Page 28 of Court a Lady with Care (A Gentleman’s Guide to Courtship #5)
Chapter Twenty-Eight
I n the span of two hours Rowan had been ignored, sneered at, and every inch of him inspected for fault. He’d known the ton would not welcome a sailor’s son, a man of business, with open arms. He’d been right. In the almost fortnight since the garden party, he’d been branded an interloper, and many did their best to remind him of that.
But for every cut direct, there was a dance, and for every sneer, a smile, so if others judged him, Isabella admired him. He’d not known Isabella’s love would be protection enough against the ton’s barbs, but he should have. He’d been wrong to fear, wrong to push her away, and God he hoped she could forgive him.
“Trent.” An elbow met Rowan’s ribs as Lord Helston hissed in his ear. “What are you doing hiding in the shadows, man? That’s no way to court a lady!”
“Lord Helston, I—”
“Thurston.” The viscount clapped him on the back. “You’re to be family, after all. Only people I don’t like call me Helston.” The viscount—Thurston— shivered.
“I’ll do my best.”
“You’ll do your best to stop being a wallflower. If you don’t return to Isabella’s side soon, the coffee cavalry will come for you, and—”
“Pardon? Coffee… what? Who?”
“Cavalry. Keep up, man. The duke and his friends. They meet to brood over coffee every week. And they travel in a pack when in public, and they give horrid advice about acquiring the lady of your choice. Best to avoid them altogether.”
“They haven’t steered me wrong so far.”
“Then why have you joined the wallflowers?”
Because he still hated this. The best bright spot of any outing was the woman he could only dance twice with. Twice . What a random and meaningless number. “Don’t you itch to dance with Lady Imogen more than twice?”
“No.”
Of course not. He should have remembered. The man was marrying Isabella’s twin for convenience, not love.
“No.” Thurston drew the word out long, as if doing so helped him whir a thought into motion. “Because the anticipation is half the fun. I cannot have her in my arms all night, so the times I do hold her are all the sweeter.”
Rowan stared at him. “Are you in love with Lady Imogen?”
Thurston blinked, then blushed, then laughed. “‘Course not. Everyone knows that. Now go .” He ducked behind Rowan and shoved, hard, sending him staggering into a woman with a towering turban.
“Apologies,” he said, righting the hat. “Apologies.”
She swatted him away, her face gnarled into a glare.
“Right.” Rowan bowed. “Apologies.” And he pushed through the crowd. Where was she? What if he simply… took a third dance, broke a rule, and sneered at all of them? The sky would not fall. But Isabella might be hurt.
Hell.
Double hell. Because the duke was heading his way, cutting a quick line through the crowd, then wrapping an arm around Rowan’s shoulders as he guided him toward the back of the ballroom.
“You’re hiding,” the duke said.
“Apparently not well enough. ”
“If you possess serious intentions regarding my sister—”
“I do.”
“Then be bold. Not overly bold, of course. Nothing outside in the garden behind some damned large shrubbery, do you understand? Nothing in an isolated library or cloak room. Nothing—”
“Bound to cause a scandal. Yes, Your Grace, I understand perfectly.” And he must act perfectly to show her he meant what he’d said—he’d fit into her world for her sake even if it killed him.
“Excellent. Has she invited you to the wedding yet?”
Lady Imogen’s wedding was in two days, and the duke had given Isabella the task of inviting Rowan. If she so pleased.
“No.” Rowan tugged at his cravat. Too tight, the skin hot as sin beneath. “Not yet.”
“Then acquire another dance and convince her to do so. I’m of the opinion—though I’ve learned better than to express such opinions—that a suitor can find success if he keeps his intended lady’s mind on matrimony. Issy is coming out of a minuet now. Go.” He shoved Rowan toward a smiling Isabella. A beautiful Isabella, pearls threaded through her golden curls, her cheeks happy pink, and some sort of shimmery ivory satin draped lovingly across her curves. Her partner seemed enraptured by her, as he should, and Rowan wanted to gouge the man’s eyes out. He’d met the fellow twice in the last fortnight, and he’d always ignored Rowan as he flirted with Isabella. The arse flirted now, leaning much too low over Isabella and ogling her chest.
Rowan stepped to her side and cleared his throat. Loud. Which was better than what he wanted to do—step between them and kick the other man across the room.
“Mr. Trent!” Isabella beamed. “There you are.”
“Were you looking for me?” God, he hoped so. He’d promised her a kiss. He ached to give it to her. But proper courtship, crowded as it was into public places, offered few opportunities. And he was waiting. For her to come to him first. Then he’d know he’d pleased her, shown her he could give her everything she needed. He’d also know she truly wanted him and all the social storms being married to him would bring.
“I was. Lord Viksby was telling me about crossing the English Channel, and I thought you might be able to add to the conversation. Having been on many boats before.”
Viksby snorted.
“Pardon?” Isabella said. “Are you ill, my lord?”
“No.” He shuffled from foot to foot. “It is only… It is of no importance, my lady.”
“I’m sure it was not.” Such a haughty little thing. A snap in the final word, her nose tossing up in the air.
“It is only that his travels cannot compare to my own.” Viksby blurted the words out in a rush. “From what I’ve heard, he was working .”
“I was,” Rowan said. He’d never pretend otherwise. “And you are correct, my lord. Your experiences and mine are not at all comparable.” There. Nothing rude. Quite agreeable except, perhaps, for the tone. More like a whip than strictly necessary.
“It was a lovely dance, my lord,” Isabella said, “but I am parched, and Mr. Trent agreed to help me find a glass of champagne.”
“I can help you.” Viksby actually whined.
“No need.” Rowan snagged a glass of bubbling liquid from a passing waiter. “I’ve already got one.” He handed it to Isabella.
She took a generous drink, then tilted it toward Viksby. “Thank you, my lord, for the dance, but I am occupied for the next set.”
With Rowan. A third dance. A breach of etiquette. Rowan inhaled slowly and forcefully unclenched his jaw.
Viksby seemed to concede, backing away from them, his narrowed gaze glued to Rowan, a clear message there—Rowan was poaching on a better man’s land.
To hell with him.
Isabella’s hand slipped into his, and she tugged him away from the dance floor. She knew they could not dance. She likely thought he didn’t know. With a low warning growl to Viksby he couldn’t quite control, Rowan finally ripped away from the man’s suddenly startled gaze to follow Isabella wherever she led. Which was through the doors and outside onto a balcony rich with cool night air, the sky above scattered with diamond stars.
“We can’t. Your brother is likely watching.” Everyone was watching .
She slipped into the shadows to the far side of the doors and leaned back against the brick wall with a heavy sigh. “You were never so well-behaved before.”
He did not want to be now.
She reached for him, and with a whisper, said, “Come.” If her cheeks had been happy pink before, now they blushed the pink of a body waiting to be touched. He could just see that tempting shade in the splash of light from the candle-brilliant windows.
He did, pressing her against the wall. Not touching but for the fingers he weaved with hers. He folded them both in darkness and rested his forehead against the cold brick above her head, breathing warmth into the sliver of space between them.
Her breath hitched as she squeezed his hand. “How many events have you been to since Imogen’s engagement party?”
“As many as you have been to.”
“Mm. You know, I can tell when you’re irritated. Like with Viksby. Your hand makes a fist so tight I’m afraid your gloves will split along the seams.”
He shook his fist out, loosening his fingers. “I’m fine. Not irritated at all.”
She lifted a hand between them and outlined the edge of his lapel, drawing a crooked line from shoulder buttons. “And your eyes go cold.”
“Only warm with you, a chuisle .”
“And”—she drew the pad of her thumb down the line of his jaw—“your jaw twitches. Such a hard jaw then only produces hard words.”
“I can be soft.”
“You are tired of pretending, and you pretend for me. I wonder… how far you will go.”
“As far as I must.” He needed to touch her, to hold more of her than merely her hand.
Another sigh as she stirred, bowed her head, and rested her cheek against his chest, mumbling, “So far you regret it one day? So far you regret… me?”
Control snapped in two like a twig beneath a carriage wheel. He lifted her chin with his hand and bowed his head until their lips almost touched .
An almost kiss hot with promise. She held quite still, not even breathing.
“Never.” But would she regret him, regret the worry over his discomfort at every single event? He must prove to her. Proving came before the kiss. He stepped away, dragging his unwilling arms away from her to fold them behind his back. “Shall we return inside?”
She stepped into the pool of light from the open ballroom doors, her face upturned as she studied him for one long moment.
“Is there something you wish to say?” he asked. The invitation.
“No. Not yet.”
When she returned to the milling throng where she belonged so much more than he did, Rowan followed. Because he always would. Unless she came to her senses and sent him away.