“I like the gown,” Montgomery said softly. “I think you are lovelier than ever. Elysse, don’t cry.”
She turned and found his concerned gray gaze upon her. Vaguely, she realized he had been eavesdropping. She couldn’t care. It was her heart that was broken.
Somehow, she smiled at him.
He reached for and held her hand.
SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHY she had ever yearned to be in Alexi de Warenne’s arms. She didn’t even know why she had ever considered him a friend. He was hateful. He thought to control her life, treat her as a sister, and all while he ran after hussies like the widow Cochrane. Who cared? She had never suffered a rejection before. She did not know of another debutante in Ireland who had had five marriage proposals in two years. His rejection did not matter—not at all!
And if William decided to press a suit, she might even encourage him. He was kind and sincere, and he did not judge her or accuse her of being a harlot. He did not think her spoiled and selfish. When he called her a princess, he meant it as the highest compliment. When Alexi did so, he meant it as a slur—as an indictment of her character!
Elysse danced her eighth dance of the evening, a smile pasted on her face. The handsome squire, Sir Robert Haywood, was a widower of thirty-five, and considered an excellent catch. He had called on her a few times, but she hadn’t ever had any real interest in him until that night. As they danced, she kept smiling at him, refusing to look about the ballroom. She did not want to set eyes upon Alexi, not ever again.
Their friendship was now over. She no longer found him fascinating, much less attractive—oh no. The dashing boy she had once loved as a child had turned into an awful, mean-spirited man. She hoped he stayed away five years this time! And she hoped Louisa trapped him into marriage. It would serve him right.
Tears burned behind her eyelids. She could not understand why she felt so hurt. To be hurt, one had to care, and she most definitely did not care about Alexi de Warenne. She batted her lashes rapidly and beamed at her dance partner as they finished the country waltz.
“You have never been as lovely, Miss O’Neill,” Haywood said, bowing. “I had no idea you were such a superb dancer.”
She took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, trying to banish Alexi de Warenne from her mind and her life, all the while hoping he had noticed how many admirers she had. Not that she meant to make him jealous, as she did not. She couldn’t care less if he was jealous or not, but other men found her beautiful—other men did not think her character defective!
The champagne was delicious. “Thank you, Sir Robert. And thank you for such a wonderful dance. I do hope you won’t neglect me as you have done these past few months, sir.” She sipped from the champagne, aware that she had drunk more than her usual two glasses. She didn’t care. Without the champagne, she might not be able to hold back her ludicrous, inexplicable tears.
“I hadn’t realized you wanted me to call again,” Haywood said, flushing. “But I will gladly do so.”
Elysse encouraged him to call another time. When he had left her side, she quickly finished the champagne before rushing off to the dance floor with Jonathon Sinclair, one of the men who had offered for her. He was very tense and flushed, and she instantly knew he still desired her. He said, whirling her about in a German waltz, “I didn’t think you’d give me a single dance, Miss O’Neill.”
“Of course I would give you a dance.” She smiled at him. “I have been looking forward to it all evening long!”
He started. “Why are you being so kind?”
“Do you think me unkind, sir?” She feigned hurt, slipping her hand across his shoulder.
“Of course not,” he said harshly, missing a step. “I think you are as kind as you are beautiful!”
“When you next call on me, I will explain myself to you completely,” Elysse said. Even as she spoke, a little voice inside her head told her she was going too far, and she would regret it when he called.
“I will call on you tomorrow,” he said instantly. “With your permission, of course.”
“And I will be waiting with bated breath,” she responded gaily.
After two more dances, she had to beg off, in order to catch her breath. As she stood by a table filled with dessert trays, she caught Montgomery’s eye from across the room. He smiled at her and she smiled back. They’d already danced two times and he had been wonderful, light and quick on his feet. More importantly, his regard had been warm and intent. Perhaps Alexi was right—perhaps he was seriously interested in her. Why shouldn’t she encourage him? He was a seafaring man and she was the daughter of a naval captain. Her father seemed to like him—everyone seemed to like him—and she did not need to marry a fortune, as she had one of her own.
Pain still throbbed in her breast—in her heart—and threatened to erupt if she were not very, very careful.
She walked over to the tray of champagne, wondering if she dare take another flute, wishing desperately to genuinely be happy and gay. Then she could truly enjoy the ball and her suitors. But she felt unsteady in her heels. Surely the champagne would chase the need to cry away. In the past, a glass or two had always made her feel merry. Why couldn’t she feel merry now?
As she reached for a glass, a hand closed on her wrist. “You have had enough,” Alexi warned.
He had come up behind her. She slipped around in such a manner that, for a moment, she was in his arms, her breasts crushed against his chest. His eyes widened. She stared, challenging him silently to deny her attributes. He stepped backward, away from her.
Somehow she knew she had made him uncomfortable. She smiled, pleased. She would never let him see how hurt she was. She was the reigning belle of the ball—the debutante every bachelor wanted—a woman with too many admirers to count and no other cares at all. Surely, he could see that! “I must disagree, Alexi,” she said sweetly. “You may instruct Ariella and Dianna on how much they may or may not drink, but not me.” She smiled archly at him.
His stare narrowed. “Are you crying?”
Was there moisture on her lashes? “Of course not,” she said gaily. Ignoring the pain bubbling in her chest, she smiled as coyly as possible. “Have you suddenly realized that I am a grown woman? Have you noticed how many admirers I have? Have you come to queue up for a dance with me?” And unthinkingly—instinctively—she touched his cheek with her nails and skidded them lightly across his skin there.
He jerked his face back. “I do not want a dance!” He seized her hand, stilling it. “You are inebriated. You need to go home.”
“I’ve only had a glass or two and I am enjoying myself immensely. Aren’t you? Have you even danced a single time?” The pain had miraculously dulled. Alexi was angry with her—and she was pleased.
“No, Elysse, I haven’t danced and I don’t intend to. Cease this absurd pretense! You are going home.” He was final.
“I am not inebriated and I am not going home.” Then she slowly smiled. “Not unless you are offering to take me? Could you so desperately desire my company, the way every other man does?” She lifted her other hand and stroked his cheek. “Oh, wait, I forgot—you are shackled to Louise.”
His eyes were even wider now, his cheeks even redder. “It is Louisa, and I am not shackled to anyone. Are you flirting with me? Would you dare?”
“I flirt with everyone, remember?” she murmured, stepping closer to him. Her chest brushed his satin lapels and she heard his breath catch. She knew a woman’s sense of triumph. He was hardly indifferent to her now! She ignored her own racing pulse. “I am a reckless flirt—no, wait, I am a harlot. You said so, remember? I suppose that makes me just like your paramour!”
“I said you flirt like a harlot,” he said grimly, seizing her shoulders and putting