Once a Wallflower, At Last His Love (Scandalous Seasons #6)(11)

She groaned, grateful for the total lack of people around to hear the unladylike expression of annoyance.

They started across the room.

Bloody wonderful.





C





hapter 4

Sebastian made it a point to avoid marriage-minded misses. Following his ponderings that evening in his office, he knew at his age, it was of course inevitable that he’d have to do right by the Mallen line and secure a duchess. He would when he found the one wholly unimpressed by the title of duke. So as of now, he had little interest in a wife.

Which was perhaps why at that precise moment, his gaze wandered off to the forgotten edge of the ballroom floor. And why he happened to see her.

From over the rim of his champagne glass, he studied the young woman and her silly, blindingly bright yellow skirts. With dark brown, very nearly black, hair pulled back in a severe chignon, and rather nondescript features, there was nothing about her that would immediately pull at a man’s attention. But then with the small pencil attached to the dance card on her wrist, she jotted something upon that card.

He sipped champagne and across the heads of dancers performing the steps of a quadrille, he continued to study her. Even seated, he detected the way the fabric of her gown clung to her slim, willowy frame. Sebastian made to turn away when she suddenly looked up. Her narrow shoulders stiffened and she passed her gaze throughout the room, as though feeling his stare upon her person.

Sebastian blamed it on boredom, the tedium of attending mundane amusements night after night, but the young woman’s furtive movements intrigued him. And he’d not been intrigued since Miss Sophie Winters; the young woman he’d courted who had opted to wed his closest friend, Christopher, Earl of Waxham. Even if the courtship had only begun as a ruse, it had become something more and—The dark-haired stranger across the room caught her lower lip between her teeth, seeming lost in thought. Her eyes widened and she hastily grabbed her pencil.

With her dark hair and slender frame she didn’t possess any of the soft, golden beauty he preferred in women. Something about her commanded his notice, demanded his attention, if for no other reason than to understand the intense glint in her eyes and whatever the hell it was she marked down on that card.

Then her eyes collided with his. Any other young lady would have dropped her stare demurely to her lap, yanked her gaze elsewhere. The ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. The bold as you please wallflower at the back, central portion of the room returned his stare, moved it over him, almost methodical in her perusal. She then proceeded to mark something else upon her card. She returned her eyes once more to his. He stared back, expecting her to glance away. Only, she tipped her chin up a notch and shamelessly held his gaze.

“Mallen, never tell me you’re woolgathering in your advancing years.”

He started. Droplets of champagne spilled over the rim of his glass. His close friend, the Earl of Waxham, grinned. “Waxham,” he drawled, hardly needing Waxham to point out that he was getting on in years. Most especially not on this day. He looked about, resisting the urge to shift his focus back to the note-taking wallflower. “And wherever is the lovely Countess of Waxham?”

“Otherwise occupied by your sister,” he said, inclining his head.

Sebastian searched about and located the two young women at the corner of the room, enrapt in their conversation. They periodically glanced his way, gestured, and whispered. He narrowed his gaze. This was never a good thing; to be the object of scrutiny for two scheming women. “And I gather you have no idea what has them so enrapt this evening?”

Waxham’s lips turned up in one corner in a lazy grin. He tugged at his cravat. A dull flush climbed his neck. “No idea.”

Sebastian snorted. He could easily recognize a lie. Particularly from the man he’d considered a friend since Eton and Oxford. But for the tension between them when they’d vied for the now Countess of Waxham’s hand, the two had been fast friends since early on. He glanced out across the floor in time to detect Miss-Note-Taking-Miss scratch another something upon her card. “Who is that?” he asked quietly.

Waxham looked about. “Who is who?” He furrowed his brow.

The duke gestured discreetly across the ballroom to the young woman now tapping a distracted rhythm upon the floor, a discordant beat to the lively reel played by Lady Denley’s orchestra.

His friend scanned the ballroom. “Lady Tisdale?”

Lady Tisdale, the notorious widow in her dampened gold, satin skirts. “Not the Lady Tisdale.” He jerked his chin once toward the young woman in her silly ruffled, yellow skirts.

His friend caught his chin between his thumb and forefinger and rubbed. “Er…Lady Alcott?”

Sebastian closed his eyes a moment and counted to five for patience. “Not the Lady Alcott. That woman,” he said impatiently.

“Mallen, there are any number of women present. You’ll need to be a bit more specific.”

“The young lady in the yellow dress.”

Waxham swept his gaze over the area, at last settling on the lithe stranger. He again wrinkled his brow. “I’ve no idea.”

“Humph.” How could no one have an idea as to the lady’s identity? Surely someone knew her. Or of her. At the very least a name.

A dawning understanding glinted in his friend’s hazel eyes. “Ahh,” he said with the same deliberate slowness as one who’d uncovered the tombs of Egypt.