Page 54 of Not Quite a Lady
‘Oh! You…you…man, you!’ She seized the nearest weapon, a bowl brimming with bonbons, and threw it with remarkable accuracy at his head. Ducking in a shower of fine sugar, Jack realised that his innocent question had infuriated her at least as much as anything else that evening.
Women.Or at least, this one. Damn it, he was proposing to risk his life for her honour and what did she do? Treat him to a Cheltenham tragedy, that’s what. She had not even mentioned the duel.
The door slammed behind her as he brushed himself down.
Well, he had introduced himself to Society in his true colours, he had achieved his aim of calling Randall to book and now he was here, dressed up like a damned dandy, he was going to dance at the ball, whatever Rich Miss Moneybags had to say about it.
The simmering anger subsided into a stubborn resolution not to let Lily France get the better of him which, given that he loved the woman to distraction, did nothing to calm him and everything to put a sharp edge of reckless danger into his mood.
He ran a hand through his modish crop, grimacing at the unfamiliar feel of it, and opened the door onto the heat and light of the ballroom.
Lily swept down the corridor and abruptly round a corner only to stop short. The woman approaching her stopped too, then Lily realised that she was looking at her own, almost unrecognisable, reflection in a long glass.
A furious, imperious stranger stared back at her, hair swept up, elegant gown still fluttering from the speed of her steps, colour high. She looked magnificent, there was no point in false modesty.
She had changed her style utterly for Jack, and all the insensitive, unobservant beast could think of to say was to ask her if she had changed her hair style.
It was much easier to be angry about that than it was to think about anything else, all the reasons why she hurt so much inside, all the hideous images of death or wounding that rose up if she thought about the duel.
If she thought about those, about how much she loved Jack – stubborn, pig-headed, beast that he was – she would cry. And he was not worth crying about. She stamped her foot and the troubled green eyes looking back at her seemed to protest silently that he was.
Lily unfurled her fan with a snap and opened the door into the ballroom. Here she was a success. Here she was admired. Doubtless here were dozens of men who would be honoured to marry her.
‘Miss France? Our cotillion I believe.’
‘Of course.’ She directed a glittering smile at Mr Fancot, tossed her diamond earbobs and allowed herself to be led out to take her place in the set.
They had worked through the first set of changes and figuresand were just going down the grand chain when Lily caught a glimpse of the set on the other side of the room.
There, cheerfully smiling at his partner and executing a rigadoon as though he did it every day of the week, was Jack Lovell.Lord Allerton.
Lily lost her place, found she was holding out the wrong hand for the circle and hastily corrected herself. What was he doing here still?
‘Are you all right, Miss France?’
‘I am sorry, Mr Fancot, merely a moment’s inattention.’
The demands of the cotillion were enough to keep her attention focused until it ended, but she was searching the room for him as Mr Fancot led her off.
Would Jack approach her? Would he have the intolerable effrontery to ask her for a dance? She would soon deal with him if he did.
Unfortunately, he did not give her that satisfaction. Lily danced every dance, even when her feet were aching and she wanted nothing more than to sit one out and take a little refreshment.
And Jack –Lord Allerton– danced every one as well. He had no shortage of partners, and no lack of skill either, she observed resentfully.
And then it was the last waltz on the programme with just the closing cotillion yet to come.
Lily watched the approach of her partner Mr Beresford, second son of the Earl of Standon. He was pompous, he was crashingly boring, but he was also one of the handsomest men in London, and every young lady present felt that to dance with him could only lend them distinction.
Before he reached her, Jack was at her side. ‘Miss France, our dance I believe?’
‘It is not, my lord, you are mistaken. I am promised to MrBeresford.’ Lily produced a glittering smile for the gentleman.
‘Miss France, how could you forget? I am wounded. You promised me this last dance only the other day.’ There was a shadow of emphasis onlast.
Punctiliously Mr Beresford bowed. ‘Lord Allerton, I would naturally not wish to intrude.’
‘But…’ Lily found her hand firmly possessed and then she was on the dance floor, held in such a way that she could only escape by a very obvious struggle. ‘Let mego.’
