Rebecca followed Lady Trapleigh’s line of vision and quickly spotted the gentleman in question. “And he’s available?” Rebecca asked as she eyed his dance partner.
“He is, and also on the market for a wife, though I believe he does have a tendency to gamble.”
Not an ideal match then, Rebecca decided, not to mention the fact that she was quite a bit taller than him and had always imagined looking up to her future husband rather than down. Apparently, if height was what she wanted, she’d have to aim for either Brekenbridge or Mr. Neville, who was both tall and dark haired. Except he was a rake, she reminded herself, and not to be trusted. “I believe I shall set my cap for the viscount then,” she said, speaking in a hushed tone that only Lady Trapleigh could hear.
The widow nodded. “A good choice,” she said as if Rebecca had just picked out a fabric for a new gown rather than the man she was to marry. “I think you will be happy with him.”
Biding her time, Rebecca waited until the gentleman in question had excused himself from the wallflowers and started toward the refreshment table before heading after him. He wasn’t as handsome as Mr. Neville, nor was he quite as tall or as broad shouldered, but his features were pleasant enough, and he obviously had a good heart. Stepping up beside him, Rebecca did precisely what Mr. Neville had done earlier—she tossed aside the rules of propriety and spoke to him without introduction. “I hope you’ll forgive me for approaching you like this, but I couldn’t help but be impressed by the kindness you showed toward the ladies with whom you just offered to dance.”
“They are just as deserving of my attention as everyone else here,” he said as he turned to face her. Confusion registered upon his face as he gazed back into her eyes from behind a silver mask. “I don’t believe we’ve met—Viscount Brekenbridge at your service.”
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. You may call me Lady Nuit.” Tilting her head, she offered him a bashful smile. He didn’t appear to take any notice of the way in which she was dressed, or if he did, he was so discreet about his observation that it didn’t show upon his face. His eyes were warm and friendly instead, for which she was thankful. “Well, I just thought you ought to be commended for your efforts. However, it appears that the first dance is about to commence. I really mustn’t keep you from your partner.”
“I don’t see why not, since the ladies you just mentioned denied my request. I believe they were too shy in the end.”
Attempting a look of complete befuddlement, Rebecca shook her head. “What a shame.”
“Perhaps you would do me the honor of partnering with me?” Brekenbridge asked abruptly, hope brimming in his eyes while his hands worked nervously at his sides. “If you’re available, that is.”
“Certainly,” Rebecca said, pleased by Brekenbridge’s enthusiasm. It seemed Lady Trapleigh was correct in her assessment, for his eagerness was only too apparent. He would probably propose soon if she voiced an interest, though he did not strike her as the passionate sort, the way Mr. Neville had. Heavens but he’d looked quite ready to rip Starkly’s head right off his neck when she’d last seen him. No, Lord Brekenbridge seemed very proper and civil by comparison—the sort of man who was looking to do the responsible thing and saw no reason for delay when it came to seeking a wife. He would suit her perfectly.
Allowing herself a satisfied smile, which Brekenbridge happily returned, he offered her his arm and started leading her toward the dance floor.
“You move with remarkable grace, my lady,” Brekenbridge said mere moments later as he and Rebecca made their way along the line of couples in a longways country dance.
“The same can be said of you, my lord,” Rebecca replied. She broadened her smile as she gazed up at him from beneath her lashes. His hold on her tightened just enough to strengthen her hope in him.
“You are too kind,” he murmured, giving her hand a little squeeze before the dance forced them apart once more. As they stood facing each other while other couples danced between them, Rebecca met Brenkenbridge’s gaze and found a resolve there that mirrored her own. Perhaps escaping Roselyn Castle wouldn’t be as difficult as she’d first expected.
“I hope you don’t think me presumptuous,” Brekenbridge said when next he stepped toward her, “but I must ask if you’re spoken for. You see, I . . . well, the thing of it is—”
“No, my lord, I am not,” Rebecca said, rushing to his aid.
Relief flooded the viscount’s features. “Well then, perhaps you would be so good as to introduce me to your father later. I assume he’s in attendance this evening?” he asked. “I would be very pleased to make his acquaintance—your mother’s too of course.”
With her hand upon his, Rebecca followed his lead as they turned about in the middle of the dance floor, crisscrossing between other couples as they did so. “I live with my aunt and uncle, my lord. You see, my parents passed away some years ago.”
A pained expression settled in Brekenbridge’s eyes. “My apologies, Lady Nuit . . .”
“It’s quite all right,” she said, hoping to calm his distress. “As I said, it was not recent.”
They parted ways again, and as they stood apart, she realized she wouldn’t be able to lie to him as easily as she had to Mr. Neville and Lord Starkly—not if he was to court her. For that, he’d have to know where she lived. She steeled herself, a bit wary of revealing her true identity to someone. She had little choice but to trust her instinct though, and instinct told her that he was not the sort of man who would abandon her once he knew the truth.
“Are your intentions toward me . . .” she began, speaking in a hushed tone when they approached each other once more, her gown swishing about her legs as they twirled around. Now was not the time to lose one’s nerve. “That is to say . . . I was wondering if you were inquiring about my parents because you were interested in calling on me.”
“Rest assured, Lady Nuit, I am most keen to further our acquaintance, if that is what you also desire.”
She gave a little nod, took a deep, fortifying breath and said, “In that case, there is something that I must tell you. You see—” She was given no chance to make her confession, however, as the music faded and the dance came to an end. Having bowed and curtsied, Rebecca was just about to suggest they take a turn about the room so they could continue their conversation when Mr. Neville stepped in front of them, blocking their way. “Brekenbridge,” he said, though his eyes remained on Rebecca. “Always a pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Brekenbridge said politely.
Mr. Neville finally turned his gaze on Brekenbridge. “If you don’t mind, I do believe the lady has promised me the next dance.”
An endless string of curses streamed through Rebecca’s mind at that moment. Why, the arrogant nerve of the man! Here she was, trying her best to secure a match for herself with a real gentleman, and this . . . this libertine had the gall to try and stake his claim with a lie. The rudeness of it was infuriating. If only Brekenbridge would think of an excuse—something (anything at all) that might prevent her from having to leave his side and dance with Mr. Neville. But of course that was unthinkable. Brekenbridge was far too well mannered to oppose any man who’d claimed a dance. “Of course,” he said as he disengaged his arm from Rebecca’s. Turning to face her, he offered her another bow. “Perhaps we can talk later, my lady? There is a great deal I’d like to discuss with you.” Brekenbridge’s eyes held hers, offering hope. His meaning was clear.
Rebecca smiled at him and nodded. “I will look forward to it, my lord.” And then the moment was over and she was being led away toward the dance floor by Mr. Neville, acutely (and annoyingly) aware of the firm, masculine confidence he exuded. She would not allow her body to respond to his, to how sturdy he felt at her side, the tantalizing scent of him—sandalwood again—and the heat that entered her hand at the point of contact. Heavens! She felt well and truly flushed.
No, she would keep her mind focused and think of what Brekenbridge had promised with his gaze. She could be happy with him, of that she was certain. And yet, when Mr. Neville swept her into his arms, to a waltz, no less, she feared she might be doomed. Oh, she’d found him charming and attractive before, but with his hand resting against her waist she was finding it alarmingly difficult to form a coherent thought.
“The viscount seemed very taken with you,” Mr. Neville said as he spun her in a wide circle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wording his proposal as we speak.”
One can only hope.
“It was badly done of you to interfere like that,” she said, deciding to give him a set down and hoping that being stern with him would stop her from wondering what it might be like to kiss him. Turning her head away from him, she determined to watch the other dancers. She would not look at Mr. Neville’s lips. No, only disaster lay in that direction.
“I take it you desire his advances then?” There was an edge of flint to his tone as his hold on her tightened.
“He is a fine gentleman, and from what I’ve seen, he’s also kind. I believe he will treat me well. A lady could do far worse.” She turned her head back toward him, daring herself to meet his gaze in a pointed look. Thank heavens she was as good an actress as she was or she would probably have burst into flames in response to the look he was giving her in return. There was nothing polite about it. Indeed, it was a possessive look with the promise of wicked, forbidden pleasures—the sort of look that Rebecca imagined to be reserved for widows and the demimonde. It certainly wasn’t the way a respectable gentleman ought to be looking at an innocent young lady, and to Rebecca’s horror, she found herself responding to it in a most unwelcome way, feeling things in places that weren’t at all proper. She cursed herself for looking at him. It had been a mistake.
“How well do you know him?” Mr. Neville asked.
“Well enough,” she replied, only too eager to end this topic of discussion.
Mr. Neville held quiet a moment, then said, “You’ve only just met him, haven’t you?”
“No, of course not. I mean, to consider marriage from someone I’ve only shared one dance with—why, that would be ridiculous.”
“Is that so? Then pray tell, what is his name?”
Rebecca glanced up just enough to see the corner of his mouth edge upward into a smile—a cheeky smile.
“Well, that’s easy enough. It’s Brekenbridge.”
A chuckle escaped Mr. Neville’s lips. “Nice try, Lady Nuit, but I was referring to his Christian name. If you’ve known him long enough to consider marrying him, then surely you must have discovered what it is.”
Ugh! He had her there. Not one to give up so easily, she spoke the first name that came to mind. “Daniel.”
Mr. Neville’s eyebrows snapped together, and for a split second he looked at her rather queerly. He then smiled. “A lady to my liking—one who enjoys a good gamble even when the chance of winning is close to impossible.” Lowering his head, he whispered close to her ear, “His name is Thomas Brinkly.”