Lady Warsingham nodded back. “Lady Osbaldestone. I believe you’ll remember my niece, Miss Carling?”
The old dame, still handsome in her way but with terrifyingly sharp black eyes, surveyed Leonora, who curtsied. The old harridan snorted. “Indeed I remember you, miss—but you’ve no business being a miss still.” Her gaze moved on to Tristan. “Who’s this?”
Lady Warsingham performed the introductions; Tristan bowed.
Lady Osbaldestone humphed. “Well, one can hope you’ll succeed in changing Miss Carling’s mind. The dancing’s through there.”
With her cane, she waved toward an archway beyond which couples were whirling. Tristan seized the implied dismissal. “If you’ll excuse us?”
Without waiting for further permission, he whisked Leonora away.
Pausing beneath the archway, he asked, “Lady Osbaldestone—who’s she?”
>
“A bona fide terror of the ton. Pay her no heed.” Leonora surveyed the dancers. “And I warn you, tonight we are only going to dance.”
He made no reply; taking her hand, he led her onto the floor and whirled her into a waltz. A waltz he used to maximum effect, unfortunately, given the limitations of a half-empty dance floor, not as great an effect as he would have liked.
The next dance was a cotillion, an exercise he had little use for; it provided too few opportunities to tweak his partner’s senses. It was too early yet to inveigle her away to the tiny salon overlooking the gardens; when she admitted to being parched, he left her by the side of the room and went to fetch two glasses of champagne.
The refreshment room gave off the ballroom; he was only absent for a moment, yet when he returned he discovered Leonora in conversation with a tall, dark-haired man he recognized as Devil Cynster.
His internal curses were vitriolic, but when he approached, neither Leonora nor Cynster, who was not thrilled at the interruption, would have detected anything beyond urbanity in his expression.
“Good evening.” Handing Leonora her glass, he nodded to Cynster, who returned the nod, his pale gaze sharpening.
One aspect that was instantly apparent was that they were very much alike, not just in height, in the width of their shoulders, in their elegance, but also in their characters, their natures—their temperaments.
An instant passed while both assimilated that fact, then Cynster held out his hand. “St. Ives. My aunt mentioned you were at Waterloo.”
Tristan nodded, shook hands. “Trentham, although I wasn’t that then.”
He mentally scrambled for the best way to answer the inevitable questions; he’d heard enough of the Cynsters’ involvement in the recent campaigns to guess that St. Ives would know enough to detect his usual sliding around the truth.
St. Ives was watching him closely, assessingly. “What regiment were you in?”
“The Guards.” Tristan met the pale green gaze, deliberately omitting any further definition. St. Ives’s gaze narrowed; he held it, murmured, “You were in the heavy cavalry, as I recall. Together with some of your cousins, you relieved Cullen’s troop on the right flank.”
St. Ives stilled, blinked, then a wry, quite genuine smile curved his lips. His gaze returned to Tristan’s; he inclined his head. “As you say.”
Only someone with a very high level of military clearance would know of that little excursion; Tristan could almost see the connections being made behind St. Ives’s clear green eyes.
He noted St. Ives’s quick, reassessing glance before, with an almost indiscernible movement they both saw and understood, he drew back.
Leonora had been looking from one to the other, sensing a communication she could not follow, irritated by it. She opened her lips—
St. Ives turned to her and smiled with devastating, purely predatory force. “I was intending to sweep you off your feet, but I believe I’ll leave you to Trentham’s tender mercies. Not the done thing to cross a fellow officer, and there seems little doubt he deserves a clear shot.”
Leonora’s chin came up; her eyes narrowed. “I am not some enemy to be captured and conquered.”
“That’s a matter of opinion.” Tristan’s dry comment brought her gaze swinging his way.
St. Ives’s smile grew, unrepentant; he sketched a bow and withdrew, saluting Tristan from behind Leonora’s back.
Tristan saw that last with relief; with luck, St. Ives would warn off his cousins, and any others of their ilk.
Leonora cast a frowning glance at St. Ives’s retreating back. “What did he mean by you ‘deserving a clear shot’?”