Page 34 of The Heiress's Daughter
She’d relaxed in his arms, giving herself over to the music and the man. She leaned closer to him and let herself be transported to who knew where.
The others in the ballroom seemed to blur; she was aware of only him. His light touch didn’t disguise the leashed strength of him as he whirled her around the room. It was so easy to just let herself be swept away, to trust herself to him entirely, twirling like a leaf in a whirlpool.
After a few moments she closed her eyes, because Lord Randall’s compelling gray gaze never shifted from her face. It was warm, like a touch. Far from his eyes wandering about the room to see what others might be doing, he barely seemed to notice anyone else in the room, except that he never bumped into anyone, never made a misstep.
His intense regard was flattering, but also a little overwhelming.
But closing her eyes might have been a mistake, because she became more aware of him than ever.
The warmth of his hands through the fabric of her gloves and the light pressure of his hand at her waist. The subtle scent of him teased her nostrils; the faint masculine tang of his shaving soap, spicy cologne and—she breathed in deeply trying to identify that other elusive scent. She was always fascinated by smells and eventually she realized that thefaint, enticing extra layer of fragrance she could smell was masculinity. Specifically Lord Randall’s.
Dancing the waltz with him was pure seduction…until he’d started to make conversation. It broke the spell. She was hopeless at flirting. His ability to fluster her was as bad as ever. But this time she felt she’d held her own. More or less. She was quite proud of that.
Not that it made much difference. Every move the man made, every word he uttered, every glance he gave was seductive.
It was nothing like her dance with Lord Vibart. He was another notorious rake, darkly handsome and very attractive, but he didn’t stir her senses in the least. And his blatant flirting and suggestive remarks only made her laugh or blush. She wasn’t at all attracted to him, and so the dance had been easy, lighthearted.
Dancing with Lord Randall had been…blissful. Despite his effect on her, she didn’t regret it for a minute. She understood, more than ever, why those other ladies pursued him so blatantly.
But despite the magic—or maybe because of it—she knew it would be fatal to succumb. And so she wouldn’t.
As he led her off the dance floor and headed toward the supper room, she saw Mrs. Price-Jones on the other side of the room, watching.
Mrs. Price-Jones raised a brow and glanced at Lord Randall, as if asking whether he was taking her in to supper. Clarissa nodded and her chaperone began to bustle her way through the throng entering the supper room.
“Ah, that one will do nicely.” Lord Randall led Clarissa to a small table near the window. There were just two chairs. The small table had obviously been brought in from some other part of the house, just for this occasion, but it was too intimate. She’d already told him what she wanted: that she didn’t need his protection, especially on Leo’s behalf.
She glanced around, hoping to find seats near someone she knew, but there were none.
He seated her, and pulled out his own chair.
“Thank heavens!” Mrs. Price-Jones declared as she pushed past him and sank into it. “I am exhausted. I fear I’ve danced my feet to stumps.” She beamed up at Lord Randall. “Thank you soooo much for procuring me a chair, Lord Randall. My partner seems to have deserted me.” She glanced at Clarissa. “Thank goodness for true gentlemen, don’t you agree, Clarissa?” She winked.
Clarissa, who was trying not to laugh at her chaperone’s barefaced piracy of Lord Randall’s seat, managed to make a muffled, agreeing sort of sound.
Lord Randall gave Mrs. Price-Jones a gimlet look that indicated he was quite aware of her tactics, but that being a gentleman, he had no option but to accept them. “Very well, I will find another chair.”
“Thank you, dear boy. And perhaps you can make it two chairs—I see my partner approaching. He didn’t desert me after all. Nice to know my allure hasn’t left me.”
Lord Randall, with a long-suffering look, went off to find a couple of chairs.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Mrs. Price-Jones murmured to Clarissa.
“Not at all.” It was an understatement. What she felt was pure relief.
A few minutes later, when Race returned with a footman carrying two chairs, it was to find the chaperone’s partner, an elegant silver-haired gentleman, already seated on the other side of Miss Studley.
“Put it down here,” Mrs. Price-Jones instructed. “And we won’t need that other one. Dear Sir Henry found his own chair. So clever of him.” She beamed. The footmanplaced one of the chairs beside the chaperone and went off with the other.
Race glanced at the table arrangement. The cunning old duck, with her bright, clashing clothing and seemingly artless ways, had effortlessly outmaneuvered him. Miss Studley, seated with Sir Henry on one side and her chaperone on the other, was now quite inaccessible to him. There would be no private conversation tonight.
Mrs. Price-Jones smiled guilelessly up at Race and patted the vacant chair. “Sit down, my boy, no need to be shy.”
Race looked down at Mrs. Price-Jones for a moment and then laughed. “Piqued, repiqued and capotted,” he said, shaking his head as he seated himself beside her. The woman was impossible, but he couldn’t help but like her.
Mrs. Price-Jones fluttered her eyelashes. “You are too kind, sir. I but carry out dear Lord Salcott’s instructions.”
“Naturally,” he agreed sardonically. She had givendear Lord Salcottjust such a hard time whenever he’d tried to talk to Izzy alone. She might seem frivolous and scatty, but underneath she was as canny as a general. And unashamedly outrageous.
