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She smiled at him, the expression shy but more genuine than any he’d yet seen in this company. The urge to reach across the table and take her hand was almost overwhelming, but he contented himself with brushing his thumb over the rim of his glass and drinking in the sight of her.

The main course was next, roast beef carved at the table, with Yorkshire pudding puffed to golden heights, and a side of spring peas.

Abingdon picked up his fork. “I think what my wife means, Chrissy, is that there is no one on the list who will wish you ill. At least not openly, and not unless you dance better than Lady Arabella. Then, you may expect daggers and poisoned bon mots .”

“Dancing,” Miss Westfall said faintly. “I must practice, Dinah. I’m sure I’ve forgotten everything.”

“Nonsense. You spent as much time with the tutor as I did last year.” Dinah sipped her drink, then added, “If you appear to have difficulty at any point, we’ll let Nomansland cut in. He’s rather skilled, I’m told. He’ll make you look graceful.”

Nomansland inclined his head, matching her slyness with an even gaze. “I flatter myself that I am competent, at least.”

“And who, precisely, is expected to partner me for the opening set?” Miss Westfall tried to sound nonchalant, but the anxiety in her voice betrayed her.

Dinah’s lips twitched. “Why, the most eligible man in London, of course. You will be led out by Nomansland himself. I would settle for nothing less.”

Miss Westfall’s flush returned, brighter this time. She lowered her gaze, but not before Nomansland caught the quick, shy glance she shot his way, as if she were afraid to look too long at the sun.

The meal wound to a close with a procession of puddings, syllabub, trifle, and something with candied violets that Dinah insisted was all the rage in Vienna.

Nomansland watched as Miss Westfall poked at the desserts, sampling but never quite finishing a portion.

Her nerves hadn’t abated, and as the servants cleared the plates and left them to their port and candied fruits, he resolved to speak to her privately before the night was through.

For now, he contented himself with watching her.

Every slight movement, a tug at her sleeve, a dart of her eyes toward Dinah, spoke of the tremulous excitement and dread that coiled within her.

She was about to be cast into the churning sea of London society, and Nomansland realized, with a quiet start, that he wished nothing more than to be her anchor.

He would be her anchor. Even if it meant following her into the very heart of the storm.

Nomansland’s attention drifted to Miss Westfall’s lips as she worried the rim of her glass with her thumb. He imagined the taste of port there, the faint sweetness of dessert on her tongue. His hand, wrapped around the bowl of his own glass, tightened as if by reflex.

“Lady Arabella is the one with the laugh,” she said quietly, seeking his confirmation.

“The one that could wake the dead.” He was rewarded with a small, delighted snort of laughter.

“You mustn’t listen to a word she says,” Dinah said. “Lady Arabella is both a menace and a marvel, and she will test your forbearance in ways you cannot imagine.”

“I like her already,” Miss Westfall declared, her voice gaining strength. “It must be thrilling, being a menace.”

Nomansland watched the line of her jaw as she spoke. “Careful. I have it on good authority that you yourself can be quite dangerous when sufficiently provoked.”

She looked at him then, full on, and for a heartbeat, he saw something in her expression that was not innocence but challenge. “Have you ever seen me provoked?”

He smiled. “Not yet. But I rather look forward to it.”

The tension between them was palpable, a current running under the surface of the table like a live wire. Dinah shot a sideways glance at Abingdon, who merely raised an eyebrow and poured himself more port.

“Honestly,” Dinah said, “the two of you flirt like schoolchildren behind the hedgerow. I expect to find you pulling her braids next.”

Nomansland was not ashamed. “It is a time-honored tradition, is it not, to torment the lady one admires most?”

“And how many braids have you pulled in your time, Your Grace?” Dinah retorted.

“I was always more inclined to… other forms of mischief.” As he spoke, he let his eyes drift over Miss Westfall’s hands, then upward to the fine arch of her brow.

For a moment, silence pooled at the table. The only sound was the low click of a servant refilling glasses. Miss Westfall was the first to break it, with a small, breathy laugh. “You’re all mad,” she said, but her eyes sparkled with a reckless delight.

Nomansland wanted to do something mad, himself. Wanted to drag her from the table, press her against the wall in the corridor, and kiss her until her hair tumbled loose and her cheeks burned. He wondered, almost idly, what she would taste like. Honey and port and trembling anticipation, probably.

Instead, he sat back and regarded her with a hunger he made no effort to disguise. “You have a lovely laugh, Miss Westfall.”

That got her. She went beet-red from the roots of her hair to the hollow of her throat, and he was overcome by an urge so vivid he felt it in the tips of his fingers. He forced himself to remain still, to savor the moment.

“Thank you,” she said, barely audible.

Abingdon cleared his throat. “You will not dally with my wife’s sister.”

Nomansland sobered. There was the crux of it. Miss Westfall was not his to enjoy at any time.

The air in the room grew tense. Dinah rose and beckoned to her sister. “Come, let us plot your domination of the ton and leave the men to their cigars.”

Miss Westfall slid from her chair with a sudden, graceless haste, nearly knocking her knee against the table as she did so. As she turned to go, her eyes darted to Nomansland and lingered there, luminous with confusion and something else.

He watched her go, every muscle taut. He felt as if he’d just gone ten rounds in the ring, all from a single evening’s conversation.

Abingdon chuckled. “You have the look of a man about to do something exceedingly foolish.”

“I suspect you’re right,” Nomansland replied, his gaze still fixed on the doorway where Miss Westfall had disappeared. He finished his port in one swallow, savoring the heat that lingered long after the glass was empty.

Let the men of the ton come. He would gladly fight them all, bare-knuckled, for the right to see her blush again.