Once again, Breanna summoned her now-faltering inner reserve. “Yes. Thank you. I do feel warm. I suppose it's all the excitement.” From the corner of her eye, she spied Margaret, inching purposefully closer. “Lord Royce, are you acquainted with Lady Margaret Warner? If not, let me introduce you.”
Royce's smile was the essence of gentility. “Lady Margaret and I have met. How are you, my lady?” he inquired.
“Very well, thank you, my lord. And, yes, I do recall our introduction. It was last year, during my first Season.” Margaret lowered her lashes and moistened her lips—ever so scarcely—prompting Breanna to wish she could master the fine art of furring as well as her friend.
“Will you excuse us?” Lord Royce was asking Margaret, simultaneously gripping Breanna's elbow. “Our hostess deserves something cool to drink.”
“Of course.” Whatever disappointment Margaret was feeling she kept carefully in check.
Royce led Breanna across the room and over to the punch bowl. “Here.” He offered her a glass. “This will help.”
Help what? Breanna wanted to ask. Her hand trembling, she accepted the glass, drinking down the entire goblet in an attempt to cool her throat and calm her nerves.
“More?” Royce asked.
It was only fruit juice, flavored with a little Madeira, a bit of champagne, and an insignificant amount of brandy, Breanna reminded herself. She nodded, swallowing the second glass almost as quickly as she had the first, then reaching eagerly for a third.
She was three-quarters of the way through with that glass when Royce murmured, “I think you should take a few breaths before going for a fourth.”
He sounded amused.
Breanna glanced up at him.
He looked amused.
“I suppose so.” Breanna wondered what his amusement was based on: was it her nerves, her excessive thirst, or that stupid remark she'd made about having him?
She'd have to find out in order to make the appropriate amends.
“My lord,” she began, grateful that the area they were standing in was unoccupied. The last thing she wanted was to make a fool of herself in front of all her guests. And as it was, she could already feel the warming effects of the punch drifting through her, making her question whether she'd underestimated the amount of liquor that was mixed in with the fruit.
“Royce,” he amended.
Breanna's head snapped up. “Pardon me?”
“My name. My given name. It's Royce. Not my lord. Nor Lord Royce. Just Royce.”
She studied his face: the bold features and hard, square jaw, the thick raven-black hair and broad forehead over the twin black slashes of brows and midnight blue eyes. And the decisive mouth that was used to issuing orders—and having them obeyed.
Her gaze lingered there, studying the subtle curve of his hps.
She wondered what it would be like to kiss him God help her, she was foxed. She was also still staring.
“My name,” he repeated, those incredible lips moving ever so slightly, his deep baritone huskier than it had been before. “It's Royce.”
She tore her gaze from his mouth, met his hooded stare. “It wouldn't be proper for me to address you that way.”
He leaned negligently against the wall, regarding her with a kind of lazy curiosity. “Why not?”
“We scarcely know each other.”
“Anastasia calls me by my given name. And she knows me precisely the same amount of time as you do.”
That comparison elicited a fond smile. “That's Stacie. She's far more unconventional than I.”
“I think you're more unconventional than you realize—more unconventional than that conventional veneer of yours allows.”
Breanna's eyes widened, and she gaped at him silently.