Page 79 of The Lyon Whisperer
His aunt’s cheerful voice rang out, as she, too, caught sight of Amelia. “Here she is, everyone. Dancing, of course.”
The women’s exchange of indulgent smiles told him his wife had, evidently, spent much of the night on the dance floor.
He resisted the urge to glare at the lot of them. Why had no one told her of the social expectation limiting her to one dance, per partner, per night? Aside from dancing with her husband.
Not that he had danced with her even once, even though he’d promised. Was that what this was about? Had she danced twice with Tully to spite him, because she was angry with him?
By tomorrow, her transgression would be front page news.
Every muscle in his body tensed as he prepared to stalk forward and retrieve his wife.
Abruptly, Tully swung Amelia in a graceful arch, leading her off the dance floor where their group stood. He bowed over her hand with a flourish that had Chase gritting his teeth.
Tully tucked her gloved hand into his elbow and sauntered toward Chase and Fallsgate, a smug grin on his face.
He had to admit the two made quite a pair. Tully, with his tawny-haired good looks, and Amelia’s princess-perfect stature, gleaming black hair and violet-blue eyes, seemed downright made for one another.
It irritated Chase. No. More than that. It infuriated him.
Then he noted something he cared for even less. Amelia looked wrong. As beautiful as ever—she would be elegant in a brown potato sack—her porcelain complexion seemed devoid of color, and her demeanor lacked its usual vitality.
His anger surged. What had Tully said to upset her? Every instinct he possessed urged him to grab the man by his very-expensive-looking, overly flamboyant cravat and shake a confession out of him.
Not that he was free to do so. Not here, and especially not in front of Fallsgate, whose eyes he felt burning into his profile.
The man missed nothing. Undoubtedly, he’d noted his daughter’s socialfaux pasof dancing not only twice, but twice in a row with the known philandering rake.
Meanwhile Chase was tasked with getting Amelia in line. That probably ruled out his creating a scandal on his own.
That damned bet was turning into an albatross round his bloody neck.
With effort, he smiled at Tully with polite indifference as he and Amelia drew to a halt directly before him and Fallsgate.
“Lord Fallsgate, Baron,” Tully said by way of greeting.
Fallsgate inclined his head to Lord Tully, then eyed his daughter, a slight smile on his face. “Amelia.”
She dipped a curtsy. “My lord.”
Tully’s watchful gaze followed her every move. “I’ve been acquainting myself with your lovely bride, Culver. My heartfelt congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Chase replied, locking eyes with Amelia as she straightened.
Though he could read nothing in her too-still expression, he had learned an absence of emotion on Amelia’s face bespoke a torrent of feeling under the surface.
“Kind of you to deliver her, Tully. Now if you don’t mind—” He reached forward and peeled her fingers off of Tully’s arm. Not exactly the thing, but at the moment, he didn’t give a bloody damn. “May I have this dance?”
Without another word, he led her onto the dance floor.
He waited until they were far from Fallsgate, Tully, and Amelia’s female compatriots to speak to her. “My aunt tells me Mr. Defoe escorted you into supper.”
Amelia stared straight ahead, her posture rigid, her thick-lash fringed eyes fixed on his simply tied cravat. “Yes. I’d hoped…” She shook her head as if to refute whatever she’d been about to say.
“You’d hoped?”
Finally, her violet eyes met his. He glimpsed a flash of, what? Hurt? One moment there, the next gone. Or perhaps he had imagined it.
Frustration knifed through him.
