To Sin With A Stranger (9 page)

The smallest sigh fell from her lips in that momentary silence of the ballroom, and she turned her brown eyes up to meet his gaze.

“Are you well?” he asked her softly and sincerely.

She nodded slowly at first, then faster as she found her feet and sense enough to raise her palms and push away, breaking his embrace.

It was too fast, it seemed, for she staggered backward, and he reached out and caught her hand to steady her.

Slowly she lifted her eyes to his again, and to his astonishment, she lifted her lips as well, and smiled warmly at him. Then, without releasing his hand, she graced him with a most unexpected curtsy. “Thank you, Lord Blackburn,” she said quietly.

By instinct alone, for thought seemed well beyond his grasp just then, he bent and bowed deeply, nodding his head to her. “Miss Carington, I am grateful I could assist you.”

The crowd roared and clapped, jolting Sterling and making his eardrums vibrate as the sound reverberated off the walls, consuming his senses.

As the applause melted, the musicians began to play, and the attention that was wholly theirs only a moment before dispersed and scattered throughout the ballroom in the form of conversation, dancing, and merriment.

Miss Carington, oddly enough, did not seem unnerved by the cheers of the assembly seconds before.

She peered up at him with her expressive eyes, then she arched the fine slash of her right eyebrow as though waiting for something.

He realized then that he was about to blunder socially again if he did not honor her in some way. “Miss Carington, it seems we are being given a third chance to meet properly”—he raised his lips and flashed a gallant smile—“which is only right, since I have recently learned that we are to be married.” Inwardly he winced, belatedly regretting his reference to the wager.

Miss Carington did not falter. She lowered her head slightly, tilting it to the side as she looked up at him through her thick lashes. “I have heard the same, Lord Blackburn. Interesting, is it not?” She rose up on her toes just a bit, then whispered in hardly a quiet tone at all, “It is my belief that the reports of our upcoming wedding are only rumors…though I could be mistaken.” She did not smile.

Though the room was close and still, the hair upon Sterling’s head seemed to spring on end as surely as if a cool breeze had whisked through. What could he offer in reply? He did not know exactly how to take her comment. Was she toying with him, as he had with her the last two times they encountered each other?

He studied her more closely, gazed at her eyes and her mouth for clues of her true meaning. But there were none. Could it be that she was delicately communicating her interest in a possible match? She was but a miss, after all, and he a Scottish marquess. It was possible she finally saw the logic in such a strategic match.

Then too, it was also conceivable that…she felt some level of fondness for him.

He glanced desperately around to see if Grant still lingered nearby. His brother always seemed to understand the secret motivations that caused women to confound men.

Sterling spied Grant with their sisters standing near a long table stocked with dozens of glasses, bowls of punch and lemonade. Bewigged and liveried footmen ladled their glasses full, and as the four Sinclairs turned in his direction, Sterling caught Grant’s notice and frantically summoned his brother to him.

He turned to prompt Miss Carington that his brother and sisters approached, but a young copper-haired miss had taken her arm and was hustling her away.

Miss Carington glanced up apologetically, but allowed herself to be drawn from him and into the chattering fold of several elderly ladies and gentlemen.

Damn it all
. He had her attention for but a clutch of minutes before losing her again.

“So, what did you say to send her running away, Sterling?” Grant asked in a low tone, just loud enough for Sterling and his sisters to hear his kidding.

“I didn’t do a thing—or say anything. I didn’t have a chance.” Sterling rose up to his full height and watched her conversing in the distance. He whirled on Grant. “I ought to flatten that straight nose of yours for shoving me into her like you did.”

Ivy giggled. “Och, don’t blame Grant. You could have remained still as a marble statue and the crowd would have seen you together regardless. You don’t realize how entertained London Society is by your wager.”

Sterling shook his head. “It is difficult to believe a bet, solid though it is”—he sought the gazes of his siblings to ensure they heard the addition of those few words—“would interest so many in the possible match of two people—especially a couple with nothing in suit but that they both hail from the outskirts of proper Society.”

Priscilla gave Siusan a covert nudge with her elbow as if prompting her to speak.

Siusan nodded and shook open her painted silk fan and spoke from behind it. “Sterling, how thick you are being. The wager has nothing to do with the money—though a grand sum it is.”

“What do you mean, Su?” Sterling angled himself so he could see behind her fan. “Most certainly it has
everything
to do with want of coin.”

“Nay,” she replied. “It has to do with
romance and love
.”

Sterling looked quizzically at her, then at his brother. “Tell her, Grant. Tell her she is the one being thick if that is what she believes.”

“Well, she is right by half,” Grant admitted. “I will give her that.”

“Have you lost your senses as well, brother?” Sterling raised his brow in surprise.

“Now, now, let me finish.” Gesturing for them all to draw closer, Grant lowered his tone. “The gentlemen from the club are interested in the coin, and certainly the sport of wagering.”

“There, I told you.” Sterling nodded firmly.

Grant raised a hand. “The ladies, their wives and daughters, from what I have heard over brandy at White’s, are the true sources of the counterwager. They, according to the members’ complaints, are solely concerned with the prospect of a love match between a handsome Scottish marquess and an ordinary miss from Leicester Square.”

Priscilla wrinkled her nose. “D-did you say Leicester Square? That’s not such a smart address in Town. Are you certain she is from a good family, Sterling?”

“She is, and you should not be so swollen with pride, Priscilla,” Ivy said through clenched teeth. “You no longer have license. Though we reside in a most fashionable square, I am sure
Miss Carington’s
home is at the very least…furnished.”

“Sterling…” Grant centered his gaze on his glass of punch and swirled the liquid around inside. “Don’t look up abruptly, but you should know that Miss Carington’s lovely brown eyes are upon you.”

Sterling raised his gaze and saw that it was true. His chest swelled, knowing she had sought him out. Perhaps this hand was still in play. “So they are.”

“Another dance set is about to begin,” Siusan advised. “As popular as Miss Carington seems to be this eve, if you wish to further your position, you will wish to approach her now.”

“I will request a dance…soon enough.”

“Nay, Sterling,
now
.” Priscilla tipped her head at a tall, auburn-haired young man, only three strides away from the Sinclairs, who was unabashedly studying Isobel. “For if you don’t lead her to the dance floor now,
that
gentleman surely will.”

Sterling knew the look in the Englishman’s eyes all too well. The man was not merely considering a dance with Miss Carington. He was appraising her, admiring her…and more.

Sterling did not wait another instant, but bolted for Miss Carington, heedless of the startled ladies and gentlemen forced to leap from his path.

He held Miss Carington firmly in his sight, but from the periphery of his vision, he caught a glimpse of the Englishman racing for her as well.

Sterling jerked his head to gauge his competition’s progress. Two other older gentlemen in tails seemed to be clearing a path for the Englishman, who smirked back at Sterling and hastened his strides toward Miss Carington.

The Englishman was going to reach her first.

Devil take him
.

Suddenly a large, round-faced woman, in a lurid cerulean turban, seemed to purposely step directly in front of the Englishman, blocking his path. She sucked in an audible breath and squeezed her eyes tightly as though girding herself for impact.

Sterling pinned Miss Carington with his gaze. He heard a shriek, and guessed what might have happened, but his focus remained only on the doe-eyed beauty before him.

He
would have this dance.

And no other.

An object in possession seldom retains the same charm it had in pursuit.

Pliny the Younger

Isobel feigned an amused laugh in response to Lady Marigold’s story, and was about to beg off from the dreary conversation to fetch a glass of punch, when she glanced up to see two gentlemen racing toward her—or rather one gentleman and a Sinclair.

Grown ladies leaped out of the way of the rogue bulls’ charge, giggling like misses just out, while men, seeming unaware, turned their shoulders into the way of Lord Blackburn.

“Lud, Issy, they are headed straight for you!” Christiana exclaimed. She grasped Isobel’s arm in her surprise, which only prevented either of them from fleeing. The matrons who had been standing with the two younger women, chirped their delight with the unexpected race and hurriedly chasséd behind them.

Isobel struggled against Christiana’s grip until she noticed that all eyes were upon her. She stilled, and in the few seconds she had remaining before the gentlemen would arrive before her, she schooled her features and donned a mask of absolute amusement.

La, she only hoped Lord Blackburn would not reach her first, but rather the other man whose features were more delicate. His appearance gave Isobel the impression that he was gentle and cultured, unlike the Sinclair brute. But her hope was not to be.

Sterling was not the least breathless, as she assumed he would certainly be after running the
ton
’s gauntlet. His pride in his victory was clear in his pale eyes, gleaming down at her like fine polished silver.

The other gentleman was at his back within an instant, still trying to make his way to her, but the ladies of the
ton
would not have it. They closed the circle around Isobel and Lord Blackburn, standing hip to silk-covered hip to prevent anyone from approaching.

Lord Blackburn raised his arm to Isobel. “Dear Miss Carington, would you do me the very great honor of dancing with me?”

Isobel gulped, and suddenly she felt as though she might begin to weep. It was ridiculous to feel this way, but, la, in all the years she had been coming to the Partridge ball, no gentleman under fifty years of age had ever asked her to dance. Ever.

She was the miss who had almost reached the altar—before her beau was sent to battle, never to return. The very young miss who, some matrons surmised wrongly, had likely made it into the handsome lieutenant’s bed, as so many misses had recklessly done before their soldiers headed off to war.

But when the months passed, and Isobel showed no sign of ripening with child, the gossip finally ended—but the damage had been done. In her father’s heart, and in the minds of the gentlemen of the
ton
, Isobel’s reputation was irreparably tarnished.

There was a certain freedom to being the miss no one would truly consider. There was no pressure to impress, and her days were full with her charitable concerns.

Still, she never stopped yearning for love. She just reconciled herself to the fact that the love of a man was something she would never have.

Isobel peered up at the Scottish lord through rapidly tearing eyes. She had imagined this, her first true dance with a suitor, many times over the years. Dreamed of this exact moment. And now, when a devastatingly handsome man actually offered his arm to take her onto the dance floor, it was the one man she abhorred—Sterling Sinclair, Marquess of Blackburn.

She glanced at Christiana, who gave her head an almost imperceptible nod, before she finally gave him her answer. “I—I would be most honored, Lord Blackburn”—Isobel gave him an embarrassed smile—“but, my lord, I fear there is no music.”

Lord Blackburn turned toward the musicians and shook an open palm to them as if in command. It was a gesture they understood, for the violinist plucked a string thrice and the musicians raised their instruments.

The Scot turned to the crowd behind him and raised his other palm as well. Ladies grabbed their husbands’ arms and dragged them forward, and within a blink of time, the floor teemed with dancers.

Lord Blackburn returned his gaze to hers and bowed. “Miss Carington, I believe you were mistaken. The next set is about to commence.”

A flush rose up from Isobel’s middle and flooded her cheeks with heat. She did not know why his command of the ballroom filled her with a sense of pride, but it did. And so she took his arm and allowed him to guide her, past her astonished father and a dozen other equally surprised gentlemen, to the very center of the dance floor.

Lord Blackburn took his place beside her without a word, but his eyes said more than a comment ever could. For the first time in her life, Isobel felt what she believed it must be like to be desired.

As the music began, his hand, warm and larger than she would have imagined a hand could be, closed over hers protectively, and they began to move across the floor.

She could not help but marvel at the grace a man as enormous as Lord Blackburn could possess. And yet he danced with a skill and ease she had rarely seen in London.

Worriedly, Isobel tore her attention from him and focused on her own dancing, not wishing to stumble or misstep when it seemed clear she was partnered with a master.

As they turned around each other, he gazed deeply into her eyes, and suddenly she could not hear the music. No longer was she aware of others dancing beside them or great numbers of ladies and gentlemen gazing upon them.

The dance floor seemed to fade and disappear as surely as if a fog off the Thames had descended, obscuring everything from her eyes…except for
him
.