Page 27 of How to Seduce a Viscount (Wed Within a Year #3)

L uce held her close for a country-styled quick-step variation of the waltz, revelling in the feel of her, the speed of them, her hand in his, his hand at her back.

Together, they were flying. Had he ever danced like this?

So free? ‘You’re wild!’ She laughed up at him as he took a sharp turn that brought her hips against his.

Little Albury was not Almack’s. He could risk a bit here and in this crush, who was to gainsay him?

The assembly room was full to bursting, sturdy wooden chandeliers hanging from the ceiling with its blackened beams, the floor scuffed and hardy beneath their feet, having survived centuries of such evenings.

Downstairs, refreshments had been set up and conversation flowed with the ale. But at the moment he was only interested in dancing with the woman in his arms. She was wild and reckless tonight, a living flame.

She was already drawing looks and as much as he was revelling in the fun, a sixth sense suggested that something was off.

As if this wildness of hers was too much and was a mask for something else.

She’d been quiet in the sleigh and there’d been a moment when he’d felt she’d been on the brink of a significant disclosure.

But it hadn’t come. Perhaps he’d pursue it later tonight at home.

He leaned towards her ear and whispered, ‘This might be the only dance I get with you all night. We’ll be swarmed after this.’

She gave a merry laugh. ‘That’s your fault for putting on such a show. Perhaps if we’d tripped over each other endlessly and crashed into other couples people would be less keen to dance with us.’

‘What’s the fun in that?’ Luce gave her a reckless spin. ‘If I only get one dance, I want to make the most of it.’

Her eyes went soft. ‘Me too,’ she whispered and there it was again, that sense that something was not quite right. In the next breath it was gone as she flirted. ‘It isn’t every day a girl gets to dance like a dream. I feel as if I’ve waited my whole life to dance with you.’

If happiness had a look it would have been Wren’s face in that moment. That look dispelled his worry and Luce captured it, taking a mental picture for later. Still, the dance was over far sooner than he’d have liked.

He was not far wrong in his predictions about partners. He’d no sooner led Wren from the floor then she’d been besieged with admirers, all wanting a dance. He’d had his own admirers to fend off including Clara Benton’s mother who insisted he partner her daughter.

‘Grandchildren of earls should be together,’ Mrs Benton hinted broadly, shoving her pretty, mortified daughter forward.

Luce had dance partners aplenty but none of them could compete with even the merest corner-eyed glimpse of ice-pink skirts and snowflake hair sailing past with a smile, a laugh.

Wren was effortlessly enchanting. There wasn’t a man here tonight who wouldn’t be in love with her by evening’s end. Himself included.

She brought out the sentimental in him. She’d had him babbling about stars and Stepan tonight, hunting through the estate’s jewellery for a piece to give her and rush-ordering dresses from the modiste.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t given gifts to women before, it was that the giving was more perfunctory with them.

A note sent to Rundell’s and a delivery made without him ever laying eyes or hand on the item.

These gifts to Wren were personal. Personally selected and personally delivered.

He’d been alive these past weeks in a way he’d not been since Stepan’s disappearance, or perhaps in a way he’d never been. He could not recall feeling like this. Like flying, like laughing, like simply being himself with another woman.

In London, they expected the handsome rake, charmingly sharp wit and a daring overture that affirmed his reputation.

They didn’t want the man who was committed to peace in Europe, who was determined to see the Vienna Accords hold, and pledged to independence for Greece.

Nor did they see the man who would rather spend his days restoring a medieval abbey, poring over historic texts and languages or riding the countryside.

A man who did not care if he ever set foot in London again.

But with Wren he was himself and it was more than enough.

When he was with her, he belonged . The craving to be seen and understood for himself was satisfied.

‘I said , Lord Waring, how are you enjoying the weather?’ Arabella Malmsby’s tone was petulant, her eyes scolding, when Luce brought his thoughts and gaze back to the group surrounding him on the sidelines.

He’d returned Miss Benton to her mother and had been immediately besieged for dances.

For conversation. Frankly, for anything he was willing to give even if it was distraction, silence and thoughts that had wandered too far afield.

Wren had wandered afield, too, it seemed.

For a long, unnerving moment he couldn’t find her in the crowd and when he did, he was not pleased.

‘I like the winter and I love the snow, Miss Malmsby.’ He counselled himself to patience and favoured her with a disarming smile before spreading it around the group as he made his departure.

‘Please do excuse me, ladies, there are so many people to talk with and I am sure you have young men waiting to dance with you.’

Wren was with Vicar Paterson and his ‘guests’, smiling and charming as if she had no idea they were the enemy explicitly sent to hunt her.

It was hard going navigating the perimeter of the assembly room.

He was stopped numerous times to talk and he had to be polite.

These people would be his neighbours. First impressions were everything.

He could not be rude, but Wren was moving faster than he was.

She was on the dance floor now with Mr Wilkes, the one who had stared at her for an inordinate amount of time in town.

Luce told himself not to worry. It was inevitable she’d run into the vicar’s dubious guests tonight.

Everyone was here and, as the vicar liked to point out, she and his guests had disrupted travel plans in common—something the jovial vicar assumed would bind them together on account of shared experience.

There was some comfort in knowing the vicar’s guests didn’t recognise her.

Wren had promised to be good and save her pickpocketing for tomorrow night at supper.

He was counting on the latter especially.

At last, he reached the vicar’s side. Both of the vicar’s guests were in absentia. He knew where Wilkes was—out dancing with Wren.

‘Is Mr Paterson dancing as well?’ Luce asked, scanning the dance floor and not finding him.

‘No, he went downstairs for refreshments.’ The vicar smiled. ‘Mr Wilkes and your lovely guest are out on the floor somewhere. She is delightful, Lord Waring, an exemplary young lady.’ There was a knowing twinkle in his eye that warmed and alarmed Luce.

‘She is just visiting and stranded because of the weather, Vicar.’ Luce didn’t bother to point out that if not for the snow such a visit would be completely indecent—a young woman alone at the abbey with only a single gentleman in residence and no chaperone in sight.

Thanks to the snow, and the presence of maids and Mrs Hartley, the rules could be somewhat relaxed in this instance.

Luce did another scan of the dance floor for pink skirts and came up empty. A moment of panic took him. Where was she? ‘Do you see Wilkes and Miss Audley?’ he asked casually, trying not to appear too obvious in his searching.

‘Hard to see anyone in this crush.’ The vicar offered only a cursory glance about the floor, unconcerned. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Wilkes strikes me as a very upstanding fellow.’

Too bad Luce was inclined to disagree. Still, Wren wasn’t likely to gut the fellow on the dance floor, he reminded himself. She’d be good. She’d given her word.

It was so hard to be good when it would be so easy to be bad and in this case, being bad would be good.

Mr Wilkes’ coat pocket was right there daring her to check it out as they navigated a brisk country dance.

All she needed to do was feign a stumble, fall against him long enough to feel his inner pockets and retrieve anything of interest.

Of course, his pockets might be empty. A good agent didn’t carry identification on themselves.

That was always the risk. In this instance, though, she thought it might be different.

He wouldn’t want to leave anything behind unguarded at the vicar’s.

Or there might be a weapon, something that would be entirely out of place and unnecessary at an assembly—unless one intended or anticipated trouble.

Now would be the moment as they came up on the turn.

She had him laughing and smiling. But she’d promised Luce to wait.

And yet, Luce hadn’t counted on such a plum opportunity.

Wasn’t it an agent’s job to adapt, to be flexible as circumstances evolved?

How many times had she gone into a situation with one plan and accomplished her goals with another because things evolved?

Surely, Luce would understand. No doubt, he’d done the same many times as well.

Wren deliberately missed a step and fell hard against Wilkes, her hands clutching first at the lapels of his jacket, pressing her hand against the fabric where the inner pocket was located before dropping down to make a quick pass of his waistcoat pocket as well.

The pockets gave nothing away but she had caught a glimpse of a shoulder holster beneath his coat, discreet enough to accommodate a gentleman’s small gun like the relatively new Philadelphia Derringer.