“I suppose I must accept your apology and thus excuse your deplorable manners,” Lord Dardington grudgingly conceded. “Just see that it never happens again.”
“Thank you for being so enlightened, sir.” Atwood turned toward Dorothea and smiled. “Surely you can understand how I lost my head when I set eyes on the lovely Miss Ellingham earlier. I found her irresistible.”
“Lost your head? Aye, along with any semblance of common sense,” Dardington grumbled.
Lord Atwood grinned ruefully. “I am a gentleman, sir, not a saint.”
Lord Dardington cracked a smile, but then his handsome face contorted into another grimace. “Be warned, Atwood. While she is under my roof, Miss Ellingham is under my protection. I take my responsibilities toward her with the same care and devotion I afford to my daughters, who thank God are still too young to be out in society.”
“I understand.” Lord Atwood’s lips quirked into another thin smile.
“Good. Make certain you don’t forget it.” Lord Dardington shifted his footing and regarded the younger man steadily, his brooding concentration an unnerving scrutiny.
Lord Atwood’s smile faded. Perhaps he was not as unaffected by Lord Dardington’s manner as he tried to appear? Strangely, the notion that he took Lord Dardington seriously caused Dorothea’s opinion of Lord Atwood to rise. Obviously he was intelligent to recognize a formidable opponent when presented to him. Yet he was clever enough, and levelheaded enough, to know when he was outmaneuvered.
“I will most definitely remember our conversation, sir.” Lord Atwood turned and bowed over her gloved hand. “I bid you good evening, Miss Ellingham. Thank you for the delightful dance and the enjoyable company. It was the undisputed highlight of my night.”
To her everlasting annoyance, Dorothea felt herself blushing. He was standing very close, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his solid body. She sternly told herself to calm down.
“I hardly know what to say,” she replied.
His brow quirked. “A first for you, I imagine.”
She smiled. She hadn’t meant to; she wanted to be cool and dignified, even a tad dismissive. But he was simply too handsome, too charming. And Dorothea had always had a weakness for handsome, charming men.
“I am hopeful that when next we meet, you will handle yourself in a more proper manner, my lord,” she said, regretting that he had released her hand. She liked his touch, had enjoyed feeling small and delicate.
“I assure you, when next we meet, you will not be disappointed.” He leaned forward and whispered. “I vow that I shall even remember your name. Dorothea.”
Then, with a conspiratorial smile, Lord Atwood took his leave.
“Woolgathering, Dorothea?”
“What? Oh?” Dorothea pulled her eyes away from the broad retreating shoulders of Lord Atwood and slanted a guilty look at her guardian. “I’m sorry.”
“For ignoring me? Or for dancing with Atwood?”
“Both, I suppose.”
The marquess offered his arm and she slipped her hand into the bend at his elbow. Heads held high, they crossed the ballroom and headed toward the room where the supper buffet was being served. The marquess ignored the curious gazes and the stage whispers of conversation several ladies indulged in behind their open, raised fans. Dorothea pretended to do the same.
“Atwood has always struck me as a somewhat impulsive man,” Lord Dardington said. He glared at a young dandy dressed in the most appalling shade of puce, who was blocking the entrance to the supper room. The poor fellow gulped, reddened, then hastened out of the way. “I assume Atwood gave you no choice when it came to the dance? That is why you stood me up?”
Dorothea nodded. “He was very insistent.”
Lord Dardington’s face darkened. “Improper?”
“No, not exactly.” Dorothea had fended off her share of unwanted advances through the years. This incident had been nothing like the others.
“I suppose you feel flattered that he singled you out for such attention,” the marquess said.
Dorothea slowly shook her head as she ran through the events in her mind. “Actually, I don’t believe he intended to select me. I was merely the closest female within his vicinity.”
“Hmm, he might have been keen on avoiding someone else,” the marquess allowed in such a tone that Dorothea surmised Lord Dardington had once done the very same thing himself. “Nevertheless, I must commend you on how well you conducted yourself, Dorothea. I imagine it wasn’t easy for you to remain so calm and collected while Atwood and I squared off against each other.”
“I believed sheer terror and a healthy dose of dread held me immobile, my lord,” she answered wryly.
The marquess smiled. “I apologize if I upset you.”
“I am just grateful that you each kept your fists by your sides and somehow managed not to say anything overtly insulting.”
Lord Dardington nodded wisely. “Atwood probably would have taken a swing at me if I went too far.”
“Fisticuffs at a formal ball?” Dorothea shuddered.
“No need to look so upset. If we did come to physical violence it would not have lasted very long. ’Tis far too crowded in here to land more than one or two solid punches.”
“How comforting.”
The sarcastic comment slipped beyond her lips before she could censure herself, but the marquess seemed unaffected by the tone of her remark. They entered the supper room where an army of their host’s servants were scurrying about.
Dorothea paused a moment to take it all in, trying to commit each detail to memory so she could write to her younger sister, Emma, with descriptive accuracy.
The room was ablaze with candles that shimmered reflectively off the satin gowns and sparkling jewels worn by the ladies. The tables were studded with large vases of hothouse flowers; the buffet table groaned under the sheer quantity of so much lavishly prepared foods. Even after spending over two months in Town, Dorothea was still in awe of the spectacle and expenses involved in these parties. It was nothing like the quiet, simple affairs she had attended in Yorkshire.
For a split second she longed for the familiar, safe life that she was accustomed to, but then she ruthlessly threw the thought aside. What was wrong with her tonight? Apparently the proposal from Arthur Pengrove and the unexpected incident with the Marquess of Atwood were making a greater impact on her nerves than she realized.
When her older sister had invited her to come to Town, Dorothea had jumped at the chance, knowing this was the best opportunity she would ever have to make a good match, to establish a comfortable, happy life for herself. Being sponsored by the Marquess and Countess of Dardington had been an unexpected and very welcome boon.
Their social stature had afforded her the opportunity to mingle with the very cream of society, the most influential, aristocratic, and wealthy individuals. Yet somehow this extraordinary blessing was also a curse. The pressure Dorothea felt to find a husband grew with each passing week.
As she glanced at the well-dressed, well-heeled crowd, a weight settled in Dorothea’s gut. What was she doing here? Was she reaching too far, hoping too much? Was it foolish to want to better herself through marriage?
Yet marriage was the only way she could separate herself from a life spent in Yorkshire, in the quiet, rather dull community where she had lived with her aunt and uncle for nearly ten years. To escape that fate, Dorothea was prepared to risk a great deal.
“We shall find my wife and then locate a quiet corner to enjoy our meal,” Lord Dardington decided as he surveyed the supper room. Dorothea nodded rather