I can’t believe that I allowed you to maneuver me into coming to yet another cursed ball.”
Cecilia rolled her eyes. “Someone needs to take charge of your social engagements. You cannot live the rest of your life as a hermit. For Scottie’s sake, as well as your own.”
“I am aware of my duties,” he muttered.
“Duties be damned, John,” she retorted. “I am talking about having a little fun.”
“Right. Fun.” He looked around the crowded ballroom and made a pained face. “Don’t bother with the firing squad. I’ll simply step out onto the balcony and hang myself from the balustrades.”
The comment earned him another sharp poke. “Now that you are here, why not try to relax and enjoy yourself?”
And pigs might fly.
“I have someone I wish for you to meet,” went on his sister.
John shot a baleful glance a gaggle of young ladies whispering among each other. “I assure you, I’ve no interest in simpering chits fresh from the schoolroom—”
“Give me a little credit, John.” She tugged on his sleeve. “Ah, there she is now.”
He followed Cecilia’s gaze to a dark recess within the decorative colonnade. A figure nearly as tall and slender as the fluted marble was standing among the shadowed stone. She turned her head slightly and arched a sardonic brow as she surveyed the crowded room…
Good God. Unless his eyes were playing tricks on him, it was her. The Mistress of the Exotic Chessboard.
“The lady doesn’t look interested in making any new acquaintance—” began John.
“Shhhh!” Squeezing him to silence, Cecilia started to make her way around the perimeter of the dance floor. Seeing as there was no way to dig his heels into the polished parquet, John reluctantly fell in step beside her.
“Who is she?” he demanded.
“Miss Olivia Sloane, eldest daughter of the late Baron Trumbull.”
“What makes you think that Miss Sloane and I have anything in common?” John angled another quick glance at the lady in question. “Save for a desire to be somewhere else.”
“Miss Sloane is…interesting. I’ve met her at the Royal Historical Society lectures, where she asks some very intelligent questions. She seems very reform-minded.”
“A radical female?” He chuffed a harried sigh. “I need that like I need the plague.”
“You would rather expire from sheer boredom?” countered his sister without missing a stride.
“That’s unfair,” he protested. “The fact is, I have recently met someone who…”
Ignoring his retort, Cecilia ducked around a dancing couple and tugged him into the alcove. “Miss Sloane, how nice to see you here tonight.”
The lady spun around with an odd little herky-jerky step. John blinked. Was that a pencil and paper she had just jammed into her reticule?
“What a crush,” went on Cecilia brightly. “How clever of you to find a spot where one can catch a breath of air. I hope you don’t mind if we join you for a moment? Oh, and this is my brother, Lord Wrexham, who has just come up to Town for several days.”
Miss Sloane seemed flustered by the sudden intrusion. She jerked her head up, the abrupt motion loosening one of the pins holding her upswept tresses. John stared in fascination as a curl sprang free and slowly tumbled across her cheek. Her hair was dark, but not quite as dark as it had appeared in the hazy shadows of the game room. He saw now that it wasn’t black but rather a deep auburn flecked with sparks of red-gold from the hide-and-seek flicker of the wall sconces.
“Y-yes, of course, Lady Silliman.” Olivia turned to meet his gaze. “Milord.”
John felt his throat tighten. She was by no means a conventional beauty, but there was something about the molten intensity of her jade green eyes that rendered him momentarily speechless. Aswirl in their smoky hue was a hint of fierce intelligence, along with a rippling of other emotions he couldn’t quite fathom.
“Wrexham,” murmured his sister, flicking him an exasperated look.
Though still tongue-tied, he forced himself to speak. “Miss Sloane. You…you have lost one of your hairpins. And another appears in imminent danger of coming free.”