Page 11 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

“Just now. He’s at the top of the set.” Pollock nodded toward the dance floor.

“Ian is dancing? You must be joking. He hates to dance. Though I suppose he’ll do what he must to secure Lady Sophie.”

“Haven’t you heard?” one of the others remarked. “Lady Sophie’s very ill, and no one knows when she’ll leave the sickroom.”

“You must be mistaken,” Jordan said. “I heard she’d left town briefly last week, but St. Clair told me yesterday she was back. He planned to call on the family today.”

“She may be back, but she’s not out and about. St. Clair is dancing with her cousin. For the second time, I should add.”

“Deuce take it.” So Lady Sophie wasn’t even here, and he needn’t have come after all. Well, he’d stay just long enough to torment Ian for missing his shot at Nesfield’s girl, then leave for his club.

It took only half a minute to pick his friend out of the throng of dancers, for Ian was hard to miss. Unlike the blond, fair, and short Pollock, Ian had coffee-hued skin and stood easily a head above most other men. Among the fair geldings of English society, he was a dark horse.

As for his dance partner … Well, well. Ian always managed to snag the pretty ones, didn’t he?

Jordan couldn’t make out her face from where he stood, but her hair was the rich, dark gold of late sunset, and the figure a randy young man’s dream, even draped in pure white satin.

Of course, he wasn’t young or randy, not for these sweet darlings.

He preferred women in scarlet … or black bombazine.

Good God, where had that come from? That was the second time he’d thought of Emily tonight. Matchmaking was polluting the spring air, that’s all. It was bound to affect him a little.

The dance ended, and Jordan threaded his way through the crowd toward Ian, casting a warning look at the one bold matron who approached him with simpering daughter in tow. She stopped in her tracks, thank God. Smart woman.

He should never have come. All these harpies would get the wrong idea about his attendance at a marriage mart and descend on him en masse. After talking to Ian, he’d have to beat a hasty retreat.

The closer he got to the couple, the more interested he became in the woman on Ian’s arm.

For a girl at her coming out, she was much too graceful.

No awkwardness in the way she walked, no hint of uncertainty in her manner.

Her back was to him, and a very shapely back it was, too—not to mention the exceedingly attractive derriere.

And there was all that glorious hair, swept up into a chignon and studded with pearls above her long, elegant neck.

He could swear he’d seen that neck before, and all that hair, too. But that was absurd, of course. He’d never even heard of Lady Sophie’s cousin, much less seen her attractions before tonight.

Then the couple stopped at the edge of the dance floor, and the woman turned toward her companion, putting her face in profile.

Devil take it. He had seen her before! The profile was achingly familiar. Last time it had been muted by moonlight and covered by a mask, but he could swear it was the same face … the same delicate nose and modest smile.

No, it couldn’t be. How could she be in London at a ball, dressed in expensive white satin and pearls? He was imagining things. This woman merely shared some of Emily’s features. And he couldn’t be sure about the face, after all. He’d seen it for only a few moments in the darkness.

Still, this woman had the same height and figure, the same way of ducking her head when she smiled and that same swanlike bend in her neck.

She even had the same color of hair, though it was dressed more extravagantly.

His heart thudded loudly, and he quickened his steps.

It couldn’t be her. But it was. He couldn’t be mistaken.

What on earth was she doing here? “Emily?” he said hoarsely as he reached them. “Emily, is it really you?”

The woman faced him, a startled expression on her face. Recognition flashed in those emerald eyes before it disappeared completely, replaced by a cold look of censure. “I beg your pardon, sir. Do I know you?”

Jordan couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d hit him in the face with her reticule.

“My God, Jordan,” Ian cut in. “At least wait until I introduce you before you call the lady by her Christian name.” He looked from Jordan to the woman, both of whom were staring at each other. “You two don’t know each other, do you?”

“We do,” Jordan asserted at the same time she said hotly, “Certainly not.”

Jordan gaped at her. How could she pretend not to recognize him?

Ian said with distinct amusement in his voice, “Since there seems to be some confusion on the matter, I’d better perform the introductions.

Lady Emma, may I present Jordan Willis, the Earl of Blackmore.

Jordan, this is Lady Emma Campbell, the Earl of Dundee’s daughter and Lord Nesfield’s niece.

” In an aside to the woman, he added, “Don’t let his rudeness give you the wrong impression.

When he puts his mind to it, he can charm the moon out of the sky. ”

Ian’s humor was lost on Jordan, especially when the mention of his full name and title didn’t produce a reaction with her. Who the devil was Lady Emma? It had to be a mistake. This wasn’t the Earl of Dundee’s daughter; this was Emily Fairchild, the rector’s daughter. He was sure of it.

But it had been dark that night in the carriage, and he had seen her face only briefly in the moonlight. Could he be wrong?

Either way, he couldn’t just stand here gawking at her. He gave a sketchy bow, then said, “I’m sorry, Lady Emma, for accosting you so boldly.” He forced a contrition he didn’t feel into his voice. “My only excuse is that I mistook you for someone else. Please forgive my error.”

The woman arched her eyebrows in wary disapproval.

“Someone else? Pray tell me who this Emily woman is.” Her tone grew coy.

“Don’t disappoint me, Lord Blackmore, or I swear I’ll never forgive you.

Please tell me she’s an exotic princess from the South Seas.

Or even an opera singer. I’ll be insulted if it’s anyone less interesting. ”

It was Emily’s voice, Emily’s lips … Emily’s blond hair. But not Emily’s manner. And yet … “Then I’m doomed to remain unforgiven. She’s a rector’s daughter.” He added, very deliberately, “Her name is Emily Fairchild.”

He watched for any reaction and fancied he saw a faint tinge of a blush spread over her cheeks.

If so, it was quickly gone, for she smiled archly and said in a haughty voice, “A rector’s daughter? Indeed, you are doomed. I could never countenance being mistaken for a common rector’s daughter. Oh, no, I can’t forgive you after all.”

Ian was watching Jordan with narrowed eyes, but Jordan paid no attention whatsoever to his friend. “Then I must make amends. May I have this dance, Lady Emma? I can think of no other way to atone for my horrible error.”

Her smile slipped. Good, he’d flustered her.

But she recovered her composure with amazing speed. Tucking her hand in the crook of Ian’s elbow, she said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lord Blackmore. I promised the next waltz to Lord St. Clair, and they’re playing the waltz now.”

For the love of God, she was refusing to dance with him. The brazen chit! What had happened to her? He flashed Ian a quelling glance. “You don’t mind crying off, do you, old friend?”

With a chuckle, Ian quickly disentangled himself from the woman. “I absolve you of your commitment, Lady Emma. Even another dance in your delightful company can’t compare to watching my friend dance the waltz at a marriage mart for probably the first time in his life.”

A look of outrage spread over her face as Jordan held out his hand. She glowered at Ian, then Jordan. “But we have barely been introduced! You can’t do this! It’s not at all proper!”

Emily had protested his lack of propriety that night in the carriage, too.

Jordan smiled, feeling more sure of himself now.

He ignored her protest and cupped his hand about the slender waist that felt so painfully familiar.

Surely he’d held this waist before and seen those same tender lips quiver as they were doing now.

Taking her small hand, he placed it on his shoulder and repeated the words he’d said that night, in a voice meant only for her ears, “As if I care about propriety.”

If she remembered, she showed no sign. “Oh, but I care,” she spat, “especially when a rude man attempts to forgo it.”

He tightened his hold on her when she tried to wriggle out of his embrace. “Sorry, my dear, but this rude man shall have his waltz, and you will follow along. Everyone’s watching, and if you refuse me, your name will be on every gossip’s tongue tomorrow.”

Her name would be on every gossip’s tongue regardless.

Already he could feel the hush that had fallen on the crowd the moment he’d taken her in his arms. Ian wasn’t the only person keenly interested in observing the Earl of Blackmore break his own rules about dancing with innocents.

It had been this very effect Ian had been hoping for with Sophie.

And with any luck it would prod Emily into telling him the truth.

He could tell when she became aware of the eyes on them. Her hand in his trembled, though her shoulders remained stubbornly set.

“I see we understand each other,” he said smoothly.

He just had time to see her pretty eyes narrow in mutinous resentment before the music began and he whirled her off into the waltz. Casting her a grim, triumphant smile, he tugged her almost indecently close.

When her response was to step forcefully on his foot in the next turn, he had to laugh. If she thought she could brazen this out with him, she was mad. One way or another, he would find out what was going on. And no amount of petty attacks and dissembling on her part would prevent it.