“Do you always participate in the Season?” he asked.
Mrs. Brownlow and Gillian both indicated that they did.
“And do you keep your humor firmly tucked away while in Town?” he asked Gillian.
Her expression turned to the pensive one she’d worn through the last bits of their interactions the evening before. “The laughter in London is not always friendly.”
It was an unexpected observation, one he suspected held something of an insight into her often-guarded personality.
“Not everyone has been kind to Gillian,” Mrs. Brownlow said.
“A poor reflection on those people, if you ask me.” Scott set his hand on Gillian’s again. She didn’t pull away. “From the first moment I saw her at Brier Hill, something about her caught my interest.”
“And what was that?” Mrs. Brownlow asked.
“She didn’t like me.”
The slightest hint of Gillian’s previous smile began tugging at her lips. “I was wary. That isn’t the same thing. You were entirely unknown and hadn’t been expected. Wariness seemed warranted.”
“I was a little on guard myself,” he said. “I had the oddest premonition that someone was going to strongarm me into taking part in something I had not been intending to do.”
There was no mistaking when she looked over at him that she knew he was referring to his participation in pouring a few exaggerations into Mrs. Brownlow’s ears. Would she admit to it or simply play along?
“Did that ‘uncomfortable something’ involve remembering to give ladies flowers before hopping off to Scotland with them? Or was it something more universal, like dancing without embarrassing yourself?”
Play along it was, then.
He grinned. “I have it on good authority, from a great many people, in fact, that I am an excellent dancer.”
Mrs. Brownlow reentered the conversation. “Did you have the opportunity to dance at the house party?”
Gillian gave him a look that was clearly meant to be pitying. “We did not, and I am beginning to suspect that was a mercy for Mr. Sarvol.”
He was born into a family that valued banter. He was quite good at it. If she meant to fill this interaction with teasing and quips, he was more than equal to it.
He stood and bowed to her. “Would you, Miss Phelps, do me the very great honor of dancing with me?”
“Without musicians?” She shook her head as if it were a very real shame.
“I know how to hum.” He held his hand out.
Rising to the occasion, she set her hand in his, then stood.
“I must tell you this next set begins with a waltz,” he said. “Will your guardian object? Some still find it scandalous.”
“And some still find it too complicated to execute.” Her overdone tone of pity brought both a smile to his face and a growing determination to his mind.
“A waltz it is, then.”
He hummed one, and they began moving through the steps. To his delight, she knew and executed them well. He, however, never had been one who could resist teasing someone who was as much fun to laugh with as she was proving to be.
So when the steps of the waltz drew her nearer, he brushed his arm against hers. Their hands were clasped with the next step, and he held hers a little longer than was expected. She made the tiniest misstep.
Scott shook his head. “Do you need me to slow the steps for you?”
His bit of jesting didn’t have the effect he assumed it would. Her forehead creased in dismay. “Don’t laugh at me,” she whispered.
Oh, lud.“I was not laughingatyou, I promise. I thought we were laughing together.”