The Reluctant Viscount. Lara Temple

of vision, blocking the dance floor from view.

      Adam shook his head. He should have sent her a coin of Artemis, protectress of the vulnerable, rather than Clementia. Miss Drake persisted in trying to shield everyone around her. She took life far too seriously. Someone should teach her how to relax and enjoy herself. With Mr Figgs’s Rules of Conduct at the Assembly Room in mind, he headed leisurely in her direction.

      * * *

      Alyssa wished she was anywhere but where she was. The whole neighbourhood had been awash with talk once Mr Figgs had disclosed that the new Lord Delacort would be attending Thursday’s ball with his guest, Mr Beauvoir. Between that and talk of his accident, which everyone had bloodthirstily attributed to his notorious recklessness, Adam’s name had come up so often at each of the neighbourhood teas or visits Alyssa had attended with her aunt and cousin that she’d begun to wonder what they’d all spoken of before his return.

      The worst had been at Lady Nesbit’s on Tuesday. Rowena had sat with a calculatedly pained look upon her beautiful face and hinted mournfully that Adam had clearly not recovered from his tendre for her, even after all these years. Alyssa had sat and fumed and wished again that he had never returned to Mowbray.

      All this excitement reached fever pitch the moment he entered the Assembly Room. Alyssa waited with a sense of impending doom for something terrible to happen. When she saw Rowena approach him she held her breath along with the rest of those present. What followed was so anticlimactic Alyssa almost felt sorry for Rowena. It was worse than if he had snubbed her altogether. But to converse with her with apparent amicability and then move on to stand appreciatively viewing the dazzling widow who had arrived was possibly the worst combination he could have chosen as far as Rowena was concerned.

      Alyssa tried to focus on her own concern, Mary, who was now gazing miserably at Percy as he talked animatedly with the lovely widow while leading her through the country dance. Alyssa sighed in frustration. She had still not come up with a plan to detach Mary from Percy. She knew her father would likely consent to any offer not overtly unsuitable. And as Adam had pointed out, Percy was suitable, at least on the surface.

      Ever since Ivor had come into the Delacort title, Percy had acted as if he, and not Adam, was next in line. It had been clear that he had assumed, like many others, that Adam was unlikely to survive his exploits. It had not been an outlandish assumption. Even if one discounted many of the accounts of Adam’s escapades as exaggerated, there were protracted periods of silence which gave as much or more food for speculation. Certainly Percy could not be completely blamed for his presumptions. But however disappointed Percy might be, it didn’t mean he had any right to solve his problems by targeting Mary, not while Alyssa had a say in it, and furthermore...

      ‘Do you waltz?’

      She blinked and turned. She had been so intent on the problem she hadn’t even noticed Adam had come to stand beside her.

      ‘Waltz?’

      ‘Waltz. The dance. Do you?’

      ‘I... Yes. But why?’

      ‘Mr Figgs’s Assembly Room rules state I have to try to make myself agreeable to the company present, by which I gathered he means squire wallflowers and converse with dowagers. So, I suppose if I am to be allowed to attend another dance I must do the pretty and invite some unfortunate maiden to dance. From the list he so helpfully provided I see the next dance is a waltz. Hence the invitation.’

      She couldn’t help smiling. She was beginning to realise this man enjoyed being deliberately provoking.

      ‘How can I resist such a flattering invitation? Wait, I can. Go and find another wallflower. I am busy.’

      ‘I know, glaring at Percy is hard work. Take a rest. Ah, they are just about to start.’

      He grasped her elbow firmly and gave her a little push in the direction of the dance floor, attracting the attention of her aunt and the group of matrons to her right. She caught the alarmed look on her aunt’s face and sighed inwardly. To break free now would attract more attention than to proceed.

      ‘Fine,’ she said grudgingly and saw the corners of his mouth quirk up in a smile. But he did not reply, just led her on to the dance floor and then, when they were in position, clasped her hand and placed his hand at her waist.

      She loved dancing and over her many years at the Assemblies she had danced with most of the men of Mowbray who cared to indulge in the pastime. With some she flirted mildly and with most she stoically endured their total lack of skill while still enjoying the music. But even the most skilled or audacious of her dancing partners had never allowed their hand to sit quite so low on her waist and they certainly maintained a much more decorous distance.

      Dancing with Adam was different. She could not point to anything conclusive other than that he employed the Continental rather than English style of the dance, holding her more closely than she was used to. Instead of a light, impersonal pressure his hand was insistent, slightly splayed along her waist, below the line of her stays, so she could feel each finger where it angled her towards him. And his other hand was contrarily so light against hers that his fingers kept shifting against the palm of her glove, only pressing in when he needed to guide her in the dance, so that her whole arm became sensitised. She was accustomed to talking while dancing, but somehow it was hard to focus on anything other than his hands.

      She glanced up and met Adam’s dark grey eyes. He wasn’t smiling outright, but a shadow of amusement glinted in his eyes, the same look that she was becoming used to in her encounters with him. As if he knew what she was thinking and found her predicable but mildly entertaining. A wave of annoyance mixed with determination tingled through her.

      ‘Your hand,’ she said and his brows rose, the picture of innocence.

      ‘My hand?’

      ‘A bit lower, please.’

      The heads of the dancers next to them turned as he burst out laughing. He slid his hand upwards slightly, very gently, and her body arched away momentarily from the contact before she could call herself to order.