The Unwilling Miss Watkin Page 8

  They had just finished a staid country dance that should never have winded a spry young lady like Portia, yet she used fatigue as an excuse to lean against him as he led her to an innocuous sofa to rest. Her gloved hand lingered in a caress on his arm as he straightened away. Her smile seemed to promise more.

  Yet he could not shake the feeling that something was wrong with the delightful Miss Sinclair. At times her attentions seemed almost desperate, as if much more were at stake than a mere flirtation. Her soft grey eyes held a longing that did not seem to have anything to do with her attraction to him.

  He also could not understand why her stepmother, who chaperoned her tonight and kept casting them furtive glances from across the room, allowed her to behave with such familiarity. Portia was hardly subtle. Already they had raised brows. Other mothers held their daughters safely at their sides as he passed. Why hadn’t her stepmother noticed Portia’s fascination with him and come to drag her away?

  Of course, someone else had noticed, and he had to admit that the fact was unaccountably pleasing. On several occasions, his gaze had been drawn to Eloise. Each time she had looked away with a blush, but not before he’d seen the speculation in her green gaze. She thought him enamored of Portia. A shame she would not believe him if he told her that he found himself far more enamored of her.

  He had spent the better part of the last two days looking to understand why Eloise was so chary of their past. Against his instincts, he’d tried calling on Lady Hastings, but she had refused to see him. He had found several of Eloise’s classmates, using various pretexts to call on them, but none seemed willing to volunteer information. He could tell they admired her; indeed, some seemed to envy her beauty, fortune, and wit.

  If tonight was any indication, her popularity had only increased since their walk down St. James’s the day before. Lord Nathaniel was in evidence, fawning over her hand far more often than Jareth thought necessary.

  He also spotted several other gentlemen showing interest. They brought her refreshments. One hurried to fetch her paisley shawl from the cloak room, as if she needed anything to cover the fetching saffron confection she wore. Another insisted on procuring a fan and fluttering it before her to cool her from the dance. Jareth would have far preferred to watch the heated blush rise up her well-molded bosom to her neck and cheeks.

  He had to be content to watch her move instead. Her hand was constantly in demand. Yet through all the adulation, she smiled graciously and danced gracefully. She did not seem to play favorites—bestowing as welcoming a smile on her first partner as the ones that followed. As far as he could see, no woman in the room could match her for beauty and poise, and he knew few could match her in intelligence and breeding.

  So, if she were this popular and worthy, why hadn’t some fellow snatched her up in marriage?

  “Mr. Darby, you are not attending.”

  He blinked and focused on Portia below him on the sofa. Her hand rested on the empty spot beside her as if she invited him to join her. He remained standing.

  “Forgive me, Miss Sinclair,” he said, inclining his head. “Your celebrated beauty made all else pale in comparison.”

  “Fie,” she declared, rapping him lightly on the arm with her lace fan. “You, sir, were not even looking at me.”

  He rattled off his usual excuse for looking elsewhere. “Only because I carry your image in my heart. I see you in every marvel of nature, in every classical work of art.” Even as he spoke, his gaze was drawn back to where Eloise was prancing through another quadrille. While the other dancers looked breathless or jerked through the steps, she alone accomplished the quick movements with the beauty and energy the dance required. His mouth curved in a smile of appreciation.

  “Perhaps you should simply seduce her.”

  Jareth’s smile froze in place. “I beg your pardon?”

  Portia trilled a laugh. “I wish I had a hand mirror that I might show you your face, Mr. Darby. I vow I have shocked you.”

  “And I vow that was your intent,” Jareth replied with a rueful shake of his head. “You are a shameless baggage, Miss Sinclair.”

  “And you delight in it, Mr. Darby. Come, you know you do.”

  She was purposely baiting him. Once he would have been only too happy to take her up on the challenge shining from those changeable eyes. Tonight, he found his interest waning. Best to make his excuses while he still could.

  “I did once,” he agreed. “And I would be a hypocrite if I now maligned you. However, with the idea that I have been too obvious in my admiration, I shall withdraw.”

  Instantly her mouth turned down in a pout, and she rapped him far less lightly to show her displeasure. “Nonsense, sir. Would you leave me alone in my weakness?”

  He wanted to do just that, but her statement arrested him. The words were hauntingly familiar. He had a sudden image of another face, battered and bruised, soulful grey eyes gazing up into his as he escorted her from the Richland townhouse.

  You would not leave me alone, Darby? Not until I can steel myself to face him again?

  He shook himself. This was hardly the same situation. Portia Sinclair did not need his help the way Lady Hendricks had. The girl was merely trying to be coy. Very likely it was his imagination that saw despair in her actions. Yet even as he tried to convince himself, he felt his smile strained.

  He offered her a bow. “You underestimate your own strength, my dear.” But as he straightened to leave her, she reached out a hand to stop him. Her eyes were troubled, her golden brows drawn tight over her pert nose.

  “You are after Eloise Watkin, aren’t you?”

  He drew himself up straighter, but she clung to him. His pointed look to where her fingers gripped his wrist forced her to release him. “May I point out, Miss Sinclair,” he said stiffly, “that my intentions are none of your affair?”

  “I am merely concerned for you,” she protested, returning to her pretty pout, but this time with obvious difficulty. “She has encouraged several gentlemen, only to reject them when they proposed. I should not like to see you served likewise.”

  Was this the reason Eloise had yet to wed? Were her standards too high? She’d had the best in him, and the rest were not up to scratch. He smiled inwardly. Even he could not believe that. Certainly any number of gentlemen on the ton possessed greater fortunes, families, or figures than he did. With her assets, she could have had her pick.

  “I cannot see Miss Watkin as a jilt,” he informed Portia. “Very likely the other gentlemen were found lacking.”

  “And you think you would not suffer that fate?” She shook her head at such arrogance. “Do not let the challenge blind you to her faults.”

  “Your concern for me is touching, but I assure you I have overcome any blindness I might have had when it comes to women.”

  She paled, and he suspected it was because he had implied he could see through her ruses as well. He did not give her time to protest further but turned his back and strode away.

  He did not attempt Almack’s infamous weak lemonade, although he did sniff the punch available that night in case some industrious soul had kindly spiked it with more palatable ingredients. Unfortunately, he could only detect the strong odor of rose water. Of course, it could have come from the lady who leaned provocatively past him as he stood beside the refreshments. He purposefully moved on.

  As he did so, he considered Portia’s words again. She obviously thought to warn him away from Eloise. He had no intention of giving up his pursuit until he had won Eloise’s forgiveness, but Portia had no way of knowing that. Yet even if Eloise had forgiven him that night and freed him to pursue other women, he wondered whether he’d have the interest. He’d already decided she was the most interesting and worthy woman on the ton that Season. Why should he settle for anything less?

  Curious about his own reactions, he tried dancing with several of the other ladies present. The first was so nervous that she tripped over her own feet and fell neatly into his arms on the
dance floor. She fled in mid-set, upsetting the pattern of the dance and forcing him to quit the floor. The second refused his offer to dance with a sniff of her aristocratic nose. He spotted Lady Hastings nearby, smiling with obvious satisfaction, and wondered whether she’d had anything to do with the refusal. The third accepted his offer and acquitted herself well, but he felt no more than a momentary spark of interest. So much for his pursuits.

  He decided he had better be sociable and did his duty by dancing with ladies who did not have partners. Their mothers or chaperones quickly claimed them afterward, as if he would ravish them in the middle of Almack’s crowded dance floor. He wanted to laugh. Only one woman in the hall held his interest, and she wanted nothing to do with him.

  But as the musicians tuned up for the next set, he found himself drawn to her side.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Watkin?”

  She stiffened as she turned to acknowledge him. “Mr. Darby. I thought you were otherwise engaged.”

  He followed her gaze to where Portia stood beside her stepmother. Both stared at him. Even from here, he could see that Portia worried at her lower lip. It looked as if the girl was forming an attachment to him. He’d have to disabuse that notion. He started by ignoring her.

  “If you were watching me,” he told Eloise, “you likely noticed that I danced with other ladies before and after I danced with Miss Sinclair. In fact, I can safely say I have been the perfect bachelor this evening. Now I would like my reward.”

  She raised a brow. “You behave as you should, and you expect a reward?”

  He was beginning to feel exactly that. “I behaved as Society dictates, ignoring my own desires. I think that should be rewarded.”

  She looked at him suspiciously from the corners of her green eyes. “And just what desires did you ignore that I should find you so praiseworthy?”

  She most likely expected him to speak of his utter devotion to Portia. He bent his head closer to hers and drew her gaze to his own. “I wanted nothing so much as to cover your willing lips with kisses.”

  She swallowed, lashes fluttering lower. He could feel her breath come out in a soft gasp.

  “However,” he added, mindful of their audience, “I would settle for the next dance.”

  He wasn’t sure how she might react. It wouldn’t have surprised him had she bolted from the room. Instead, she raised her head to meet his gaze with defiance. “You are entirely too bold, Mr. Darby. I see no reason to encourage you.”

  “I have the best of reasons,” he assured her. “If you refuse to dance with me, you shall have to sit out for the first time tonight.”

  Around them, couples lined up for another quadrille. He could see the debate going on in her mind. She obviously loved to dance, yet if she declined his offer, she would be forced by Society’s rules to sit out this set. He nearly smiled as he found himself thankful for the rules for once. Yet, considering how she would react if she knew he thought he had the upper hand, he kept his face neutral.

  She shook her head suddenly, as if disliking her own decision. “A devil’s bargain, Mr. Darby, but I should have expected as much from you.”

  She glanced up at him, and he thought for a moment she would refuse after all. But she put her hand on his offered arm, and he led her onto the floor to join the other couples.

  He had hoped the dance might ease her tensions. However, she reverted to the regal air he had noticed their first night at the blasted oak. She kept her head high as they passed, her gaze imperious when they took hands. Her movements were courtly, as if she knew she were on display and wanted to give no one any reason to find fault.

  Given what little he understood of her feelings for him, such an attitude was obviously meant to put him in his place. The regal air was understandable at first, but as the dance progressed, he found himself more and more put out by it. Why couldn’t he seem to charm her as he once had? Why didn’t she respond to him as she used to? Had he lost his way with women entirely that those he didn’t want sought him out and those he wanted refused him? If that was reformation, he was ready to return to the streets.

  Well, perhaps not that. However much she moved him, however little he moved her, he still had to earn her forgiveness. Surely he could only do so if she became more comfortable with him. Determined, he increased his charm.

  He looked desolate when another fellow took her hand and brightened when she was returned to him. Whenever they were close enough, he murmured praises to her beauty, her poise, her grace. As they passed, his gaze sought hers until she was forced to acknowledge him with a movement of vivid green. He ran his finger along the back of her hand in a caress when they touched. He brushed her shoulder with his as they crossed.

  His intent had been to make her more aware of him, but he found the tactic a double-edged sword. The more he brought her close, the more aware of her he became. When he passed her, he caught the scent of lilacs in her hair. When his fingers grazed hers he remembered the silkiness of her skin.

  He must have had some effect on her because, by the time the two dances of the set were over, they were both breathless. He wanted to talk to her then and there, but she seemed to sense it. Raising her head once again, she began to back away from him. Determined, he held onto her hand. Her gaze was determined, but he could imagine his own was just as implacable.

  “Eloise,” he started.

  In the alcove above the door to the refreshment room, the musicians began the strains of a waltz. He could think of nothing finer than to have an excuse to hold her in his arms. He did not finish what he wanted to say. He didn’t want to give her the opportunity to decline. He swept her into his arms and out across the floor.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eloise stared at him. What was he thinking to hold her so closely in the middle of Almack’s? He hadn’t even asked her permission. Moreover, people were staring. She could see Cleo dancing nearby, face red in her fury at Jareth’s actions. She should cry out, push away from him, force him to release her. Yet she could not seem to muster the desire.

  Being in his arms again felt simply wonderful.

  She marveled at it. How could she feel so contented, dancing with one of the most renowned rakes in England? Yet she felt contented, and more. His hand on her waist was firm and warm. His other hand held hers gently, cradled among his fingers, as if he cherished the touch as much as she did.

  And his face. Here was something akin to the worshipful gaze she remembered. Only this time, it wasn’t a youth who held her with his eyes but a man. A man used to leading his life as he pleased. A man who had more than once faced the consequences to live on his own terms. A man who could have chosen any woman in the room, any woman in the world, and he had chosen her.

  A man she would not be able to deny.

  The thought shook her, and she stumbled. Jareth caught her smoothly.

  “Easy now,” he murmured. “You have no need to escape, Eloise. Nothing bad can happen in the middle of Almack’s. Even I am not that wicked.”

  She nodded, not sure she believed him about his wickedness but perfectly willing to believe that none of the patronesses would allow him to sweep her away. Besides, somewhere on the dance floor were Cleo and Leslie, and surely she could count on them to assist her should Jareth be so foolish as to break with propriety. Waltzing with him was perfectly safe. She forced herself to relax.

  “Much better,” he murmured as if to encourage her. “You are by far the best dancer here, you know. It is my pleasure to partner you.”

  She did not want his praise to please her, coming as it most likely did with a price, but it pleased her nonetheless. She was sure she should deny it.

  “Nonsense,” she averred. “Any number of young ladies dance better than I do. You should not offer me Spanish coin.”

  His eyes were warm. “Why would I falsely praise you?”

  Why indeed? She shuddered to think of it. “You want my forgiveness. I have no doubt this is all part of your plan to weasel it out
of me.”

  He raised a pale gold brow. “My plan? I thought I was the victim of your plan.”

  She snorted. “You have never been anyone’s victim. You, sir, are the predator.”

  “And is it my fault there are so many delightful gazelle about? What is a proper lion to do?”

  “You claim to have reformed.”

  “Ah, but I find that so very difficult when presented with such beauty.” The teasing light faded from his eyes to be replaced by something else, something that warmed far more than her heart.

  “You truly are beautiful, Eloise,” he murmured.

  She shook her head, trying in vain to clear the spell he was weaving around her. “And you are a cozening flirt.”

  “Of course,” he agreed readily. “I reformed from the sin of seduction. I never promised to give up the art of flirtation. Would you ask a master to stop painting?”

  “No,” she acknowledged. “And I will own that you are a master. But be warned, sir. I am on to your tricks.”

  “And I to your secret, madam.”

  She very nearly missed another step. “What are you talking about? Of course you know my secret. You are my secret. That is the entire reason you are forced to seek my forgiveness.”

  He smiled and shook his head. Then he drew her closer to whisper in her ear. “But you have another secret, my dear Eloise. I can feel it in the way you dance with me. I can see it in the way you look at me. At rare moments, I can even hear it in your voice. You don’t hate me after all.”

  She wanted to deny it. She must deny it. She could not stand the gentle smile on his face as he pulled away to a discreet distance. Every time he was sweet, she felt the walls she had erected crumbling. She could not let him back into her heart. Her reputation would never survive a second betrayal. She would never survive such a betrayal.

  Dancing in his arms was a mistake, she realized. Physical closeness had been her undoing once before. She had to get away from him, give herself sufficient distance to think clearly. As he turned them to the music, she brought her heel down hard on his toe.