He looked at her as if he saw her.
It was not a comfortable feeling—and yet, even as she recognised her discomfort, Lily was aware of something else curling into life within her: a warm feathery longing, an unfamiliar but nonetheless unmistakable attraction to this handsome stranger. For handsome he was, she had to admit, even in this instant, held in his stare.
She wanted to smile, yet she could not. She felt the slightest of flushes creep across her cheekbones, and saw—did she imagine?—a response in his dark blue gaze, far though he was from her.
Who was he? Why did he look at her so, as though he could take all of her and more, see through her act and know her completely—all without moving from that spot. What did he want?
Because she did not know what else to do, she dropped her eyes and turned away, watching the dancers take to the floor again, needing a moment to compose herself.
When she looked back—simply because she could not do otherwise—he was talking to the gentleman next to him. In profile he was equally striking, slim about the hips yet broad shouldered, his strong features offset by a generous mouth that set Lily wondering, in a moment quite unlike her usual sensible self, what he looked like when he smiled.
Frowning slightly, she averted her gaze again before he caught her staring—what was she thinking, sizing him up so? Turning slightly away, she scolded herself for such foolishness—was this all it took—a handsome man to make eye-contact with her—for her to behave like a manshy debutante?
She needed something to distract her and, luckily, something presented itself in the form of a young admirer, bowing prettily over her hand and asking most courteously for a dance. Gratefully, she accepted and allowed him to lead her to the floor.
And yet, even while dancing, she was aware of the other’s eyes upon her, watching her every move, giving her a new feeling of self-consciousness. Telling herself she was imagining it, she smiled at her partner and applied herself to the dance.
But when she did glance back, just for a moment, it was to find those grey-blue eyes on her face once more. Lily looked down at her feet as she almost missed a step, the first glimmer of irritation growing in her.
Did he not know it was impolite to stare so? Was he trying to disconcert her? If he wished to make her acquaintance, why did he not simply seek an introduction? Must he stand there appraising her as if she was a horse he was minded to buy?
Even as annoyance flickered into life, Lily knew it was senseless to mind such attention. Was that not, after all, why she was here—to parade herself, an offering for the highest bidder? Was she not reliant upon one of these men being taken enough with her to ignore her lack of land and fortune and propose?
The dance eventually ended, to her relief and, thanking her young partner—it seemed increasingly that the men at such events were becoming ever younger—Lily slipped across to a refreshment table, picked up a drink, and cast her eyes about for Kitty Stanton, the friend who had accompanied her to the ball. She wished to ask about the stranger who still, she saw, glancing hastily across the room, stood where he had been throughout the last two dances, though his conversation partner had changed.
He was nursing a drink in one long-fingered hand, she noticed suddenly, making no effort to sip from the glass as he conversed idly with the older man now at his side. Though he listened and responded politely enough, nothing the gentleman said seemed to move him—or perhaps he was simply immovable. Lily, thinking of his inscrutable gaze, bit her lip in thought.
Who was he? Why did he stand there so, expecting people to come to him?
As she watched, another gentleman and a lady joined his small party, a girl that Lily vaguely knew, and her brother. Introductions were completed, with the stranger still polite but impassive. It was not, Lily mused, that there was anything lacking in his manners—there was just no warmth in anything he did; he held himself at a distance from proceedings, almost.
The lady was gesturing to the dance floor now, casting her large eyes up at the stranger, imploring. Lily could almost hear the exchange—it was very charmingly done—and she hid a wry smile.
But the stranger was shaking his head, looking detachedly regretful. He gestured to the girl’s brother, then to the floor. The insinuation was obvious even to Lily, standing several metres away from them, out of earshot. He was refusing to dance, inviting them to continue without him.
Lily could not help a disapproving frown appearing between her brows. Why would he not dance, when asked so prettily? Could it be, she mused, taking in his flawless appearance, that he did not wish to rumple his clothes? She could not abide men who took themselves so seriously—why attend a ball if you had no intention of taking to the floor? Surely it was a gentleman’s duty to stand up with the ladies?
The lady and her brother were leaving him now, proceeding to the dance floor. Lily thought it was a shame that the young girl had been forced to ask for her own dance and been refused—such an indignity, and all at the hands of this enigmatic stranger.
Almost as if he had heard, he glanced up.
Their eyes met, and she did not have time to replace the frown with a more benign expression. For a long moment he just looked at her. Then, slowly, he raised his glass in greeting, a silent toast across the room that no doubt looked innocent—and probably even charming—to those around. But Lily did not miss the sardonic tilt of his lips, a halfsmile tempered by something else entirely in his eyes—something guarded, almost hostile.
Confused, blushing once more, she dropped her gaze.
Now he was mocking her! What gave him the right to look at her so, when they had not even been introduced? And then to make her feel ashamed for watching him? Who was he?
Gritting her teeth, she turned her back on the dance floor. She was not engaged for the next two dances—and she needed to take some air.
Let him stare at some other poor fool while she was gone.
Daniel Westhaven could not quite believe his eyes.
Robbie Pevensey’s sister was every bit as spoilt and feather-brained as every other simpering powder puff of a woman in this place. He had watched her for most of the evening: speaking to gentlemen, dipping her lashes and smiling winsomely, dancing, flirting and sparkling her way about the ballroom in a dress that told of indulgent expense in its deceptive simplicity of line.
It had taken her a long time to notice his interest, so absorbed in herself had she been. But once she had seen him looking, it was obvious she was trying to impress him.
And then, when he had caught her watching him, he had seen it—disapproval writ clearly on her face. She wondered, no doubt, at his seeming unwillingness to dance and make merry. Like all her kind, pleasure was all she lived for.
His fingers tightened around his glass. This was not what he had expected—he had heard that there was interest in her, that she was out in society again after the death of her brother…But somehow, he had expected the sister of his friend to be different. If not serious, exactly, then with a little intelligence at least.
He sighed inwardly. It did not matter. He was not looking for approval, and God knew he did not expect her to become fond of him. He had survived to keep his promise, against the odds, and now he had a duty to perform—that was all. He would do so, for Robbie.
He did not have to like it.
‘Lily! I have been searching for you!’
Standing in a trance before the fish pond in Lady Langley’s elegant garden, Lily looked round dazedly to see the sweet face and button nose of Lady Katherine Stanton