To Tempt an Earl (6 page)

Bethanny followed his retreat for a moment
before Carlotta touched her shoulder. Sure enough, the music had
started, and the mass of humanity had begun to part to make room
for the dance floor. At the sweet strains of the music, Bethanny
grinned. How she loved to dance. She wasn't particularly graceful,
not like her sister, Beatrix, who almost floated whenever they
practiced, but she loved the joy dancing provoked. With music as a
background, life seemed almost like a fairytale, hinting that
perhaps anything could happen.

And with that thought, her wandering gaze
searched for her heart's desire. But before she could find him, she
noticed the approach of her guardian. He was a handsome man, a kind
and generous sort, and Bethanny was proud to take her first dance
with him.

He gently grasped her hand and led her to the
middle of the room. She felt every eye following her movements. Was
Lord Graham watching? Before she could finish the thought, the duke
grinned playfully, and they began to dance. The minuet didn't leave
much time for talk, for which she was thankful. Her heart was
hammering as the full implications of what was taking place finally
settled in her mind. She was officially
available.

Though her heart was already stolen. Rather,
given away.

Other couples lined up and joined the dance,
easing her tension. The duke offered a reassuring smile, his eyes
kind and proud.

She smiled back, thankful to have the first
dance with him.

No doubt she'd dance with countless partners
this night, but nothing would compare with what she had experienced
only a few minutes ago on a deserted balcony with a certain
lord.

And now that she knew what kind of bliss
could be experienced at the hand of one's heart's desire, she'd not
settle for anything less.

Was he in the ballroom now?

Had he figured out who she was?

Bethanny tried to stomp out the anxiety in
her belly at the question. Surely it wouldn't make a difference.
True, he was one and thirty and therefore a bit older than she, but
that hardly mattered.

It wasn't unheard of for a debutant to marry
a lord who was old enough to be her father, grandfather even.

However, Bethanny was quite comforted to know
that she wouldn't be in a position to marry out of necessity; for
wealth or title. She might only be the daughter of a deceased
baron, but her guardian was the Duke of Clairmont. And her parents
had been wealthy and wise, putting measures in place so that she
and her sisters now shared in that wealth.

Which was why the duke and duchess had
constantly reminded her before her debut of the need to use caution
and discernment. A beautiful heiress was a powerful draw, and there
were a few unsavory characters who would not hesitate to ruin a
lady in efforts to secure her fortune.

Shivering at the unwelcome thought, Bethanny
glanced to the duke, who was grinning at her as they met and
spun.

When the dance was finished, she scarcely had
a moment to catch her breath before her next partner came to escort
her back to the dance floor.

With a delighted smile, the duke bowed
slightly and returned to his wife.

And once again, her gaze strayed to the many
faces at the edge of the ballroom, searching for Lord Graham.

"Graham!" the Duke of Clairmont called none
too quietly, causing the people around Graham to halt their
conversations and glance up. He was striding toward him, his
expression annoyed and impatient.

Join the club,
Graham thought. He had
been back in the bloody ballroom for ten minutes, and the vixen who
had stolen his attention on the deserted balcony was nowhere.

It was as if she'd vanished, but he knew that
she had to be
somewhere
. It was simply too damn crowded, and
it didn't help that when he had encountered her, it had been in the
moonlight, not the bright glow of the ballroom. He shook his head
as his instincts told him that the higher illumination would only
reveal a deeper, more radiant beauty that the moonlight ever
could.

"I say, old chap, what's got you in a dither?
It's quite the crush! Your little ward will be a success, I'm
sure." Graham nodded, making eye contact before once again
searching the sea of faces.

"Why am I in such a dither? Your sister and I
have been searching for you. Between you and Bethanny…" The duke
shook his head. "I thought you said you'd watch out for her! How
then do you plan on watching out for Bethanny if you are not bloody
present?" Clairmont bit out, his expression irritated.

"I was here earlier, but, if you'll excuse
me, I'd had quite the evening and needed a moment to myself,"
Graham replied testily.

"That seems to be the common excuse tonight,"
Clairmont grumbled.

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Why was your evening so bloody
miserable?"

Graham exhaled, his shoulders slumping
slightly before he straightened them once more. "One of my estates,
the one in Oxfordshire, had a terrible fire. I just received word
on the damages to both the building and those inside. Thankfully,
no one was killed, but a few are suffering from minor
injuries."

"Oh, sorry to hear that." Clairmont's
expression softened considerably. "Was the manor a total loss, or
were they able to contain it?"

"The fire destroyed the kitchens and a few
other rooms, but it will be fixed without too much trouble."

"I see."

"That's enough of the melancholy. Tell me,
how is your lovely wife? I'm sure the two of you are quite pleased
with the turnout tonight. I think I even saw Lord Neville."

"Indeed. Didn't I tell you that Bethanny
would be a success?"

"Yes… yet I'm not sensing that you're
pleased." Graham's brow furrowed.

"Must we truly have this conversation again?"
Clairmont asked in a lament.

"No, I'm only nearly recovering from out last
conversation."

Clairmont raised an irritated eyebrow and
gazed back over the crowd. "I'd like to introduce you to Bethanny
in a moment. Will you meet us in the far alcove after this set?"
Clairmont asked, his gaze turning back to Graham.

"I'd be delighted. However, I'm concerned
about your memory… I do believe I've had the pleasure of meeting
Miss Lamont before."

Again he remembered the mousy-brown-haired,
slight-framed young girl. For her sake — and the duke's — he hoped
she'd grown into herself, at least somewhat.

"You're interest in my welfare is
appreciated," Clairmont replied dryly. "However, I doubt you'd
recognize her. She…" The duke raised his hand as if trying to pluck
the correct word from thin air.

"She's changed?" Graham offered.

"You might say that." Clairmont furrowed his
brow as if not fully convinced.

"Grown?"

"In a way…"

"Bloody hell, what in creation
did
she
do, then? Sprout a second arm? Grow wings? You're no more help than
my sister, and for me to compare you to Lady Southridge, I—"

"That is the second time you've
insulted—"

"Because it's the second time I thought it!
Just introduce the chit — pardon — young lady to me, if you please.
I promise not to be intimidated by her third leg."

Clairmont shook his head then paused, tilting
it slightly. "Exquisite."

"Pardon?" Graham leaned forward, completely
confused. He glanced to the side then behind himself.

"Bethanny simply became… exquisite. That was
the word I was searching for. You'll see for yourself in a few
moments. Now, if you'll excuse me, I see your sister and promised
her that she'd be in attendance when you two were reintroduced. I
can't bloody well figure out why she'd care. Regardless." The duke
turned and walked away.

Graham's mind whirled at his friend's
comment. Why would his sister take such an interest in wanting to
be there? It didn't make sense. But, knowing his sister, for
something to make sense wasn't usually a requirement. Rather, he
had learned to expect the completely senseless.

Already slightly irritated at his sister, he
turned to head toward the alcove. As he walked along the edge of
the ballroom, his eyes continued to scan the crowd for her face,
wishing he had a name to go with it. His gaze drifted past the
dancers, only to snap back to a beauty with the most beautiful,
rich, coffee-colored hair. From this angle, he could only see the
slight rise of the apple of her cheek and the slender line of her
neck as it curved gracefully down the body of a goddess.

It had to be her.

In the moonlight, he wasn't able to determine
what color her dress truly was, but he assumed it was slightly
darker than the pale pastels usually worn by debutants. It had been
one of the reasons he hadn't thought her an innocent. But as he
watched the graceful flow of the rose-colored gown, he realized
that it had to be the same woman. The cut was similar, though that
could be said of many of the women of attendance. However, her
shape…

That was most assuredly, not common.

At that moment, she spun, her eyes sparkling
with delight as an enchanting grin lit up her exquisite
features.

Exquisite. It seemed the perfect word. He'd
have to thank the duke later for providing such a great adjective;
too bad it was meant for another.

But Graham was sure that there was no one in
the room who could compare with this beauty, his mysterious miss of
the duke's balcony. He had been correct; the moonlight didn't do
her features justice. Graham turned fully toward the dance floor,
his gaze hardly blinking as he watched the young lady dance with a
sense of abandonment. She was glorious, and her lack of grace was
an endearing addiction to the mystery. A simple flaw that
surprisingly made her even more perfect. It was apparent she was
enjoying herself, and Graham felt the first flame of jealousy
ignite in his chest, choking him. Never the possessive sort, Graham
was shocked when he found himself narrowing his eyes at the lady's
partner. He recognized him as Viscount Dwell. Affable fellow.
Graham might even call him a friend, but in that moment he was
anything but. Amusement broke through his jealous emotion as he
momentarily wondered what would happen if he stormed out onto the
ballroom floor and pulled his mysterious miss into a scandalous
kiss.

He'd never do it.

But it was a delightful thought.

However, it would be prudent to find out some
information first… like her name.

The set ended, and Graham cleared his throat
and headed to the alcove, hoping to get the blasted introduction
over and done with as soon as possible so that he could find his
mysterious miss.

Clairmont was already waiting for him, as was
his sister.

"Graham, I'm quite disappointed in your
tardiness. To think, of all the events you choose to be quite
unfashionably late to attend, you choose Bethanny's debut!" Lady
Southridge scolded.

"There were… extenuating circumstances."

"Your bloody castle is burnt… not
burning,
" she clipped.

"I only just learned… how did you know?"
Graham's irritation at his sister evaporated into suspicion.

Rather than answer, she simply shook her head
as if saying,
Must we discuss this again?

Which, in all honestly, was the truth. The
blasted woman was practically clairvoyant for all the information
she seemed to uncover.

Or she simply had very-well-paid
servants.

"Ah! Here she is!" Lady Southridge's face
transformed from irritation to absolute rapture as Graham could
only assume the
exquisite
Miss Lamont made her way toward
them. He cast a final irritated glace to his sister before turning
around.

And his heart stopped.

Then stuttered.

Of course, that he'd stopped breathing at the
same time didn't help matters.

In fact, he was quite certain that he was
having an out-of-body experience as he seemed to watch himself as
the whole catastrophic scene unfolded.

No. No, no, no.

Bloody hell. The duke is going to kill
me.

And if he did, that would be a kindness,
because Graham was quite sure the only other option was burning
alive with desire.

The exquisite Bethanny Lamont was none other
than his mysterious miss from the duke's balcony.

The very young lady he was supposed to
protect… from men like him. And, even though he wasn't aware of who
she was, he had already compromised her to an extent, and in doing
that, confirmed every single one of the duke's fears.

The very fears he'd been enlisted to help
prevent from coming true.

This was a bloody massacre, and he had no
idea what to do. As the edges of the ballroom began to grow fuzzy,
the duke thumped him on the back.

"Are you well, Graham?" the duke asked, his
tone concerned.