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Not to mention the pile of money tied to her pretty stays...

Lady Crewe must have noted his interest because she hastened to pull her charge to her side and beamed at Nicholas. “Lord Clarendel, may I introduce my beloved niece, The Honorable Miss Amelia Sunderland?”

The object of his admiration’s wide chestnut eyes swept over his face, her pink lips curving into a polite smile. Too soon, her gaze fell, and she bent her knees in a genteel bob.

“Well met, Miss Sunderland.” Nicholas gave a shallow bow. “I wonder if you still have a dance free this evening? Only I saw you just now, and I cannot think when I’ve had a chance to accompany such a splendid partner.”

Miss Sunderland glanced at her chaperone, a short flicker of something passing through her eyes before she graced him with a pleasant smile.

“Of course, Lord Clarendel.” She lifted her gloved hand to reveal her dance card tied around her wrist. Nicholas could think of more interesting things to tie around such a delicate wrist. Silk, perhaps. Or if she’d been a very bad girl, perhaps rope...

He took the diminutive booklet and its matching pencil, glancing over its nearly full lines. He let his arm graze hers as he wrote his initials beside two dances—though not in the same set. Still, it was a clear message. He hoped she wouldn’t prove utterly insipid in the first. He found hope in a slight tilt of her head, a subtle quirk of her brow, and the barest twitch at the corner of her lips as she spoke: “If I am to dance again so soon, I must find some refreshment.” She turned, her hand lifting to her chest, her fingers lightly toying with the pearl in the hollow at the base of her throat. “Perhaps you might accompany me, my lord?”

“Of course, Miss Sunderland.” He offered her his arm. “The tearoom will likely be a melee, but we will weather the storm.” He didn’t want to talk about the refreshments, the wine, or the weather. Though if she kept playing with her pearls, he might forget himself altogether. “Lady Crewe, would you care to—”

“Oh, dear, no.” The chaperone waved them on. “No, you two fetch me a cup. I must wait here for my Portia to free herself from Mr. Ruxton. He’s likely trying to provide her with a lecture on Italian waistcoats, poor thing.”

Because, of course, what trouble could he get up to with her charge between here and the tearoom? Sadly, very little.

Nicholas guided Amelia Sunderland toward the tearoom like a dutiful squire. “I apologize if my manners are somewhat rusty, Miss Sunderland. I’ve spent most of the last year well out of society. And entirely out of England for several years before that.”

“There’s nothing rusty about your manners, Lord Clarendel. But I’m a poor judge. I’ve barely experienced Society myself.” She looked up at him, her touch on his arm more firm with each step away from Lady Crewe. “Perhaps it is fair to remind you that two dances will have a few tongues wagging. I don’t particularly mind. But since you’ve been gone so long...” She trailed off, her smile now more a smirk.

“I saw other names in your book twice. And I didn’t claim two in the same set, so they’ll wag with speculation, not intent. It’s for their own good. The Ton would all perish of boredom with nothing to waggle about.” He glanced sidelong at her as they skirted the edge of the ballroom.

“Your reasoning ignores one important difference between you and the others.” She lifted her other hand, letting the booklet swing.

“And what is that?”

“They aren’t half so handsome. That alone will make me the subject of envy.”

He chuckled. “Handsome doesn’t count half so much as titles, I hear.”

“You seem to have one of those, too.”

“Ah, yes, but only that of Viscount, my dear Miss Sunderland.”

“To think your would-be bride must suffer a fate so awful as to be only a Viscountess. And an officer’s wife, as well.” She clicked her tongue, her eyes rising to meet his, playful and bright. That caught him by surprise.

“Not a very great officer, either. I’m only a major, and the war’s practically over. Truly, I’ve spun a dark fate for my entire household.” He caught hold of her, drawing her shapely form aside as a tipsy couple darted too close, fleeing the crush of the tearoom as he and Miss Sunderland entered. “But one you will never have to fear. I hear your father shall not settle for less than an earl as a son-in-law.”

She stiffened, and her cheeks darkened. “There aren’t many of those looking for a wife.”

“Oh, give the Regent enough wine and returning heroes, he’ll forge a few more.” Nicholas said it carelessly but wondered if it was true. Heroism had raised Wellington and one or two other generals. But the chances were closing fast if the war was about to end. And not just for promotions and glory. But there was always a war somewhere, he reminded himself. “I confess, I’m glad to know the rumors have somewhat exaggerated your sire’s ambitions.”

“And I am glad to have alleviated your concerns,” she replied.

Nicholas wondered at her candidness. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected of The Honorable Miss Sunderland. Most women either pretended to be wilting wallflowers or overly agreeable fools. She was proving to be neither. He kept to her side as she managed to obtain a drink for herself and her aunt, and they returned to Lady Crewe’s side, speaking of nothing important until the next set began.

****

At last, he escorted her onto the dance floor, finding a place in the formations which allowed for more than one or two brushes of their hands and his palm against her waist in the excitement of too many people and too little space. When they finally stood facing one another in the lines, her cheeks were bright, and his smile widened. Making Miss Sunderland blush would be a diverting game. If he were callous enough to claim her.

There are worse fates than marrying a shapely virgin with a pretty blush and a giant dowry. But was she the kind to welcome the sort of man he was, or would she balk at the starting line?

The dance moved swiftly, a lively rush of silks and muslins, turns and bows, and swirling perfumes of the noble participants. He’d chosen the song, knowing the figures and spins would afford little conversation but excellent study of his partner’s graceful form and movements. Amelia Sunderland was an able dancer and not terribly flirtatious as the set swept them both through other partners. He did not restrict himself on that score—a new-minted viscount had to be seen flirting with all the available noblewomen. But his gaze kept flicking back to Miss Sunderland, establishing her whereabouts in each temporary grouping until they reunited.

A few moments before the song ended, he remarked, “You are a beautiful dancer, Miss Sunderland. I wish I could take up a third turn at your side without causing your aunt a nervous collapse.”