Page 60 of The Heiress's Daughter
“Never had orange biscuits,” Zoë said. “Ain’t never tasted an orange, for that matter.”
“Well, we’ll have to remedy that, but first a cup of tea and some biscuits. They’re made with ground almonds, and oranges of course, and are light and chewy and utterly delicious. Come along, you’ll love them.” Arm in arm the two sisters headed for the house.
Lord and Lady Peplowe were popular hosts and their rout party was the kind of fashionable squeeze that insured it was declared a rousing success. Race could have done with a little less attention—the matchmaking mamas were out in force.
Of course they were: he’d forgotten that Penny, the Peplowes’ youngest daughter, was still unmarried, and the party was well seeded with eligible young men.
He’d arrived a little late, as was his habit. Not that he often attended this kind of event, but he supposed when a man was courting a young lady it was a necessity.
He grimaced. Courting. He was actually courting. And the whole world seemed to know it, though not whom he was courting, thank God.
He spotted Clarissa, dancing a country dance with some young blade. She was wearing a soft cream and apricot dress that flowed with every movement, caressing her luscious curves in a way that made his mouth dry.
He waited until the dance was over and when the young sprig went off to fetch her a drink, he stepped in. “You are looking lovely, as usual, Miss Studley. That color really suits you and the cut is masterful.”
She pursed her lips, looking slightly irritated instead of flattered. What had he said?
He bowed slightly. “May I have the next dance?”
She hesitated, then glanced around as if to check who was standing close by. Then she took a small step toward him. Her skin glowed pure and pearly with a faint flush. He could smell her perfume, a delicate rose scent that was unique to her. It was all he could do not to gather her into his arms.
She raised herself on tiptoe and murmured in a soft voice, “You don’t need to dance with me at all, Lord Randall. There are plenty of gentlemen here who don’t regarda dance with me as an obligation. But I thank you for your dutiful attention.” And with that she turned and hurried away, leaving Race trying not to gape after her.
A dance with her anobligation? Anddutiful attention? What the hell did she mean by that? A dance with her was a damned privilege, not any kind of obligation.
He blinked, shocked by her gentle, but firm refusal. He’d never received a knock-back in his life. In fact it was generally women who made the first move, making it clear his attentions would be welcome—more than welcome.
Had he lost his charm? Had the ease with which he usually attracted women made him lazy? Was he losing his touch? Becoming arrogant? And complacent?
Or was it a tactic on her part? He had to know.
Weaving through the crowd, he found her again and touched her on the elbow. She turned. “Ienjoydancing with you, Miss Studley,” he told her. “It’s not an obligation. Or a blasted ‘dutiful attention,’ whatever than means.”
She glanced around self-consciously. “Please lower your voice. People are looking.”
“To hell with people,” he said, but he lowered his voice. “I want an explanation.”
She looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. “I’m saying that you need not worry about me. I quite understand that you feel an obligation to look out for me on Leo’s behalf, but I really, truly don’t need it.”
“But—”
“And I would be obliged if you ceased bothering me.”
“Botheringyou?” He was stunned.
“Yes. And spying on me. Now good evening.” She moved off once more, and soon disappeared into the throng.
Bothering her. Spying on her?It was like a slap in the face.
He wasn’t bothering her—he wascourtingher. As for spying—he had no idea where that came from.
Did she have no idea of his intentions? He thought all women understood when a man was interested. He was sure he’d made it clear. She must understand.
So…what was it? Could it be that she wasn’t attracted to him? And he’d somehow missed all the signs?
The idea appalled him. He’d never forced his attentions on an unwilling or an uninterested woman in his life.
He thought back to that kiss, the way she’d pressed her body against him, the way she’d eagerly returned his caresses. No, she was definitely attracted to him, just as he was to her. Then what was going on? Had someone said something to her to put her off him? But who? And what?
