“More beef for me then.” Edward shrugged and followed his nose toward the source of the delightful smell.
Ian tromped back around the corner and climbed the oak to peer through the window of the ballroom once more. After a few moments, he found Jane. And in another heartbeat or two, so did Viscount Eddleton.
That worthless piece of dung was fawning over his Janie's white-gloved hand.
Perhaps there was more to life than the promise of a full belly. Mayhap Jane would put more stock in a true heart than a title. And a true heart, Ian was confident, he could offer in abundance. All he wanted in this life was his Janie. If Eddleton had been a decent sort, Ian would have let her go, figuring it would be for the best. But Eddleton wasn't, and that settled the matter. Ian decided to press his suit
If she rejected him, well, he'd deal with that if he had to. Though he didn't intend to go down without a fight.
“No thank ye, Edward,” he muttered. “Enjoy your beef. I'd rather make out like a lord than a brigand this night.” He narrowed his gaze at Eddleton's poker-stiff back. “Though I may have to turn brigand to do it.”
“Lady Sybil, I presume,” the blond, cherub-faced gentleman said with a slight bow. When Jane extended a hand, he straightened to his full height, which was about half a head taller than she. He favored her with a dazzling smile and lifted her knuckles to his lips. “Enchante, mademoiselle. Vous etes plus jolie que je me suis attendu.”
Blast! Why hadn't Sybil ever skipped out of her French lessons? Well, whatever the man had said sounded perfectly delightful, so she smiled at him while she tugged her hand free. “Likewise, I'm sure.”
“So I'm prettier than you expected, too! How droll. No one warned me of your wit.” He laughed and clicked his heels together. “From the furrow on your lovely brow, I can tell you don't know who I am. I don't see Lord Somerville anywhere to do the honors, so allow me to introduce myself. Viscount Eddleton, at your service.” Then he relaxed his rigid posture and leaned toward her conspiratorially. “But by the end of the evening, I hope you'll be calling me George.”
Jane's belly roiled. So this was the stranger whose proposal she'd have to accept before the end of the ball. Though the marriage agreement was all but signed, his manner was so forward, so blatantly confident, Jane was irritated on Sybil's behalf. Even an arranged bride deserved a little courtship.
What would Lady Sybil do?
“Perhaps, milord, I'll find another name for you.” Jane arched one brow in perfect imitation of the knowing expression on Lady Sybil's nude portrait. “But it may not be George.”
That knocked the smugness off his face. It would do the man good to have to work a bit for this engagement. He cocked his head at her, clearly reassessing.
“Lovely, but stubborn,” he said. “My informant wasn't all wrong then. I was warned of your temperament.”
Jane flipped open her gilded fan and fluttered it before her. It was a small shield, but it was all she had. “You have me at a disadvantage, sir, if you have been spying on me.”
“Spying on you? What a charming notion!”
Jane didn't have much experience with men, but she recognized a rakish grin when she saw one.
“I'm curious, milady. What sort of activities of yours do you think I'd most enjoy from a clandestine vantage point?”
“I think perhaps a view of me walking away.” She turned and glided from him.
He caught up with her in short order. “Please, I meant no harm. Surely a jest between those whom the fates have thrown together is no cause for offense.”
Jane kept walking as the string ensemble began the stately, somber tones of a quadrille.
“I fear we've started on the wrong foot,” Eddleton said, clearly dismayed. “Allow me to make amends. May I have this dance?”
“If you tend to start on the wrong foot, do you think dancing the wisest course?”
He chuckled, nervously this time. “Touché, mademoiselle. Once again, I am wounded.”
“Rest easy, sir. It doesn't appear mortal.”
“You think not?” He splayed a hand over his chest, careful not to crush his cravat's waterfall. “Cupid's dart carries quite a sting.”
“So you are well acquainted with the boy with the arrows?”
“I would have thought so,” he admitted. “Before I met you. Now I see that my other amours were mere flesh wounds. You, mademoiselle, fairly pierce my heart.”
What a bag of moonshine!' Jane narrowly resisted rolling her eyes. For whatever reason, it was obvious Lord Eddleton wanted the betrothal to go forward. Wanted it quite desperately if he resorted to such overblown declarations within a minute of their meeting.
Well, accepting Lord Eddleton's proposal was why she was here. But if she could start the relationship between Lady Sybil and her betrothed on a more equal footing she would consider that her gift to her half sister. She rested her palm on his offered arm.
“By all means, if indeed the fates have thrown us together, we should dance,” she said, tossing his words back at him. “Let us see if at least our feet can find an accord.”
Jane and Viscount Eddleton formed up with another couple for the quadrille. She caught a fleeting reflection of herself in the dark windows, her scarlet gown wavering in the soft light. She didn't recognize the stranger who stared back at her.
How long could she keep up this charade without losing herself?
Bless Agnes for making me learn to dance, she thought as she answered the viscount's bow with a deep curtsey. Dancing was a welcome respite. Since the quadrille involved another couple, no one spoke. Lord Eddleton was on his best behavior, smiling politely and executing the dance with grace.
Jane moved through the prescribed turns and steps, surprised by how easily she was accepted as Lady Sybil. She'd been both disappointed and relieved when Lord Somerville failed to arrive in time to escort her to Lord Hartwell's ball. Surely he'd have been difficult to fool. Once here, she had expected to have to bluff her way through a dozen conversations with Sybil's friends, but other than the marchioness, no one had greeted her with more than a slight nod.
Could Sybil really have so few friends?
They reached the last turn in the quadrille and Lord Eddleton escorted her from the floor.
“I'm sure your dance card will fill quickly, my dear,” he said, reaching for the gilt booklet that dangled from one of her wrists. “I'll not presume upon your company, but I'll pencil myself in for the last dance. After all, we do have business to conclude this evening.”
Business! Was that what he thought of his coming betrothal? If she were acting as herself instead of Sybil, she'd have put a knee to his groin right there.
Lord Eddleton scribbled his name and then handed the dance card back. His gaze focused on something over her right shoulder. She could have sworn he blanched whiter than a toad's belly.
“Right, then,” he said. “I'll see you soon. Have a lovely evening.”
He rushed his obeisance over her hand and then practically ran from her, glancing back over his shoulder. Jane turned slowly, to see if she could determine the reason for her soon-to-be-betrothed's quick departure, but she could spot no danger. There was only a small woman in a canary yellow ball gown. The lady didn't appear at all threatening, but her sharp eyes did seem to be marking Eddleton's progress across the crowded ballroom.
Jane didn't have time to puzzle over why the viscount had fled like a harried fox. Or why the lady in yellow trailed him like a hound on the scent. True to Eddleton's prediction, Jane's dance card filled quickly. Lady Sybil obviously didn't have many female friends, but she was undeniably popular with the men in attendance.
Sybil's cunning embroidered slippers might have been all the crack for fashion, but Jane's feet ached by the time the musicians laid aside their bows for a short break. The quartet of matrons playing whist at a table in the corner gave her directions to the ladies' retiring room and she started toward one of the doors that led away from the ballroom. She hoped with her whole heart that real ladies were sensible enough to take off their pinching slippers for a good foot rub.
She somehow doubted it
But before she made good her escape, she noticed someone lounging by the doorway who made her forget she even possessed feet.
He was leaning against the thick mahogany panels, his manner completely at ease. But his dark eyes watched her with the intensity of a cat before a mouse hole.
His slim dark trousers, gray cutaway jacket, and waistcoat embroidered with silver threads looked like they'd leapt from a fashion plate. Barring the indifferently tied cravat tumbling from his high collar, he was as well turned out as the marquess himself.
He smiled slowly at Jane. As she walked toward him, his crooked grin fisted her heart. She tamped down the flutter in her belly.
“Ian Michael MacGarrett,” she hissed. “What do you think you're doing here?”
Chapter Eight
“For a bright girl, Janie, ye're a bit daft this evening. It's plain as the nose on your face what I'm doing here. I'm looking at ye, of course.” Ian's hot gaze traveled down her form and back to meet her eyes again. “Ye're well worth looking at, lassie, all flushed and rosy. Ye should wear red all the time.”
“Never mind that.” Her voiced rasped with irritation, even though his admiration sent a tingle spiraling into her belly. She stepped closer to him so no one would overhear them. Ian didn't smell of fresh stable straw now. A solid whiff of sandalwood emanated from his fine clothes, along with his own masculine scent. “How did you get that suit?”
“Same way you got what you're wearing.” He folded his arms across his broad chest and leaned toward her to whisper, “I borrowed it.”
“That much I figured,” she whispered back, so she had to move even closer. Or was he drawing her in? “From whom?”
“Well, it was more trouble than I expected, I'll grant ye. I counted on being able to waylay one of these dandies hereabouts. These fancy gents make frequent trips out to the garden to smoke and... other things, but most of them are on the puny side and for the longest time I didn't see any whose clothes I thought I could fit into,” he said, clearly enjoying stringing out the tale. “Then I remembered that Lord Hartwell is a goodly-sized fellow—”
“Oh, Ian!” Jane's stomach turned a backflips. “Tell me you did not steal from the marquess.”
“Borrow,” he corrected. “Borrow from the marquess.”
“Borrow then, you stupid, big Scot.” Jane suppressed the desire to pound her fist on his chest beneath the messily tied cravat. That sort of violence might be frowned upon in polite society, though if any would dare flout society's rules, it would undoubtedly be Sybil. Jane struggled with the urge for another couple of heartbeats, then continued in a furious whisper. “Why would you do such a thing?”
The musicians started a softly yearning tune in three-quarter time. Ian's eyes darkened as he looked at her.
“Maybe I wanted to dance with ye, love.”
His husky voice sent a shiver over her. Her heart pounded as if she'd run up three flights of stairs with an armload of washing. With infinite slowness, he slid a hand along the side of her waist, the silk of her gown rustling, almost purring, beneath his touch. Ian took her hand and the fight sizzled out of her.