The Earl I Adore (4 page)

Evan gritted his teeth even as he smiled, willing the girl to agree to his ruse. God's teeth, but he'd do anything to escape the clutches of that blasted Miss Harmon. She was about as subtle as a stampeding bull when it came to her interest in him, and he'd be damned if he would be wrangled into dancing with her after she had just subtly insulted both his sister and his friend in the space of a single sentence.

Of course, if he had given two seconds of thought to his choice of coconspirators, he would have never dragged poor Miss Wembley into it. She looked exactly like a
startled mouse who'd been caught in the corner by a hungry cat. “Erm,” she said, something akin to panic swimming in her wide, dark-brown eyes. Her gaze dropped to his hand, considering it as one might a loaded pistol.

His conscience pinged, but it was too late to withdraw the offer. If she wished to correct him, then so be it, but he was committed to the ruse until then. It probably would have been better just to have given the Harmon chit the cut directly when he had the chance, no matter how distasteful such an action would have been.

Plunging ahead, he lowered his brows in a look of contrition. “You must forgive me for losing track of time,” he said, his voice sincerely apologetic. Her eyes darted up to meet his, and he locked gazes with her, trying to convince her that he was not setting her up in some sort of trick. “I must have gotten carried away with my conversation with Miss Harmon, but I would never miss our dance, I assure you.”

For two interminable seconds, she didn't move or say a word. Then, finally, she slipped her small hand into his. “Yes, course.
Of
course,” she corrected, then blushed and looked away.

“Why, Miss Wembley,” Miss Harmon said, her voice holding a flat note of disingenuousness. “How
lovely
to see you.” Turning back to Evan, she added, “Do mind your toes, my lord. Sadly, Miss Wembley's excellent sense of rhythm when she plays her oboe doesn't always translate to the dance floor.”

Evan stiffened. Christ, he hadn't expected her to lash out at the girl. “You must be thinking of someone else. I can assure you, Miss Wembley is an accomplished dancer.” His words were sharp as he sent her a cutting glance. Dismissing her without another word, he turned to his innocent accomplice. “Shall we?”

She darted a shocked glance from Miss Harmon's direction before meeting his eyes once more. This time, a hint of a smile curled her lips as she drew a breath and nodded.

It didn't matter that the music had not yet even started for the next set, or that his sister had been waylaid by Dering and was nodding as he gestured at her dance card. Offering his partner a subtle wink, Evan grasped her hand more tightly and pulled her toward the very center of the dance floor. After what she'd done for him, he was keen to make this the best dance he could.

“It's all right, my lord. You needn't dance with me to prove a point.”

He ignored her softly spoken words and tugged her into the waltzing position as the conductor tapped his baton to signal the start. “You're absolutely right,” he said, holding her firmly in place, one arm at her back and the other at her elbow. “What a relief to be able to dance with you for the pure pleasure of it.”

Her mouth dropped open half an inch or so as she drew another swift breath. But then the music started, and he swooped into motion, swinging her along across the rapidly filling dance floor. Here he felt comfortable. He was an excellent dancer, and was at ease moving in time to the music. His partners' skills never much mattered; he had a way of leading them that never failed to lend grace to even the most awkward of dancers.

But, much to his surprise, Miss Wembley wasn't awkward. Not in the least. Once the dance was really under way, her eyes lost that anxious gleam and instead reflected true pleasure in their coffee-colored depths. She moved beautifully, in fact, and he couldn't help but return the genuine smile that graced her lips at last.

“Thank you,” he said, leaning a bit closer. He caught a hint of her light scent, a sort of lemony rose fragrance. “You are an absolute gem.”

“Am I?” One raven brow lifted with a hint of playfulness. “And here I thought I was a means to an end.”

T
here now—that was a completely normal and intelligent response. Sophie relaxed a little more. She could almost feel her wits returning, albeit slower than she'd like. It was pure heaven, dancing in his arms. She was giddy and light-headed and happier than she'd been in days.

They'd danced only once before, last season during the Harlestons' annual ball. She hadn't been able to say a word to him that time, so tonight she was already heaps better off than she'd been back then.

“A brilliant means to an end,” he replied, his pale blue eyes daring her to deny it. “Not only did I escape the dragon, I gained a wonderful dance partner. I only regret that you were a little singed in the exchange.”

She pressed her lips together against the giddy laughter that threatened to escape.
Dragon?
Oh heavens, she couldn't wait to share that with May and Charity. “No harm done,” she assured him.

They swept along among the other couples for a few measures, moving quite well with each other. Perhaps she really could do this. Perhaps she could actually be a
normal human being around him, and show him that she could be fun and exciting and graceful and—

Sophie's body suddenly jerked as her foot caught in the fabric of her skirts. She gave a little squeak of alarm, knowing in a flash what was about to happen. One second she was floating in Evan's arms, and the next she was stumbling backward like an overloaded packhorse on ice, tangling with the man of her dreams as he vainly tried to stop the inevitable.

It was too late. Arms flailing, Sophie tumbled to the floor, hitting the unforgiving wood surface square on her bottom. The impact knocked the air from her lungs, eliciting a squawk not unlike that of a dying goose. Her legs flew up in the air as she fell backward, and before she knew it, she was looking up at the gigantic chandelier above her, tears of pain and mortification blurring the candlelight into one big fiery ball.

The music abruptly ceased, and the soft swoosh of several hundred heads turning to gawk was immediately followed by the low roar of excited whispers, snaking out in all directions at the speed of wildfire.

Dear Lord, this can't be happening!
But the throbbing of both her backside and her right ankle told her all too clearly that the embarrassment was real. She could have died, right there on the scuffed floor of the Assembly Rooms Ballroom.

The blurry form of Lord Evansleigh appeared in her teary gaze as he dropped to his knee beside her and grasped her hand. “Miss Wembley, are you injured?”

Her nightmare was complete. She shook her head, unable to actually speak. If she so much as opened her mouth, she was sure she'd either embarrass herself further or burst into tears. Actually, one was not necessarily exclusive of the other.

May emerged out of the crowd, her normally golden complexion pale with concern. “Oh, Sophie, you poor thing. Here, let us help you up.”

Yes, good—a plan. May could help her up, walk her outside, and accompany her to the banks of the Thames, where Sophie could happily toss herself in. She nodded, her movements feeling jerky, and May grabbed one elbow while the earl supported the other. Together they lifted, and Sophie was halfway off the floor when she put weight on her own feet. Sharp, burning agony shot through her right ankle, and she cried out, eliciting gasps from those around them.

Evan's jaw clenched and he quickly lowered her back down. “What is it? Your leg? Ankle? Knee?”

Oh good Lord, was he actually enumerating her body parts in public? Her face flamed even hotter, if it were possible. Unable to bring herself to answer the question, she settled for simply nodding.

May shared a concerned glance with the earl. “We must get her away from here,” she said, her voice low but insistent. Sophie nodded again, this time more urgently. Yes, away from this disaster of an evening. The sooner, the better. She gritted her teeth against the pulsing pain that radiated from her ankle. All she really wanted was to be hied away to somewhere private where she could have a proper breakdown, but at this point she'd settle for just being off the dance floor.

“Agreed,” Evan said curtly. Without so much as a word of warning, he hooked an arm beneath her skirts at her knees, and used his other to support her back. With one smooth motion, he lifted her from the floor and straightened to his full height. “Beg pardon, please. Coming through.”

Closing her eyes, Sophie leaned her head against his shoulder. Yes, she was fully aware that closing one's eyes did not make one invisible, but it did save her from having to see the expressions of those around them. It was best not to know exactly what they were all thinking.

It also had the unexpected benefit of heightening her sensitivity to him. She could feel the bulge of his biceps and the taut muscles of his chest. The scent of his shaving soap teased her nose, a fragrance that was musky and crisp and put her in mind of a winter forest.

“My
dear
Miss Wembley, whatever has happened to you?”

Sophie's eyes popped open as Evan slowed to a stop only feet from the Ballroom exit. Marianne stood directly in his way, her perfect features arranged in a perfectly correct mask of concern. A complete fiction, of course. Her delight at Sophie's distress was plain as day in her glittering gaze. People surrounded them on all sides, no doubt keenly interested to know the answer to Marianne's question.

“An injured ankle, I fear,” Evan responded. “If you'll be so kind as to step aside so we may pass.”

“Yes, of course,” she said, though she made no move to comply. “Poor Miss Wembley. You do try so hard. What a shame that gracefulness always seems to elude you.” She spoke with a sort of loud whisper that somehow seemed to carry twice as effectively as a raised voice might have. With a patently false sympathetic smile, she glided out of their way. There was more than one person smirking behind her.

The dreadful, spiteful, hateful, awful, self-important she-devil. Mercifully, Evan started forward again, not bothering to waste his breath responding to such drivel.
At least that's what Sophie hoped he was thinking. He may very well have been silently agreeing with Marianne, but was simply too tactful to verbalize his agreement.

As they strode through the doorway, the orchestra finally began to play again and she closed her eyes in relief. Well, if nothing else, this evening was good for something: Sophie now knew for a fact that it wasn't possible to die of embarrassment. If it were, she'd be well on her way to the pearly gates by now.

Now that it was less crowded, May made her way around them and gestured to the small bench outside the ladies' retiring room. “Here, I think this should do. It will allow you to elevate your feet.”

As easily as he might have set down a feather-filled pillow, Evan lowered Sophie to the seat. Even through the all-consuming fog of humiliation, she mourned the loss of his warmth and scent as he straightened.

That was
not
how she'd pictured her first time wrapped in a man's arms. Or being swept off her feet, for that matter. Although, technically speaking, she'd swept
herself
off her feet, so perhaps there was still hope for calling it a first when a man actually did the honors.

“I cannot apologize enough, Miss Wembley,” Evan said, tucking a lock of hair that had fallen forward over his forehead behind his ears. Between his hair, bunched waistcoat, and crushed cravat, he looked quite a bit the worse for wear, thanks to her. “Can I send for a doctor?”

The handful of people around them all openly stared, their curious gazes bouncing back and forth between them. They needn't fear. Sophie was confident that they
and everyone else in the city would know every detail of her disgrace by the end of the night.

Honestly, though, it was just an annoyance. The only person she really cared about knowing had been right there for the entire debacle. Fresh heat singed her cheeks. No doubt she'd be first in his mind when he thought of graceful, elegant women who might serve as future candidates for Countess of Evansleigh.

Doing her best to ignore the throbbing in her foot, Sophie shook her head. “No, please. I'd rather go rest at home.” She glanced helplessly toward May, imploring her to do something to help her escape.

Thankfully, her friend took the hint. “If you're safe and sound for the moment, I'll just go find your mother.” She turned and pushed her way toward the Tea Room, where Mama had been headed the last time they had seen her.

Normally her mother was the consummate chaperone—entirely too nosy to let Sophie out of her sight for long. But with both their hopes pinned on Sophie's making a match, Mama must have decided it was best for her to be scarce this evening. She hadn't said as much, but Sophie suspected she was hoping prospective gentlemen would be more free with their affections without a chaperone hovering about.

Sophie absolutely dreaded her mother's reaction, but it was definitely preferable to having the earl stuck there minding her. Already awkwardness had settled over them. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat of the bench, wishing fervently that she could do something about the pain hammering away in her foot.

“Evan, there you are.” A pretty young woman slipped between a pair of spectators, her brow furrowed in
concern. “Dear me, are you quite all right? I tried to reach you in the Ballroom, but the gawkers were thick as bread pudding—impossible to wade through.”

The woman went straight to the earl's side and laid a hand on the sleeve of his jacket. Sophie sat up straighter, indignation overriding any pain. Not that she had a right to be indignant, but still. Where had this woman come from?

She didn't look familiar in the least. After two Seasons with an overzealous matchmaking mama, Sophie would have sworn she was aware of any female in the
ton
whom her mother might construe as competition for her daughters.

With her striking greenish brown eyes and clearly superior taste in fashion—or at least excellent taste in choosing a modiste with good fashion sense—the interloper would certainly qualify as a threat.

Her threat level increased dramatically when the earl placed his hand over hers and gave it a reassuring pat. “I'm fine. Miss Wembley wasn't so fortunate, I'm afraid.” He glanced back toward Sophie. “Speaking of whom, Julia, please allow me to present—”

“Oh, my goodness, Sophie!” Mama's cry cut off the rest of the introduction, much to Sophie's consternation. Just what she needed—
more
attention being drawn to them. “A thousand thanks, my lord. Miss Bradford told me how you rescued my dear daughter. However could we repay you?”

He offered a polite smile and shook his head. “Consider it amends for not preventing the mishap in the first place. Shall I order your carriage to be brought round?”

“Oh, no, we haven't one. If you could be so good as to have a hackney hailed, we would be most grateful.”

Evan glanced down, catching Sophie's gaze. Lacking the funds for a carriage was one thing she refused to feel embarrassed about. He gave her a wink so subtle that she almost doubted it happened at all. Turning his attention back to her mother, he said, “I won't hear of it, Mrs. Wembley. I'll have my carriage brought 'round posthaste and instruct my driver to take you home.”

Obvious pleasure lit Mama's face, but she demurred. “Oh no, my lord, we couldn't possibly.”

“You haven't a choice, I'm afraid.” He tugged on the hem of his jacket, straightening out the wrinkles he'd sustained. “I proved a terrible dance partner, but I am quite determined to be a proper gentleman. Besides, what good is my carriage to me while I am here? Better to use it than leave my driver twiddling his thumbs for the whole of the evening.”

If he was aiming to impress her mother, he succeeded handsomely. Her eyes shining with delight, she pressed her hands to her generous bosom. “You are much too kind, my lord.”

It was a good thing that Mama had the wits to thank him, because Sophie couldn't have spoken if she'd wanted to. He was ordering his own carriage to deliver her home? Despite what he claimed, the fall was entirely her own fault, and they both knew it. The fact that he was willing to show such kindness—well, it certainly did give one hope.

Emerging from the ashes of mortification, the butterflies slowly fluttered back to life. If absolutely nothing else could be said for the evening, at least Lord Evansleigh was unlikely to forget her anytime soon.

*   *   *

“Of all the years I pictured you in the ballrooms of London, not once did I imagine you dropping your partner on her arse.”

“Language,” Evan admonished his sister sternly. Sighing, he leaned back into the plush gray velvet squabs, which seemed to hold the lingering scent of lemon and roses. “And she tripped on her skirts somehow.” It had happened hours ago, but he still felt terrible about the debacle on the dance floor. He sincerely hoped she hadn't broken anything. He didn't think she had, but he couldn't be sure.

“Oh sure, blame the injured party,” she said, her teeth flashing white in the carriage's dim interior.

Impertinent female. How was it that she actually seemed more invigorated than when they had left the house? He, on the other hand, was thoroughly exhausted from a night spent trying to keep watch over her like an anxious old woman. At this point, he was in no mood for teasing. “I can assign no blame to Miss Wembley. You, on the other hand, have some explaining to do.”

“I? What have I done?”

As though she didn't know. Scowling, he said, “It is one thing to enjoy a dance. It is quite another to flirt and laugh with the abandon of a fresh-from-the-schoolroom debutante. Or worse, a widow.”

She drew back, her eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon? What exactly are you implying?”

He clenched his jaw. He wasn't handling this well. Still, his point was valid, and he had every right to make it. It was his duty, really. “Julia, you are a shiny new plaything to those members of the
ton
who were present this evening. They will be eager to observe you, evaluate you,
judge
you. I want you to have a care as to how you present yourself.”