Page 9

T he Munsterley ballroom was a fire hazard, Nomansland could tell at a glance.

A few hazardously placed candelabras, one careless elbow, and every peacock-feather headpiece would go up like kindling.

Even without the threat of combustion, the place seethed with more heat than the inside of a furnace.

Every person in the ton had squeezed themselves into a space designed for half their number, and the air was thick with perfume, ambition, and the static charge of gossip.

He paused in the entryway, surveying the battlefield.

The Munsterleys had gone for a Venetian theme, which translated to an abundance of gold, an overinvestment in masks, and a troop of footmen dressed in harlequin livery.

The effect was less Carnival di Venezia and more fevered debutante auction, but Nomansland supposed it didn’t really matter.

The only thing anyone would remember was who danced with whom, and who was found later rutting behind the palm fronds in the conservatory.

He’d barely arrived when Abingdon materialized at his side, moving with the swift, predatory efficiency of a man who had spent his life managing unruly crowds. He clapped Nomansland on the back. “I’d heard you were coming, but I didn’t believe it. Did someone drag you here at gunpoint?”

Nomansland grinned. “Even a man of my standing must occasionally remind society he is not, in fact, a reprobate. Munsterley sent an invitation with actual gold leaf. I’d have been remiss not to see what the fuss was about.”

Abingdon eyed him, skeptical. “You’re wearing a waistcoat that isn’t black. Have you decided to enter the Marriage Mart?”

Nomansland flicked a glance down the length of his form.

He wore midnight-blue superfine tailored within an inch of its life, a pale waistcoat shot with silver, and a white starched cravat so sharp it might draw blood if handled carelessly.

The effect was less fop and more prizefighter attempting to blend in, he thought.

His shoulders strained the coat in a way that made it clear he could snap most of the other men in the room like breadsticks.

The women, he noted, seemed to appreciate the aesthetic. He caught the gaze of at least three dowagers and a pair of young misses, all of whom attempted surreptitious glances and failed spectacularly. One had dropped her fan, which now lay abandoned on the marble floor.

Abingdon saw the same thing and snorted. “You’re a menace.”

“Says the man who once seduced an entire finishing school.”

“That’s different. I have a wife now to keep the wolves at bay. You, on the other hand, are the most eligible man in London, according to Dinah. There’s an actual betting pool on who you’ll choose. The odds on Lady Jane stood at four-to-one this morning.”

Nomansland didn’t indulge the jibe. His eyes were already hunting, and when he finally caught the flash of blonde curls across the ballroom, his breath tripped.

It was not a visible stumble—no one would ever accuse Nomansland of so transparent a tell—but the tightness in his chest was enough to make him wish he could sit down.

Chrissy.

No, Miss Westfall, he reminded himself. He couldn’t slip in front of Abingdon.

She was dancing, which was hardly unusual, but the man at her side was at least two decades older than she was.

His hair was greased to his scalp and his smile too wide, but Miss Westfall looked up at him with a polite, earnest smile that Nomansland recognized, the expression she reserved for situations in which she was utterly, irretrievably out of her depth.

Abingdon caught the direction of his gaze. “Absolutely not. Not her.”

Nomansland didn’t flinch, though the words landed like a slap. “Why not her?”

“Because,” Abingdon said, voice rough with some emotion Nomansland didn’t care to dissect, “she’s my wife’s little sister, and I’ve spent the last year keeping her out of the hands of men like—” He cut off, as if realizing the futility of the argument.

“Men like me,” Nomansland supplied. “Let me guess. You’d prefer she marry the Rutherford boy. Or perhaps Pemberton, if his liver survives the season.”

Abingdon looked as though he’d just bitten into a lemon. “Anyone but you.”

The old Nomansland would have laughed, perhaps even agreed. But he was not the old Nomansland. Or if he was, he no longer found the joke so funny. “She’s a grown woman. And she can dance with whomever she pleases.”

Abingdon gave him a long, searching look. “You’re serious. I realize Dinah asked you to be the first to dance with Chrissy at our assembly, but you realize that was to make her look more desirable to the other men.”

Nomansland shrugged. “And being seen with me will have the same effect here.”

Abingdon’s mouth twitched, as if he might say something more, but then he shook his head and straightened his cuffs. “If you so much as make her cry, I’ll have you shot.”

“I would expect nothing less.”

Abingdon clapped him on the back again—hard enough to bruise—then melted into the crowd, presumably to find his wife and warn her of the impending disaster.

Nomansland turned back to the dance floor.

Chrissy was executing a turn with unexpected grace.

She had always moved with a kind of nervous energy, but here it seemed distilled into something bright and lovely.

Her gown was white with pale green ribbons, edged with the faintest shimmer of gold, and it made her look like the morning after a storm—fresh, unspoiled, and a little bit wild.

The music ended, and the dancers clapped politely. Nomansland watched as her partner bowed and returned her to the chaperone cluster at the edge of the room, where Dinah waited beside Abingdon. Chrissy said something, and Dinah laughed, then turned a keen eye on Nomansland across the crowd.

He winked. It was not an accident.

He waited a moment, just long enough to collect a glass of punch from a passing footman and take a measured sip. The drink was abominable, but it settled his nerves.

The next dance was forming, a quadrille, judging from the formation of the dancers lining up, and he made his move, gliding through the crowd with the unhurried confidence of a man who had never once failed to get what he wanted.

He approached the Westfall ladies with a bow, his focus never wavering from Chrissy. “Will you join me?” he asked, extending his hand.

She hesitated. He saw it in the tremble of her fingers, but then she placed her gloved hand in his. Her skin was warm, even through the barrier of their gloves.

“You came,” she said, her voice low and just for him.

He smiled, letting her feel the force of it. “I told you I would.”

Her smile sent a shock of pleasure through him, and he led her toward the other dancers. They joined a set, and he placed her hand on his arm, savoring the feel of her so close.

The quadrille began. It was a merciless dance, all quick turns and calculated proximity, and he took every opportunity to draw her near. She kept up admirably, never once missing a step.

“You must tell me about Nomansland,” she said when they drew close enough to speak again. “It’s such an odd title.”

He chuckled. “My grandfather was a favorite of the Queen, and performed some magnanimous duty for her. She insisted her husband bestow a title on him. Nothing but a dukedom would do, she demanded. The King was less inclined to such generosity, but a man must please his wife, mustn’t he?

Clearly, he looked for the least noble town he could find to let Grandfather know where he ranked in the King’s eye. Thus, the dukedom of Nomansland.”

Her laugh rang out and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, but…”

“I understand. My grandfather laughed about it often.”

They parted again, and when the steps brought them close she asked, “What did your grandfather do to impress the Queen?”

Nomansland let his smile grow. He had no idea what act had taken place, but his grandfather had a reputation as a generous lover. He wiggled his eyebrows at Chrissy and let her imagination take over.

She gasped. “Oh!”

She turned away as the dance required, and when she was back at his side, she said, “He must have been very good.”

Now it was Nomansland’s turn to laugh loudly. That was the interpretation he’d hoped for.

The quadrille ended in a flurry of bows and curtsies. Nomansland lingered, unwilling to relinquish her arm. The quartet was shifting into a slower, more languorous waltz—the kind that turned every conversation on the floor into foreplay.

“Are you engaged for the next?” he asked.

“Several times over,” she replied, but her tone was mischievous. “But I suspect none of them would put up much of a fight if you insisted.”

He considered dragging her from the room, but decorum was a relentless mistress. Instead, he offered his arm and led her to the perimeter, where the air was at least a degree or two cooler.

They walked in silence for a moment. Nomansland was acutely aware of every brush of her sleeve against his, every time her shoulder grazed his bicep. She didn’t pull away, though he could see the flush still high on her cheekbones.

“You look very fine tonight,” he said.

She glanced up at him, eyes clear and searching. “You look… very yourself.”

He laughed, genuinely. “Is that good?”

“It’s dangerous,” she replied, and the honesty in her voice undid him a little.

They reached the end of the room, where a collection of statuary provided a modicum of privacy. Nomansland turned to face her, intent on saying something profound or at least memorable, but she beat him to it.

“Why did you run away last time?” she asked. The question was quiet, but the words were a dagger.

He hesitated. “Because I was afraid.”

She blinked, uncomprehending.

“I have never wanted anything I could not simply take,” he said, the confession leaving a bitter taste. “You… are different. I was not prepared.”