Page 41 of Saving Miss Pratt
Less pleasant memories flooded Priscilla’s mind. The compromise with the duke and the scandal that followed. Her knees grew weak from the memory. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be proper.”
His demeanor shifted, and he appeared almost deferential. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to imply I expected you to join me somewhere private. Your virtue is safe with me.”
The words, so similar to the ones he’d spoken at Mr. Thatcher’s cottage, did little to put her at ease. Truth be told, it was not his intentions that concerned her, but her own desire to run her fingers through his hair and feel his arms around her.
He gently grasped her elbow. “I shall escort you back to your father. Would you like a glass of ratafia? Or I could see if there is any lemonade, if that is to your liking.”
“Lemonade would be lovely,” she croaked the words, her throat thick with emotion more than parched from dryness.
After depositing her back at her father’s side, he strode toward the refreshment table.
“Is something wrong?” her father asked. “You seem upset. Should I have a word with that young man?”
“No!” She blurted the answer much too rapidly, and her father lifted a brow. She took a deep breath and composed herself. “Everything is fine. I became a bit overheated on the dance floor. He’s going to fetch me something to drink.”
Even though the mask hid his face, she imagined the dubious look that her father was no doubt sending. “I should have arranged for a chaperone to accompany us.”
Lovingly, she patted his arm. “You are a fine chaperone. However, I know you, and if there’s been word of gentlemen withdrawing to the card room, I would be perfectly safe without you. I promise not to do anything that would cause you embarrassment.”
Placing his hand on top of hers, he squeezed. “I have no doubt, my dear. It’s clear you’ve paid the price of your mother’s machinations long enough.”
Priscilla’s attention traveled to the refreshment table where her dance partner waited in line. “Father, any idea who the young man is?”
“Hmm? The one who danced with you?” His gaze followed hers, settling on the man she presumed to be Timothy. “Red hair. Could be one of the Weatherbys.” He returned his attention to her. “Why? Are you certain nothing untoward happened between the two of you?”
“On the dance floor? Really, Father.”
“It would surprise you how many assignations people have made between the moves of a country dance.”
His statement did, in fact, surprise her. There was so much she didn’t know about her father. She considered interrogating him later, but for the moment, her only concern was the man approaching with a glass of lemonade in his hand.
* * *
People pausedin conversation as Timothy threaded his way through the crowd to return to the alluring blonde with sparkling blue eyes. He’d noticed them as soon as he’d asked her to dance.
Clear as a sunny day in June, they’d studied him with an intensity that sent his blood surging. The nagging sense of familiarity took further root in his mind. Yet he couldn’t place her.
After mustering out of the military, he’d spent less than a year back in London before going to Edinburgh and less than three months since he’d returned. Since then, he’d spent the majority of time at the clinic and the remainder paying calls on Lady Honoria Bell.
No matter how he searched his memory, he couldn’t recall meeting anyone in London fitting his dance partner’s description.
She graced him with a smile as he handed her the tart drink. “Thank you.” She sipped daintily, barely touching the liquid to her lips.
His eyes instinctively dipped to her mouth. When her tongue darted out and licked the drops of moisture away, he felt the urgent need to adjust his trousers.
“If you will both excuse me, I think I’ll adjourn to the card room.”
Timothy’s head jerked up at the man’s words. He’d completely forgotten her father had been standing right next to her. His brain fumbled for a respectable response, but before he could form one, the man turned and left them alone.
“He’s left you unchaperoned?” Timothy couldn’t believe his luck.
“I would hardly call being in the room with at least a hundred people unchaperoned, sir. And I might remind you I’ve already rejected your suggestion to go to a more private room.”
“Ah, but I didn’t say ‘private.’ I said, ‘less crowded.’ For example, we could take a turn in the hallway. Somewhere quieter, with more room to breathe.”
Before his lovely dance partner could answer, a petite redhead, who was most definitely not his sister and too bold to be Lady Honoria, touched his arm. “I believe this is our set, sir.”
Drat.He’d almost forgotten the woman who accosted him the moment he’d entered the ballroom. “Ah, so it is.” He turned an apologetic smile toward his former partner and bowed, holding her gaze. “If you would excuse me.”