Page 13 of Introducing Mr. Winterbourne
It wasn’t a long drive to the Winterbourne townhouse. As soon as the carriage halted, and before Adam’s groom could alight, the door opened and Winterbourne emerged. He must have been waiting, ready.
He tripped down the steps to the street, impossibly handsome in his evening clothes, and grinned at Adam, who was watching from the carriage window.
“Good evening,” he said, eyes dancing with merriment. “I hope you have your dancing slippers on.”
Adam opened the carriage door, waving the hovering groom back to his perch.
“Despite my inability to dance,” he said, “yes, I do. So I look the part, at least.”
Winterbourne climbed in beside him and closed the door before settling himself on the seat beside Adam.
“If I could get you alone for a while, I could teach you a few steps. Enough to stumble through one dance at least.”
It occurred to Adam that if he could get Winterbourne alone for a while, he’d be able to think of far better things to do than dancing.
“I think you should consider me a lost cause,” he said instead, lips twitching. “I am one-and-thirty, far too old to learn now.”
“Nonsense! There are men far older than you who’ve taken dancing lessons, I’m sure.”
“Ah, but not from a youth like yourself, Winterbourne.”
“I am three-and-twenty!” Winterbourne protested. “Hardly a youth.”
Adam chuckled, but privately he thought that Winterbourne was right—he was a man in his very prime. Ripe for the picking, a bright shiny fruit, tempting Adam to reach for him.
If he dared.
***
WHEN THEY FIRST ARRIVEDat the ball, Lysander had no choice but to dance, firstly with Melisande and then with each member of the group of young ladies that comprised her particular friends. Once he’d performed that duty, and some more gentlemen had arrived to fill up the young ladies’ dance cards, he was able to escape further dancing obligations by pleading wretchedness over having abandoned his own guest so unforgivably.
Freeman seemed a little easier than he had during the afternoon calls. He’d fallen in with two older gentlemen, and when Lysander reached his side, they were deep in conversation about an investment that one of them had made into a tin mine in Cornwall. Nevertheless, when Freeman turned his head and saw Lysander, his sherry-brown eyes warmed with something that looked very like pleasure. It gave Lysander a heady feeling, to think that he was the cause of that look.
Shortly after Lysander arrived, the two gentlemen wandered off in search of their wives, one of them promising to write to Freeman with details of some matter they’d discussed earlier.
“Shall we get some punch?” Lysander suggested. “I’m parched.”
Freeman readily agreed, and they skirted the edge of the ballroom floor, careful to avoid the exuberant turns of one youthful set of dancers, until they reached the refreshments table. A footman stood sentry in front of an enormous silver bowl, doling out his bounty into tiny crystal cups. At Lysander’s request, he ladled some of the pinkish liquid into two cups and passed them over with an impassive look.
They strolled away, sipping the punch, which was tepid and sweet. Lysander glanced at Adam, who was wrinkling his nose.
“Not to your taste?”
“Not really. I’d rather have something stronger.”
“Well, if you can bear another hour of this, we could respectably make our apologies and go and find you something a little more to your taste.”
“That sounds—intriguing.” Amusement gleamed in Freeman’s warm gaze, and the corner of his mouth twitched. Lysander felt a betraying heat stain his cheeks and wasn’t sure why he was blushing.
He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “We could go back to MacGill’s,” he said. “They keep a good cellar.”
Freeman caught his eye and held it. “So do I.”
For a moment, Lysander just stared at him. Was Freeman inviting Lysander to his house? His stomach lurched with mingled nerves and excitement as his mind raced as to how to respond. But already he’d paused too long. Freeman’s gaze shifted away.
“I don’t mind, though,” he said. “It doesn’t really matter where we go, so long as I don’t have to dance.”
Disappointment gripped at Lysander. He was suddenly quite sure he’d missed a fumbling attempt at ... something. Something he’d regret letting pass him by.