“You have a soft spot for the shade of any lady’s eyes.”
“True enough. She’s pretty.”
“A lot of girls are pretty. There must be more to it.”
He didn’t know how to explain it. “I find her intriguing.”
“Because she didn’t find you so?” King studied him. “You’re accustomed to women falling over themselves to gain your favor. I didn’t see her waving her fan around to convey secret messages.”
She’d looked through him as though he hardly counted. Perhaps that was part of it. He wanted to impress upon her that he did count, very much indeed.
For the entirety of her life, Regina had been whispered about behind her back. It shouldn’t bother her so much that the whispers were in earnest this evening, and creating such a low, thrumming din they were nearly impossible to ignore, even if she couldn’t make out the exact words being uttered. She knew it was unusual for the illegitimate daughter of a lord to have a coming-out. But her father had never treated her with disgust for being born on the wrong side of the blanket. How often had he told her: You were a creation of love, not duty?
Even if duty and his other family had kept him away for long periods of time. He’d provided this residence for her and her mother. And a governess to care for her when her mother performed. And clothes, a pony, and tutors. And now this ball where she should feel like a princess, but instead felt more like the ugly stepsister. Because no matter what he gave her, it was always tainted with the knowledge her mother hadn’t been good enough to wed. And by association neither was she. Not without a substantial dowry.
She knew it all to be true because the gentlemen who had danced with her thus far had made it abundantly clear. They’d taken her on a turn about the dance floor because it was expected. A gentleman didn’t ask for a lady’s hand in marriage without swirling her at least once around the ballroom. She had learned from her mother how to hold her head up high, how not to let it show that all the tiny cuts were a death delivered by a thousand knives. Ah, yes, Mother had been an incredible actress on the stage, but it was her performance in life that should have earned her the greatest acclaim. However, so few saw it because she was hidden away from Society except for the moments when she stepped into a theater.
While Regina didn’t doubt her father’s affection for her, she’d never been inside his London residence where he resided with his family, had never been introduced to her siblings or his wife. Had never been welcomed at his country estate. He might not be ashamed of her but neither did she feel fully embraced. She was grateful for all he’d given her, all he’d provided. Yet, still there seemed to be a chasm, something missing, that had begun to yawn all the wider since her mother passed two years before.
She’d hoped this affair tonight would begin to fill it. Instead, it only made her miss Mum more, especially as her current dance partner didn’t speak at all, didn’t even bother to meet her gaze but stared off into the distance. Having noticed him chatting with others, she knew he was capable of speech. But not with her apparently. He was cold and irascible. She wondered if she should make him aware that her father would not accept any offer of marriage without her approval. She certainly wasn’t going to commend someone so taciturn, who looked as though he feared his face might crack if he so much as smiled.
Unlike Fourth Waltz who was waiting for her when this polka finally came to an end. His smile wasn’t large and bold, but was smaller, almost gentle, the one she’d seen a groomsman use when striving to calm a skittish mare. He also locked his blue gaze on her dark one, making it impossible to look away. The man didn’t wait for her current partner to lead her off the dance floor but met them partway and smoothly transferred her hand from the arm of the gentleman beside her to his own. “I have her now, Wallop.”
Mr. Wallop, the second son of a viscount, gave her a curt bow before marching away.
“Hope he didn’t talk your ear off,” the Earl of Knightly said, a bit of teasing and knowledge in his tone. She wondered if he’d been watching, knew precisely how many words Mr. Wallop had uttered, or knew the man by reputation and his not speaking while dancing was a common occurrence.
“No, they are still both quite intact.”
“And so very lovely.”
Disappointment washed over her because he was going to strive to charm her with false flattery. She knew of worse ways to go. She’d just experienced one. The light strains from the orchestra began to fill the air.
“Shall we?” he asked, and she quite suddenly found herself swept onto the dance floor in a manner more graceful than any she’d experienced all night.
Oh, he was good. Accomplished. He had to have spent hours perfecting his steps. He made her feel as though her feet had been lifted from the floor and she waltzed upon clouds. “So are your coffers nearly empty or completely empty?”
The small smile playing over lips that promised the sort of kisses she’d read about in romantic novels didn’t waver, but his brow did pleat slightly. “My coffers are full.”
“Then why did you ask me for a waltz?”
“I’m not quite sure. Perhaps it was the brown of your eyes. Or the fair shade of your hair. The alabaster smoothness of your skin. The fullness of your bottom lip that begs for a man to cushion his mouth there. Or maybe you had the look about you of a woman who was in dire need of rescue.”
That was a little too close to how she’d felt, standing there with her father, smiling, greeting people who without him at her side would snub her. “Fancy yourself St. George do you, slaying dragons?”
“Oh, Arthur Pendragon, surely.” He winked. “Arthur is my given name, although no one refers to me as such, of course. Why did you assume I was in need of funds?”
“Because you’re titled. I’ve danced with second sons and seventh sons and every number in between. But no firstborn, no heir. You’re the only one thus far. Therefore, I’m striving to determine what you seek to gain.”
“Nothing more than a few minutes with a beautiful woman.”
She laughed. “Oh, you are a silver-tongued devil, aren’t you?”
His smile grew. “You’ve wounded me to the core. You may have to take a walk about the garden with me to help heal the bruises you inflicted.”
“You are a flirt, sir.”
“I’ve told you nothing that wasn’t true. Have you met anyone tonight to whom you’ve taken a fancy?”
“Good Lord, no. I’m not even looking.” She probably shouldn’t have confessed all that. She didn’t trust him and yet he was easy to speak with, especially after spending time in the company of one who didn’t utter a word. “My father arranged all this, but I’m only here so he’s not embarrassed.”
“But you’re embarrassed.” His smile had disappeared. However, such depth of understanding resided in his eyes, she nearly wept.
“I know I’m a curiosity. I know if I see any of these people on the street, they will snub me, pretend to not know who I am. Or worse, let it be known they are very much aware of who I am but find me unworthy of a greeting. His love for my mother has made him blind to—” What we suffered when he was not beside us. Why the devil was she blathering on? Why did she want to confess her heartache to him? “Even you, you will ignore me, when next our paths cross.”