“Yes, thanks to your brilliant organization and Ligger’s execution,” Damien said.
“Everyone is asking me about Rafael and his plans. I’m telling them to talk to you or to him.” Damien nodded, and she continued, her voice lowered suitably. “Would you look at her.”
“At her? Who? Marissa Larrick? She looks no more sallow than usual, though she really shouldn’t wear that particular shade of yellow.”
“No, Victoria. She is trying to take over, Damien, from me. But I shan’t allow it.”
To be honest about it, Damien thought, Victoria hadn’t done a single thing he could think of to so ruffle Elaine’s feathers. He merely arched a black brow and waited. He waited only a moment.
“She has upset David Esterbridge. I saw her give him a very mocking look and walk away from him. And she is dancing with simply all the men.”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“What about her husband? She hasn’t danced a single time with him. She’s flirting quite shamelessly.” As Damien gave no more reply than a bored nod, Elaine added, “I hope her leg gives way under her. It should, if she continues the way she has for the past hour.”
Jealousy lessened Elaine’s prettiness, Damien thought as he watched his wife’s creased brow and her pursed lips. Thank God for the arrival of the Countess of Lantivet. Elaine turned immediately into a charming female bent on ensuring that the countess was superbly content.
As for Victoria, she wasn’t stupid. She was as gracious as she could be in turning down Oscar Killivose, the fourth son of a viscount, for the next set. She made her way as unobtrusively as possible to a sofa tha
t was set behind the potted palm she and the footman had brought into the ballroom just that morning. Unconsciously she rubbed her thigh, all the while humming to the sound of the country dance the orchestra was playing.
“You have suddenly become a matron?”
She looked over her shoulder and saw her husband grinning at her. “A matron?”
“Sitting out such a lively dance. Or perhaps you’re hiding from an overly ardent suitor?”
“You have found me out,” Victoria managed in a suitably mournful voice. She gave a delightful little shudder that made him instantly randy. “Ah, Oliver should find me shortly. You know how it is, I am certain, Rafael. Thrust and parry, advance, retreat.”
His gray eyes glittered. “Oh, yes, Victoria, I know.”
She laughed and patted the pale blue sofa cushion beside her. “Stay with me a moment, unless, that is, you are promised to another lady?”
“Very well,” he said easily, “and no, I am as free as you are for this set.” He sat down beside her, stretching his black, satin-clad legs in front of him. “You’re feeling just the thing, aren’t you?”
“Certainly. The ball is quite a success, isn’t it? Elaine should be quite pleased.”
“Yes, she should. The next dance is a waltz. Would you indulge me?”
A waltz, with Rafael. “Yes,” she said, praying at the same time that her leg wouldn’t complain too much.
“Should you like me to bring you something to drink?”
She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’ve been watching you, you know.”
He arched a thick brow and waited. It was a ploy identical to his twin’s, but somehow when Rafael did it, she wanted to smooth his eyebrow and grin like a besotted idiot at him. She managed to conceal her besottedness and said in a light voice, “You have been spending time with every young rotter from the entire area. Ugh, that Vincent Landower, with his loose mouth and shifty eyes, makes my flesh crawl.”
“I haven’t paid all that much attention to dear Vincent yet. Remiss of me. Now, what makes you think that I’m ignoring the moral cream of the neighborhood?”
“Would you please cease treating me like an idiot? How much longer must I wait for you to confide in me? Completely, not just your tantalizing little morsels.”
She was far too perceptive, he thought, keeping his expression impassive with some difficulty. “Soon, I promise. Tell me about Lincoln Penhallow.”
“He’s a baronet’s son, around twenty-five or twenty-six years old. He’s a trial to his parents, so I hear, and is on the edge of being disowned for his irresponsible behavior. He gambles and keeps a barque of frailty—that is your gentleman’s expression, is it not?—in Falmouth. Haven’t you been able to sound him out as yet either?”
“Ah, Victoria, a waltz at last. Come along. We’ll make a striking couple.”
And they did. The only problem was that several people were convinced that Victoria was dancing with her brother-in-law, Damien Carstairs, Baron Drago.