A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Knowing her as he did, male as he was, it took him a good fifteen minutes before the penny dropped.

They were, in his presence, accusing her of being fundamentally uninteresting to men, that males had no sincere interest in her.

He was so incensed, and not just on her part, that he’d escorted her back to the front hall, handed her into the town carriage Alton had placed at her disposal, and they were on their way to the second ball of the night before his temper subsided enough for him to think.

To plan.

By the time they were strolling down Lady Courtland’s ballroom, and meeting with a similar reaction from certain members of the assembled throng, he’d decided on their response—his, and through that, hers.

One glance at her expression, at the coolly superior, faintly distant hauteur she deployed as a shield, suggested that explaining his strategy would be a waste of time; she most likely would refuse to agree to it, preferring to hold to her untouchable, dismissive stance.

Her strategy was working well against straightforward disapproval, however, he felt certain his plan would deal more effectively with that other, potentially more hurtful thread.

They hadn’t bothered dancing at Lady Maxwell’s; the dance floor had been crammed with eager young ladies and their partners, an uninviting crush. Now, however, the instant the strains of a waltz floated out above the milling crowd, he grasped Clarice’s hand, with his usual charm excused them to the two ladies with whom they’d been chatting, and led her to the dance floor.

Clarice inwardly frowned as Jack determinedly steered her onto the floor, but, assuming him to be bored witless and perhaps wanting to stretch his legs, she made no protest. With his customary commanding confidence, he drew her into his arms; she went readily, willing enough to grasp the moment, to refresh herself, her senses, with the exhilaration of waltzing with him.

He drew her close, set them revolving, his hand heavy at her back, warming through the silk of her mint green gown. Her skirts shushed against his black trousers; her thighs briefly caressed his, slid away, returned…

His lips lifted lightly, then his hand tightened and he swung them into a turn. Exhilaration swelled, tightening her lungs, leaving her giddy even though, courtesy of the crowded floor, their movements were restricted, the progressive revolutions less physically charged, less powerful. Her senses still leapt, then sighed, luxuriating in the closeness, the subtle sensual empathy of the dance.

She drank it in, for those moments let all else fall away, let her eyes, her mind, focus solely on him, on them, and the attraction that pulsed between them. Warm, alive, oddly reassuring. Comforting.

He was with her, they were together, and nothing else mattered.

The music ended; she stifled a sigh as he released her, and she returned to the world. To Lady Courtland’s ballroom and the inquisitive horde still waiting to interrogate her.

Her coolly collected smile in place, Jack by her side, she let them have at her. Moira was present somewhere in the crowd, which made her even more determined to carry the evening off as Lady Cowper, also present, would expect, with a high and supremely confident hand.

She was chatting to Lady Constable, the third lady to waylay her since the waltz, before she realized—realized just how revealing that waltz must have been. Lady Constable’s eyes flitted back and forth from her to Jack; the particular speculation in her expression, as with the two earlier ladies, hadn’t immediately registered with Clarice, but now she saw and understood.

Her practiced smile never wavered, but the instant they were free of Lady Constable, and she was strolling once more on Jack’s arm, she caught his eye. “I’m not at all sure that was wise.”

Any suspicion that he hadn’t intended it, that he hadn’t deliberately let some suggestion of the nature of their friendship show, was slain by the look in his eyes, hard and uncompromising. “Trust me.” His voice was low, his diction precise. “Correcting that particular misconception was definitely necessary.”

He sounded more than sure…indeed, she wasn’t sure just what to make of his tone, but before she could question him, he added, “I can’t help you with the rest, not actively, but that’s one aspect I can personally address.” Looking down, he met her gaze. “And I believe you’ll find it won’t harm your standing in the least.”

She searched his eyes, that enticing medley of greens and golds, noted his satisfaction, and decided to leave well enough alone. With a light shrug, she looked ahead. “I daresay you’re right.”

He was. If there was one thing Jack could happily take an oath on, it was that the ton would treat her with far greater respect if they understood just how interested in her he was. How deeply she held him in thrall. A gentleman’s enthrallment was a sure measure of a lady’s power; his surrender would vouch for hers more convincingly than anything else.

Admitting to enthrallment. That hadn’t, of course, been his intention, but he hadn’t foreseen how matters would evolve. Yet if displaying his enslavement made her difficult road easier, so be it; he was, curiously, content. No matter what he wished, he couldn’t slay the dragons of her past for her—as Lady Osbaldestone had so sapiently remarked, that was for her and her alone to do—but he could clear her path.

Grimly satisfied, he surveyed the outcome of their public display. A goodly number of the gossipmongers were now viewing them with eyes on stalks, understanding lighting their eyes. That Lady Clarice Altwood had made at

least one notable conquest would be the latest morsel of juicy gossip passed over the ton’s teacups tomorrow.

Nothing scandalous, but it would serve to slay any notion that she was doomed to die an aging spinster, that her interests, her abilities, didn’t encompass snaring a husband and raising a family.

Indeed, given who she was, a dynasty.

His mind was happily exploring that notion, leaving the conversation largely to her, keeping nothing more than a watching brief on the reactions of those around, when a well-dressed gentleman pushed through the crowd to reach them, waited, openly impatient, for the lady and gentleman conversing with Clarice to move on, then stepped forward to claim her attention.

“My dear Clarice.”

Clarice hesitated for a heartbeat before regally offering her hand. “Emsworth.”

The chill in her tone would have alerted Jack even if he hadn’t recognized the name. So this was the bounder who’d caused her so much heartache. Jack watched him straighten from his bow.