A Gentleman's Honor (Bastion Club 2)
He tried to frown her down. “I had to talk to you.”
“That’s all very well, but what’s been happening out there”—she jabbed a finger toward the ballroom—“while we’ve been talking?”
“Nothing. Most will be waiting, wondering where you are, hoping to catch a glimpse but not surprised given the crush that they haven’t yet succeeded.” He took in her wide eyes, the tension now gripping her. “There’s no need to panic. They don’t know it’s you, and they only will know if you behave as if it is. As if you’re frightened, or watchful. Ready to take flight.”
Alicia met his steady gaze. To her surprise, she drew comfort from it. She drew in a breath. “So I have to carry it off with a high head and a high hand?”
“Absolutely. You can’t afford to let those hyenas sense fear.”
Despite all, her lips twitched. Hyenas? The hard line of his lips eased; she realized he’d deliberately tried to make her smile.
Then his gaze flicked up to her eyes.
He lowered his head—slowly; she sucked in a breath.
Held it as her lids fell and his lips touched hers—not in a tantalizing teasing caress, yet neither with their earlier ravenous hunger.
A definite promise; that’s what the kiss was—as simple as that.
Slowly, he raised his head; their lips clung for an instant, then parted.
Lifting her lids, she met his black gaze.
He searched her eyes, then turned the knob and opened the door. “Come. Let’s face down the ton.”
She returned to the ballroom on his arm, calm, her usual poise to the fore. It was all a sham, but she was now an expert in the art of pulling wool over the ton’s collective eyes.
One thing he’d said stuck in her mind: watchful. She had to stop herself from looking around, from searching for signs that people suspected her. She had to appear oblivious; it was the most difficult charade she’d ever performed.
He helped. On his arm, she strolled; he was attentive, charming, chatting inconsequentially as two such as they might. He was a wealthy peer; she was a wealthy, wellborn widow. They didn’t need to hide a friendship.
They progressed down the room; she smiled, laughed lightly, and let her gaze rest on the dancers but no one else. He distracted her whenever the temptation to scrutinize those watching them burgeoned.
At one point, his lips curved rakishly; he bent his head to whisper, “They’re totally confused.”
She met his gaze as he straightened. “About what?”
“About which rumor they should spread.”
When she looked her question, with a self-deprecatory quirk of his lips he explained, “The one about you and Ruskin, or the one about you and me.”
She looked into his black eyes. Blinked. “Oh.”
“Indeed. So all we need do is continue on our present tack, and their befuddlement will be complete.”
Just which tack he meant she discovered a minute later.
She’d expected him to guide her to Adriana’s side; her sister wasn’t on the dance floor, which surprised and concerned her—she hadn’t yet located her among the crowd. Instead, he led her to a chaise midway down the long ballroom. Lady Amery was seated on it, along with an older lady Alicia had previously met.
Nervousness struck; her fingers fluttered on Tony’s sleeve. Instantly, his hand closed, warm and comforting, over hers. Steering her to the chaise, he bowed to the two dames. “Tante Felicité. Lady Osbaldestone.”
Spine poker straight, Lady Osbaldestone nodded regally back.
“I believe you’re both acquainted with Mrs. Carrington?”
Alicia curtsied.
“Indeed.” Lady Amery reached for her hands; her eyes glowed with welcome. “My dear, I must apologize for this dreadful business. I am most distressed that it was your attendance at my soirée that has given rise to such unpleasantness. Why, there are any number of widows in the ton, and as we all know, many of those others are much more certain to have secrets to hide. So foolish of these bourgeoisie”—with a contemptuous flick of her hand she dismissed them—“to imagine you had any connection with Mr. Ruskin beyond the natural one of living nearby.”