Beguiled by Her Betrayer

She was supposed to look at her card, pretend it was almost full, even if it was not, but she could not play those games with Quin. Cleo looked him straight in the eye and said, ‘They are all free but one, my lord.’

Her aunt gave a little moan as Cleo offered him the card and waited for his choice. He was wearing cologne, subtle and provocative.

‘This set then, if I may?’ He wrote his initials against the dances immediately before supper. ‘And this.’ He added the last country dance set, handed the card back, bowed and stepped back out of the group as the other men pressed forward, all eager to claim a dance now her chaperon had signalled her availability.

* * *

The dancing master they had found for her had been excellent and demanding. Cleo had drilled every day for a fortnight and gave silent thanks for the fact that she was fit and supple and had good natural co-ordination. It was different dancing to a full string orchestra and in a crowded ballroom, but she was fortunate in her partners and there were no mishaps to earn her a reproof when she was returned to her aunt after the quadrille.

Quin, she had seen, had been dancing with a lively, freckled brunette and the pair of them appeared to be able to negotiate the tricky dance with ease and chat while they did so. She found her gaze was following him and kept her eyes forward with an effort. He looked as home on the dance floor as he had when moving around the felucca.

He returned the freckled girl to her mama and came to collect Cleo for the country dances before she had come to any decision about how to treat him.

‘What is wrong?’ he asked, low-voiced, as they waited for the set to form.

‘Wrong?’ She glanced down at her skirts, lifted one hand to her nape as though to check her hair was still pinned securely. ‘What do you mean?’ He shot her a quizzical look and she realised he was not deceived for a moment. ‘Perhaps you think I should be pleased to see you. I can assure you, Lord Quintus, that only the constraints of good manners stop me slapping your face.’

‘You look perfect,’ Quin told her. Either he did not believe she would do anything so rash or he was a magnificent actor. ‘You are beautiful.’

‘Why, thank you, my lord.’ She knew she was colouring up, just as though that was a genuine accolade. ‘Praise from you is to be treasured.’ Anyone overhearing would have taken that at its face value, unless, of course, they had heard the tremble of anger in her voice.

Quin moved closer and the familiar scent of him swept through her senses. ‘I know you are angry with me and I understand why. But it is more than that, isn’t it? You are afraid. Tell me, what is wrong?’

‘You put me in a position where I had to accept a dance with you when all I want is never to see you again, that is all,’ she murmured back.

‘That might well make you irritated,’ Quin agreed. ‘It would not make you fearful—and you were that already on the stairs. Don’t deny it, Cleo. I know you too well.’

‘Do you? No, I do not think so.’ She knew her expression was under control, but to her own ears her voice held a betraying thread of yearning. Don’t let him realise. Please don’t let him see I love him.

‘Cleo—’

‘We cannot talk here.’ The music struck up, partners bowed and curtsied.

‘No.’ Quin took her hand and moved into the first circle. ‘But I have reserved the supper dance.’ He tightened his grip on her hand as though he thought she would make a bolt for it.

‘You may relax your grip, my lord. Or do you think the prospect of crossing swords with you over a plate of cakes would send me into retreat?’

‘Nothing makes you flee, Cleo.’ Then he fell silent as if he realised that she needed every ounce of concentration to weave through the measures of the dance.

I can do this. Their circle formed, advanced, split up and reformed with half of the dancers from the adjoining group. A pretty blonde stepped forward to take her place in the centre.

‘Lord Quintus,’ she said with an enchanting smile. ‘You are back in England!’

‘As you see, Lady Caroline.’ Quin advanced and took her hand and the circle closed around them. Cleo’s hands were taken by the men on either side and somehow she kept on dancing.

Lady Caroline Brooke, the woman Quin intended courting, the prospective bride who would be perfect for his career. How lovely she is. Her blonde curls bobbed around her pretty, heart-shaped face with the movement of the dance steps and her skin was flushed pink with the exertion of the dance. As the central pair turned Quin’s eyes met Cleo’s. He had remembered he had told her about Lady Caroline, she realised. And he could see she had guessed who the other woman was. But what does it matter? He does not know I care.