“No.”
She blinked as he turned his head and looked down at her. Between them, hidden by her skirts, he closed his hand around hers. “If you entertain any notion that I’m here because I enjoy doing the pretty by dozens of matrons and their insipid charges, allow me to disabuse you of it.” He held her gaze. “Once again, I came for you.”
She stiffened. Her head rose. “If you imagine—”
“At the moment, I don’t imagine anything. I came to inform you of a number of facts that, no doubt, will be of interest to you.”
She hesitated. He’d spoken in his customary social drawl, a tone he suspected she would find less threatening. Less f
rightening, especially in this arena. The social accents also made his comments less noticeable amidst the chatter around them.
Her gaze searched his face. “What facts?”
“I’m focusing on identifying the two men in the lane—the ones you handed the maid over to. My memory is excellent—I only caught a glimpse, but I’m confident that will prove enough. You should also probably know that I’m not at all averse to adopting a disguise and going out on the streets in search of information.”
He caught and held her gaze. “I’ve already established that those men are not part of your aunt’s household. The question that immediately arises, of course, is where it was that you, a gently reared lady, came into contact with rough men of significantly lower station.”
Her violet-blue gaze held steady. A moment passed, then she swallowed and said, with commendable coolness if not sense, “Nothing about those two men is any concern of yours.”
“Much as it pains me to contradict a lady, that isn’t how I view the matter.” He let his gaze harden. “Do I need to remind you that I didn’t expose your role in the incident at Cranbrook Manor?”
Her chin rose. “No. But—”
“Because of that”—he continued to speak mildly—“I naturally consider myself in some part responsible for your safety, given I didn’t sound the alarm when—or so most would consider—I should have.”
Her eyes widened. She stared at him. Then she stated clearly, as if the notion horrified her, “You are not in any way responsible for me—or my safety. If the question should ever arise, I absolve you entirely from all such responsibility, now and in the future.”
He smiled, but she was well aware the gesture didn’t reach his eyes. “How kind of you. However, be that as it may, I can’t absolve myself.” Abruptly he dropped every shield he possessed and told her, “That’s never going to happen.”
The unvarnished truth.
She didn’t take it well. Her chin firmed; she drew in a breath.
The musicans set bows to strings.
He glanced in their direction. “How useful. You will waltz with me, won’t you?”
A rhetorical question; he already had hold of her hand.
Was already leading her to the floor. Phoebe bit her tongue and went with him. This was not a good idea, but she needed to learn—
He swung her into his arms and her thoughts shattered, scattered, fled. He whirled her down the room, and once again she was reduced to battling sensation, trying to subdue the effect he had on her nerves, on her unruly senses. On her wits; they seemed to deflect—defect—to considering him and his fascinating maleness rather than obeying her will.
To focusing instead on savoring the power with which he danced, the exhilaration she found in matching his long stride, in whirling across the floor in his arms.
It was worse, more difficult, than the last time they’d waltzed. Her nerves seemed to have grown more sensitized and the dance floor was crowded; he could and was holding her closer than propriety allowed—but who was there to see?
Who was there to rescue her witless senses from his grasp?
He looked down at her and arched one dark brow. “I don’t suppose you’d like to explain where you met those two men?”
She bludgeoned her wits into order, reminded herself that when it came to him there was only one word she need remember. “No.”
Stick to her plan—deny everything, volunteer nothing; that was all she could do, all she could hope to do.
That, and pray he didn’t…she couldn’t even bring herself to think the words. Let alone imagine how she might react.
That, of it all, was the most frightening prospect.