He mumbled some answer—he hardly knew what—to her cool greeting, then fled as quickly as he could ... and walked straight into Sally Jersey’s arms, in a manner of speaking, because he nearly knocked that lady down in his blind haste to escape.
Regardless of Jack Langdon’s characterisation of Lady Jersey as one of several Almack Gorgons, she was an attractive matron, many years from her dotage, and not at all averse to having a handsome young lord fall on top of her. She offered Max an indulgent smile and waved away his apologies.
“Oh, I know what you’re about,” said she. “I saw you looking at Miss Pelliston and I expect you want to waltz with her. Well, come along, and I’ll do the honours. It’s either you or Argoyne, I suppose, though Langdon wants the same thing, but I’ll see him turn to stone first, since he tells everyone I can do it, and Argoyne is such a clumsy idiot he’ll trample her toes and put her off waltzing forever.”
Silence Jersey had more to say on this and other subjects as she led the hapless viscount inexorably back to the peril he’d just escaped. Then the chatter ceased. Lady Jersey resumed her patroness’s dignity and presented Miss Pelliston with her waltz partner.
After that there was nothing to be done because the music had started. Max led Miss Pelliston out, placed his arm about her waist, and promptly lost his mind.
The waltz, like Lord Bryon, had become all the rage the previous year and was still considered by Society’s more conservative element as fast at best and lewd at worst, which is more or less what these persons thought of the poet.
For the first time in his life Max wished that older and wiser heads had prevailed, and that the curst dance had been banished to benighted Germany, which had spawned it. To hold Miss Pelliston in any way was to wish to hold her closer. That was humiliating. He gazed longingly over his partner’s head at the blonde Juno, who was whirling about the dance floor with a tall military gentleman.
Lord Rand looked down at Catherine. He noticed that her head came to his breast and immediately he felt a dull ache there.
“I wish you would say something,” Miss Pelliston complained. “I’m still inept at small talk, but if you would help get me started, I might manage something.”
“If you get me started, you’ll be sorry. You usually are.”
“Nonetheless, I shall keep a brave smile on my face, so long as we appear to be holding a conversation. At present you are wearing what your sister calls your ‘caged animal’ look and everyone will think I am a thoroughly disagreeable partner.”
If he did feel like a trapped beast, Eton and Oxford quickly came to his rescue. “Oh, you’re not disagreeable at all. Tonight, in your maidenly white, with that pink in your cheeks, you put me in mind of apple blossoms. You’re as light in my arms as so many flower petals and your voice—”
“Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“The sound of your voice,” he went on, determined to make her as unsettled as he was, “is a breeze ruffling the leaves.”
“What on earth am I to say to that?” she asked, rather breathlessly, because she was at the same time recovering from a turn that had brought her up against his hard chest. Between that and the warm gloved hand which seemed to burn all the way up her spine, Catherine felt rather like a stack of very dry kindling. These circumstances as much as his words set her cheeks aflame and made her wish fervently that she were in St. Petersburg in the dead of winter.
“Really, Cat, must I tell you everything? Haven’t you told me repeatedly that you have no further need of my assistance?”
“Yes, I have—and you are still there. Everywhere I go, there you are.”
This was monstrous unfair—he’d kept away from her for ages, it seemed—but he chose to agree.
“Like a bad penny.”
“Very like,” she concurred.
How tiny her waist was. He could easily span it with his two hands, he was sure.
Aloud he said, “Actually, I’m here tonight as a favour to Jack. He’d much rather have the first waltz with you. Unfortunately he’s antagonised all the great ladies, so he has to wait for the next one.” Max briefly outlined Mr. Langdon’s difficulties with the patronesses.
“I see,” she said in a subdued voice.
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Why should I be?” she answered a tad too quickly.
“I mean, that it’s me instead of Jack.”
“Well, My Lord, if you’ll leave off about apple blossoms and talk of Aristophanes instead, I might more easily pretend you are Mr. Langdon.”
She had recovered sufficiently to score a hit, but Lord Rand was not one to yield at the first blow.
“I wish you’d call me Max,” he said, deciding distraction was the best tactic. “‘My lord’ always makes me feel I should be
in armour, clanking about and trodding on helpless peasants. Most disconcerting when a chap’s trying to be graceful.”
“I most certainly cannot. That is disrespectful and far too intimate.”
“If you call me Clarence Arthur Maximilian, I’ll shoot you.”
He heard a faint tinkling sound: Miss Pestilence was giggling!
Though she quickly squelched the giggle, she could not suppress the smile as she gazed up at him. “Clarence Arthur? No wonder you prefer Max.”
“Just so.” He answered the smile, despite the sudden, inexplicable thundering in his ears. “Now you’ve said it, I feel warm and friendly and very light on my feet.”
“I wish you did not feel quite so friendly. I believe we are supposed to be twelve inches apart. Not”—she glanced down briefly—”five.”
Lord St. Denys stood listening to his daughter talk, but his eyes were upon the dance floor, and, in particular, upon his son. When Louisa chided him for not attending, he smiled. “Remember the half-drowned kitten Max brought home that day? He dropped it at your feet and told you to nurse it back to life.”
“I remember. The kitten. A robin. A bat. I spent my childhood nursing a menagerie.”
“I was thinking how that tiny creature terrified my great mastiff out of its wits. I could not understand it then and I cannot now.”
Lady Andover followed her father’s gaze. “If it’s any comfort, Papa, I’m sure he doesn’t understand, either.”
“Of course he doesn’t,” the earl snapped. “The boy’s a fool.”
By the time the waltz was over and Max had relinquished his partner to Lord Argoyne, the viscount was beside himself. How dare she be so cool and proper when she made him so heated? How dare she giggle and act human for once and set off all those warm, cosy sensations and weaken his already beleaguered resistance even further?
He had weakened, he knew. For one chilling moment he would have promised anything—complete reform, a transformation into a stodgy pillar of Society, not a drop of liquor again as long as he lived, not another tavern wench—anything, if she would give him her hand and allow him to make love to her all the rest of his life.