Ashlyn Macnamara (40 page)

“Oh, M-Mr. Ludlowe,” Sophia breathed.

Julia turned her attention to the man before her. His smile might have bedazzled the dowager Countess of Epperley into forgetting her lorgnette—or snapping it out for a better view—but it had little effect on Julia.

“Good evening, ladies. Revelstoke,” Ludlowe added with a nod in Benedict’s direction. “My dear Miss Julia, I must say you look particularly enchanting this evening.”

For a moment, she didn’t react. She couldn’t have
heard right. But then he reached for her hand as if it were his due. Belatedly, she disentangled her arm from Sophia’s death grip and allowed him to brush his lips against the back of her glove.

“Mr. Ludlowe.” She deliberately flattened her tone to coolness, hardly what anyone would term friendly.

After another moment, he dropped her hand to turn his considerable charm on Sophia. Julia could feel its effect radiating off her sister in the form of heat. A dazzling smile threatened to split Sophia’s face in two.

“A pleasure, as always, Miss St. Claire.”

If Sophia noticed that he paid her beauty no compliment, she hid it well. Dipping her head, she dropped into a curtsey. “My lord.”

Julia’s mouth dropped open.
My lord?
The evening was growing stranger by the minute.

Ludlowe’s chuckle rumbled, low and smooth as hot chocolate, over their corner. Even the potted palm perked up. “Now, now, Miss St. Claire, let’s not be overly hasty. Nothing’s settled as of yet.”

Beside her, Benedict held himself rigid, the tension seething in the air around him.

“What isn’t settled?” Julia’s question floated free before she could stop herself.

Ludlowe turned back to her. His smile would have melted butter. “You haven’t heard of my good fortune then?”

“No, I haven’t.”

The fine lines on his forehead smoothed to solemnity. “It’s quite boorish of me to refer to it as good fortune, actually. Do forgive me. My fortune is another family’s tragedy, you see.”

What on earth? She frowned, resting her fan against her bosom. “Oh dear.”

“The Earl of Clivesden has met with an unfortunate accident. Horrific, really.”

Foreboding settled over her. “Accident?”

“Poor man. He should never have ventured out on those winding Devonshire roads. Entire carriage tumbled off a cliff into the Channel. His young son was with him.”

She pressed suddenly icy fingers to her lips. “How dreadful.” At the same time, she noted Sophia’s lack of reaction. This must be the news Lady Epperley had imparted to her sister, doubtless with the proper ceremony.

Benedict’s lip curled. “I fail to see how such a tragedy might turn to anybody’s advantage.”

Ludlowe had the grace to avert his eyes. “There’s an appalling lack of male issue in that line. They had to trace the family back four generations to find an heir.”

“You’ll forgive me,” Benedict said, his words clipped to the point of rudeness, “but what’s that got to do with you?”

Ludlowe sketched them a bow. “My great-grandfather was the third Earl of Clivesden’s younger brother.”

Benedict surged forward with such force and suddenness that Julia laid a restraining hand on his forearm.
“You?”
he snarled. “You’re now Clivesden?”

Ludlowe’s smile did not falter for an instant. “Not yet, but my claim is solid. I daresay the Lord Chancellor ought to accept it without delay.”

“As long as the former earl’s widow isn’t in a delicate condition, you mean.” Benedict seemed to be forcing the words through gritted teeth.

Julia slanted her eyes in his direction. What she could see of his neck above his cravat flushed red. Beneath her hand, the muscles in his arm had turned to steel. Why was he so upset over the circumstances? While tragic, to be certain, none of them had actually known Clivesden well.

Ludlowe’s smile remained fixed. “Of course.”

He stepped closer to Julia, and the muscles beneath her fingertips jerked.

“I had hoped to keep the news quiet a bit longer. I might have known gossip would foil my plans.” He acknowledged Sophia with a nod, and she beamed at him from behind the protection of her fan.

“Ah well,
c’est la vie
.” Ludlowe shrugged. “I hadn’t come over with the intention of discussing this matter. I was wondering if Miss Julia would care for the next dance.”

If he hadn’t been looking her in the eye, Julia would never have credited the notion. When Ludlowe turned up at a ball, he remained decidedly ensconced in the card room or on the sidelines. He chatted with the ladies, he flirted outrageously, he might disappear into the gardens for long stretches, but he rarely danced.

The lilting strains of violins in three-quarter time met her ears. Goodness. Ludlowe certainly never waltzed.

An expectant silence fell over the group, while the music swelled around them. She couldn’t possibly, not with her sister standing right there, deflating a bit further with each joyous note. “I’m terribly sorry—”

“She promised the next set to me,” Benedict said over her reply.

“I’m sure Sophia would be delighted,” Julia added quickly. “That way, no one is disappointed.”

Ludlowe hesitated a second too long before nodding. “Your servant. I must insist you save another dance for me later.”

He didn’t wait for her reply. Offering his arm to a glowing Sophia, he led her to join the whirling couples already on the dance floor.

Julia rounded on Benedict, who bent his left arm in invitation. “I believe this is our waltz.”

She ignored him. “Are you planning to tell me what that was all about?”

He held her gaze, the breadth of his shoulders blocking the flickering light from the crystal chandeliers. That disturbing intensity still lit their depths. And where had it come from along with his, well, protectiveness? She pressed her lips into a line and shuffled her weight from one foot to the other.

“After this set. Meet me outside. For now, we’d better make a proper show of dancing. Just so no one is disappointed.”

She took his arm, and he set off at such a clip that she stumbled after him through the crowd until they found a spot among the dancers.

“Why can’t you tell me now?” she persisted. His brows lowered in disapproval, but she ignored the reaction. The waltz permitted conversation, after all.

He set a solid arm about her waist, seized her hand, and spun her into the first turn. “Not here. Not where others might overhear.” He tipped his chin toward an orange turban swaying not far from them. “Lady Witless, for example.”

At the nickname, Julia suppressed a laugh and tapped him on the shoulder with her fan. Benedict had so christened the old gossip two years ago when Lady Whitby’s spiteful tongue had run her afoul of a few other matrons who had overheard her and arranged to knock her into the punch bowl. “Stop. You’re terrible. By the by, what are you doing here tonight? I didn’t even realize you were in Town.”

“I only arrived two days ago. I came to have a look at some horses.”

“Ah, of course. No wonder you haven’t seen fit to call. What’s more important than cattle?”

“Quite a few things, it turns out.”

“Oh?”

But his gaze settled at some point beyond her. Well. Whatever was more important must have to do with this
mysterious discussion he refused to have in the middle of the dance floor. He guided her through the steps of the dance with practiced ease until she felt as if she were hovering several inches above the floor. This was not dancing; it was floating. On every turn, her stomach tripped over itself.

It was nothing more than a waltz. Meaningless. The buoyancy that lifted her heels on every step had nothing to do with the hand planted at her waist, the fingers flexing into every pivot. Those strong fingers, calloused from the constant rubbing of reins, capable of controlling the most hot-blooded of horses, burned through the layers of her ball gown and stays. And his thighs, powerful from years in the saddle, brushed against hers through her skirts. She should not allow herself to think of such things. This was Benedict, steady and dependable, not one of her suitors.

Suppressing a sigh, she tried again. “I had no idea you danced so well. How is it we’ve never waltzed before?”

He winked. “You’ve never twisted my arm into it before.”

“I twisted? As I recall, this was your idea.”

“Perhaps I ought to have ideas a bit more often.” His words slipped out easily.

For a moment, Julia was dumbfounded. That sounded rather roguish. “Who are you practicing for?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re practicing your flirting on me.” Once again, she tapped him with her fan. “I shall not allow it unless you confess immediately who you intend to pursue.”

He grinned maddeningly at her. “Then I suppose I shall have to remain woefully out of practice. A gentleman never tells. But if I remain forever a bachelor, I shall lay the blame at your feet.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Sophia dancing with Ludlowe. With their matched coloring,
they turned heads all about the room. Sophia absolutely bloomed in his arms, the very portrait of an utterly smitten young woman.

Smitten indeed. Julia had vowed never to allow such tender feelings to overtake her. They made her anxious and edgy. Vulnerable. Her fingers curled about her fan until its delicate ribs threatened to snap. She’d witnessed too many others ensnared by what they termed love to aspire to anything more than a civilized, sensible union.

She concentrated on keeping up with Benedict. But for the occasions when he came home on leave, the past few years he’d spent with the cavalry had prevented her from enjoying his company at the
ton
’s events. To think she’d missed dancing such as this, when she hadn’t even known it possible.

At long last, the music swelled toward the coda. He leaned down to mutter next to her ear, “I’ll be out on the terrace in five minutes.”

Heart still thudding, she slipped out of his arms, only to collide with something soft.

“Careful now.” Lord Chuddleigh caught her in an enthusiastic grip.

Blast it all. She cast a glance about for Benedict, but the crowd had already swallowed him. Why couldn’t he have said his piece now, rather than playing games? Surely, they could have found a quiet corner away from overzealous ears.

She pressed her fingers to her temple. “Your pardon, my lord. I’m afraid I’m not feeling at all well. If you’ll excuse me.”

With that, she wove her way through the crowd in the general direction of the ladies’ retiring room. Just before stepping into the corridor, she glanced over her shoulder.

Fan a-flutter and rosy with excitement, Sophia still
chatted with Ludlowe. Thank the heavens. Perhaps something good would come out of this evening, after all.

Five minutes later, Julia found herself second-guessing that prediction. Benedict led her into a quiet corner of the garden far from prying eyes.

“I want you to stay away from Ludlowe,” he said in a harsh voice and without preamble.

A shiver prickled along the back of her neck. Never once had he seen fit to give her orders, as if she were one of his men. In the darkness, half his face lay in shadow so that he appeared as some creature of the night.

Puzzled, she frowned. “But why does it matter? It’s not as if he makes a habit of attending these things. He’s made a career of avoiding marriage.” Unfortunately for Sophia and her hopes.

“He’s about to inherit an earldom. His priorities have changed.”

“It hardly signifies. Besides, we’ve managed to arrange things so he’s spending time with Sophia.”

Benedict stepped closer to her and placed his hands on her upper arms. The heat of his palms permeated his gloves and seared into her bare skin.

“He hasn’t got his sights set on Sophia. He’s set them on you.”