The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(2)

After making his swift introductions, Calvert departed with a smirk on his lips.

With a single imperious glance from Anthony, the dandies fluttering around her faded into the glittering crowd. From the cool arch of her brows, he surmised she noticed.

“May I have the next dance on your card, Miss Peppiwell?”

“I do not dance.” She pronounced her vowels with a lilt, and her voice was husky with a musical twang. American. From Boston, if he was not mistaken.

He was undaunted by her aloofness. Instead, interest stirred within. It had been weeks since he’d felt desire for any woman. “If not a dance, will you honor me with a twirl in the garden?”

“It seems I have caught the attention of the bored and dissolute Lord Anthony.” Her sonorous voice washed over him. She did not sound pleased.

“Dissolute? You wound me.”

“So you admit to being bored and seeking out the ice princess?” She stared at him chillingly.

He tipped his head as he slowly regarded her. The buzz of the room faded, and he met her gaze without expression. He concluded she could beat him at poker, though he was revered for his game play. “I sought out a lady for a dance, that is all.”

“I am not a lady. I do not hold the lofty title you desire. Will you still want a dance if I am only a miss?” Her lips pursed as she stared at him with something akin to acerbity.

“Ah, I see the dilemma now. You are judging me unjustly.” He was gratified to see her spine snap taut. He had begun to think her a sculpture.

“I have done nothing of the sort.”

“It was you, Miss Peppiwell, who deemed a woman can only be a lady by virtue of a title, and that I would have a similar opinion.”

She flushed, and he gritted his teeth in chagrin as arousal teased at him, hardening his length. He was at a bloody ball, hardly the place to be stirred even slightly.

“I concede, sir, I have been rude. Please accept my apologies.” She gracefully bowed her head, then smiled at him.

Though she sounded sincere her smile did not quite reach her eyes. They remained distant. The flush in her cheeks had already receded, giving her that cold look once more. He did not like it. He should not have cared, having only just met the chit, but he preferred her with the heat that colored her skin and quickened the pulse at her throat. He found it curious that she was aware of the gossip about her. Most young ladies remained oblivious until the cruel jaws of society devoured them.

He made another stab at eliciting a reaction from her. “My lord,” he stated.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You referred to me as ‘sir.’ The proper mode of address is ‘my lord,’ or ‘Lord Anthony.’”

Anger flared in her eyes. They shot sparks, which dampened immediately as if they had been doused with the chilliest of waters. He was riveted. She opened her mouth as if to form a scathing reply, but froze. He had not thought her capable of an even deeper stillness. And yet, a look of panic chased across her features before she slammed the shutters down completely. He turned with an air of casual indifference, curious to know who had the ability to induce panic in this paragon of indifference.

“Lord Anthony.” The grating voice of Lord Orwell trumpeted, and Anthony dipped his head in acknowledgement. He smoothed his features into polite blankness, noting the salacious leer Orwell directed at Miss Peppiwell.

“My dear, I trust you saved a dance for me,” Orwell said. His smile was so toadying that it sickened Anthony. As a waltz started, Orwell held out his arm, clearly expecting her obedience.

“I fear, Lord Orwell, I promised Lord Anthony the last dance on my card.” She subtly shifted closer to Anthony.

A smile curved his lips at the slight inflection of disdain in her pronunciation of their titles.

“I insist I have this dance, Phillipa,” Orwell snapped.

Anthony found it curious that the lady did not correct Orwell’s intimate use of her name. However, she drew herself more upright and seemed to generate a deeper chill around her. Anthony’s chuckle drew the other man’s gaze.

He looked arrogantly down his nose at Orwell’s shorter, stockier frame. “As you see, I have the honor of escorting Miss Peppiwell.”

“Are you still here?” Orwell said, genuinely surprised.

Anthony went stiff with anger, and Orwell flushed, belatedly registering his error. “Thornton…I had not realized.” He fidgeted with his cravat as if feeling a noose tightening around his neck.

Anthony’s intrigue deepened. Orwell had been so obsessed with the sensual Miss Peppiwell, it seemed that he had no issue being rude and dismissive, forgetting Anthony was the financial genius behind the Calydon Holdings. His brother might be the Duke of Calydon, but Anthony’s financial power was so vast he could crush a man with a mere lift of his brow.