Page 7 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
The words broke the spell of his fascination as effectively as a slap in the face. A surge of heat rushed through her. How dare he treat her as if her entire life and being were summed up by her marriage to Ewan?
“No, my lord,” she snapped. “That is not how I would put it at all. I think perhaps you might know me better as Sawyer Weylin’s granddaughter from Bath.”
“Indeed?” he asked, his attention wandering past her to the ballroom.
“I trust you have no difficulty in recalling his name. It would seem that my grandfather sets great store by your advice. A fact I find most astonishing.”
“It always pleases me to be a source of astonishment to a lady.”
He favored her with a brief nod, the king dismissing a peasant girl. “Your pardon, madame. Another recent acquaintance beckons me,” He walked away, leaving her speechless with anger.
Muriel snickered behind her fan. “Oh, lud, Phaedra. How very disappointing. I had expected something a little more spectacular. After all, you are passably pretty. I vow the marquis took more notice of Sophie Grandisant, in spite of her prominent front teeth. “
“I have not done with him yet,” Phaedra said.
Never had she encountered the likes of such arrogance-not even in those dreadful days of her marriage, when Ewan Grantham had held his untutored bride up to ridicule before allhis fashionable friends. She had learned a great deal since the time when one snub would have sent her, teary-eyed, to cower in some corner. She had learned enough to be able to teach the marquis that she was not so easily ignored. With quick strides, Phaedra placed herself directly in Varnais’s path.
“My lord,” she said. “I came here tonight expressly to meet you.”
He flicked an imaginary speck of lint from his waistcoat. “How flattering.”
Phaedra became aware of more than one head turning in their direction. She longed to draw the marquis off into some secluded nook to conduct this conversation, but Lady Porterfield’s ballroom offered no such place. Lowering her voice, she said, “They are now forming sets for the minuet.”
“Do I understand you to be asking me to dance, my lady?”
“Yes, I am,” she replied doggedly. She must be mad! This was beyond the pale, even for the untamed Phaedra Grantham. She had the satisfaction of at last obtaining a reaction from Armande de LeCroix.
“How very—” She thought she detected a slight quiver of amusement in that smooth voice, but he went on, “How very original your English customs are, my lady. I had no idea.”
Once more Phaedra became aware of the dozens of eyes trained upon her. Dear God, where would she find a hole large enough to crawl into if he refused?
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Ahbien, how could I maintain my honor as a Frenchman if I refused such a request from a beautiful woman?”
With that he offered her his hand. A blood-red ruby ring set in heavy gold contrasted with the bronzed strength of his fingers. She placed her own within his grasp, bracing herself for the chill. To her astonishment, the hand gripping hers was warm, sending a current rushing through her that made the heat of theballroom seem as nothing. As he led her onto the floor, the buzz of voices threatened to drown out the music; but to Phaedra, all sound faded into insignificance. She felt as if she were alone with this enigmatic stranger, who made her pulse race with but a touch.
As the opening strains of the minuet sounded through the ballroom, Phaedra gave herself a mental shake. The rest of society, the fops, the silly chits like Muriel Porterfield, might be content to stand in awe of this man. But Phaedra was determined to find out exactly who this marquis was, what sort of mischief he might be brewing with her grandfather. He was a far cry from the elderly busybody she had expected. So why the devil had he advised against her return to London?
Gliding toward his lordship, her skirts rustling against his legs, she tried to penetrate what lay behind the mask. But his eyes were so hypnotic and piercing that she averted her gaze in confusion. She regarded his shoe buckles, the firm-muscled calves encased in white silk stockings, the tight-fitting knee breeches that clung so well to his lean hips.
“Well, what think you, madame?” His soft voice startled her.
“Of what, my lord?”
“Of the buttons on my waistcoat. I told the tailor they would never do.”
“Buttons?” she repeated, wrenching her eyes away from their admiring perusal of his masculine form. “I-no, my lord, I see nothing wrong with your-your buttons.”
“But I affirm that there is. If they so hold a lady’s attention that she never looks up to afford me one glimpse of her beautiful eyes, then I think my tailor has greatly erred.”
Flushing, Phaedra looked up at once. Was he mocking her? She could tell nothing from the dry tones in which he spoke.
“That is better.”
“I am sorry, my lord. I did not mean to seem rude.” Her apology was swept away as they were separated by the movement of the dance.
Why did he never smile? His lips were set, immovable, but at least his eyes did not look so cold as she’d first seen them. Or was it all a trick of the candlelight?
When they came together again, she said, “I was not staring at you, but merely watching my steps. It has been a while since I danced the minuet.”
