Page 70 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
Deuce take it. All Minerva’s talk of his boyish escapades was poisoning his mind, making him yearn for the idyllicchildhood she’d thought he’d had. Making him wish he could give it to some child.
But he could not.
“I gather that Kirkwood didn’t want to come tonight,” Foxmoor said, “but his wife insisted. She said she wanted to hear all the latest gossip, and he would have to gather it.” The duke snorted. “As if Kirkwood would know how to glean gossip! The woman is clearly blinded by love.”
Andthatwas the trouble: love blinded you only until it ensnared you. Once ensnared, you saw everything clearly enough to sink you into misery.
He was too smart for that.
But as the evening wore on and he was forced to watch Maria dance with a succession of young and handsome gentlemen, he began to wonder if he was so smart after all. Because seeing her with them was really chafing him raw.
One of the idiots made her laugh several times—an egregious transgression. Another let his hand linger on her waist after the dance was done—a cardinal sin. And the last one before the drawing had the audacity to whisper something in her ear that made her blush—a crime so unpardonable that Oliver wished he could thrash the man senseless for it. He’d never wanted to thrash so many men at one time in his whole life.
Somehow he managed to remain calm as the gentlemen gathered for the drawing. He watched Maria write her name on a slip of paper and put it into Foxmoor’s top hat, but he couldn’t tell if Foxmoor succeeded in snagging it. He held his breath through the entire process, only relaxing whenthe men started drawing names and Foxmoor dropped a slip of paper into the hat with a meaningful smile just as Oliver reached in.
Pulling the slip out, he read aloud, “Miss Maria Butterfield.”
Maria didn’t say a thing, her expression unreadable.
But she was his for the next dance whether she liked it or not, and his for supper, too. He meant to make the most of it.
MARIA HAD SPENTthe entire night putting a good face on things. Although Gabe’s and Jarret’s friends were nice, polite men, she felt as if all the other guests were whispering about her. The whispers were at their greatest whenever she was with one of the Sharpes, and this was at a ball held by their friends! She could only imagine what it must be like for them at other affairs.
Then again, maybe they weren’t invited to other affairs. It seemed as if Celia and Minerva danced only with their brothers or their brothers’ friends, who’d apparently also been called into service for the Sharpe women. Maria had seen Minerva standing alone for more than one dance, though the look on her face had made it clear she refused to be cowed by a bunch of rumormongers.
Between the dances, Maria had heard murmurs of “the poor American girl . . . yes, the Sharpes . . . can you believe it?” One particularly nasty harpy resurrected the old scandal with great relish. Fortunately Maria’s partner, oneof Gabe’s good friends, clipped the woman’s wings with a blistering rejoinder.
Throughout it all, Maria had been aware every moment of where Oliver stood and what he was doing. He hadn’t danced with a single woman, which she found curious. And flattering, though she knew she shouldn’t. Mostly he watched her—though it was more like devouring her with his eyes.
When he wasn’t doing that, he was scowling at her dance partners. One fellow had even mentioned that Lord Stoneville appeared to be jealous.
She found that highly unlikely.
Yet as he headed toward her now, she felt disturbingly happy that he’d drawn her name. After spending the whole evening smiling until her face hurt, ignoring spiteful comments and pretending to be in England in search of Freddy’s “brother Nathan,” she ached to be with someone who knew her for what she was.
Even with Oliver’s brothers, she felt compelled to pretend, to be the angelic creature they seemed determined to protect. And though the man they wanted to protect her from was striding toward her with a frightening look of determination on his face, a ridiculous thrill went through her that wouldn’t be quelled.
Oliver halted beside her as the drawing continued. Freddy drew the name of a very pretty little maiden, which he fairly preened over. A man named Giles Masters drew Minerva’s name. The man seemed pleased; Minerva did not.
Then Oliver bent to whisper in her ear, and Maria stopped noticing who drew what name. “I see you’re having a fine time tonight.”
“What makes you say that?” she whispered back.
“You smile at every young fool who takes your hand,” he grumbled.
“And you glare at them,” she pointed out. “Does that mean you’re having a terrible time?”
“I’d do more than glare, if I could. Have you forgotten you have a fiancé?”
“A pretend one.”
“I was speaking of Hyatt.”
She swallowed past the lump of guilt in her throat. Then something occurred to her, and she shot him a curious glance. “Since when do you care about protecting my fiancé’s interests?”
A sullen expression crossed his face. “I just think that a woman who’s engaged shouldn’t be encouraging the attentions of young pups.”
Oh, thatreallytook the cake. “And I think that a man who’s pretending to be engaged shouldn’t be running to brothels under his pretend fiancée’s nose,” she hissed.
