The cords of a waltz struck up. Anthony inclined his head in scant acknowledgment as he led Miss Peppiwell onto the dance floor, sweeping her into the rousing steps. A tingle of unease stirred through him at the avaricious way Orwell stared after them. Something glittered in his gaze—malice tinged with greed and obvious lust.
Anthony glanced down at her as she stared stonily at his shoulder. “Orwell is not a man any young lady should be involved with.”
“I did not ask, nor do I require, your remonstrance.” There was a slight pause and then a gusty expulsion that surprised him. “However, I thank you for going along with my ruse.”
“A small thing to have you in my arms.”
“It is futile to try your wiles on me, Lord Anthony. I am immune to such devices.” The watchful frostiness had returned.
“I have no desire to try wiles or anything else on you,” he said in a deliberately disinterested tone.
“So your reputation as one of the most licentious rakes in society is false, I presume?”
“Undeserved, I assure you.” He twirled, spinning her with graceful ease around the dance floor. “I do not prey on the innocent.”
He felt the slight stiffening of her body and he followed the lashes that swooped down obscuring her eyes. He was not sure, but he thought he had seen a flare of anger. Interesting.
“And yet, here you are.” The affront in her tone was unmistakable. “Have you presumed to refer to me as impure?”
“As I am not preying on you, the matter of your innocence is moot.”
The longest of lashes flickered, and she peered up at him. He wished there was some nuance of expression to give an inkling of her thoughts. His gaze slashed to Orwell, who waited, foot tapping impatiently at the edge of the dance floor. She glanced to Orwell as Anthony spun her past in a swirl and he assessed the flash of distaste in her expression.
“I fear you will not be able to refuse him without causing some gossip. He appears most insistent.”
She directed her scorn toward Anthony. He was not sure which he preferred, the coldness or the disdain.
“I desire to avoid a lecher from pawing at me, yet to do so, your polite society would deem I am behaving inappropriately.”
“Society is fickle, indeed. However, if you wish for his attentions to be directed elsewhere, I will see to it.”
He was pleased to note that she could not disguise her surprise. Her eyes widened, and their dark gold glittered. “And why would you render such assistance to someone you do not know? Or about a situation you do not comprehend?” she asked, sounding genuinely curious.
He shrugged, then spun her into several dizzying spins before replying, “I have been accused of being gentlemanly several times. It might be that my duty was drilled into me from birth to respond to a damsel in distress.”
Her chin tilted haughtily, and he found himself counting the freckles on her nose. She had eleven.
“I am not in distress, and I am certainly not a damsel.”
He smiled, titillated by her hauteur. “Nevertheless, my offer stands.”
“How kind of you,” she said acidly. “And how would you achieve such a feat? A duel, perhaps, like our forefathers? Pistols at dawn?”
“The mere sign of my displeasure would be sufficient,” he stated ignoring her sarcasm.
“It must be convenient to have your impeccable bloodlines and be as rich as Croesus. It must make you feel like a king among people whom you deem lower than yourself.”
“You have not been acquainted with me long enough to classify me as either boorish or arrogant as you suggest, Miss Peppiwell.”
Full, pouty lips thinned, and she lowered her gaze. “You are correct, my lord. Forgive me.” She appeared genuinely chastened.
He studied her assessingly. Up close, he couldn’t call her beautiful in the classical sense. Yet, he felt a definite niggle of need tightening inside him. He had not been involved with his mistress for several weeks now, having committed himself to the pursuit of a proper wife. He had a lady in mind, but she resided in the country and it wasn’t exactly working out as he’d hoped. Restless and edgy, he had decided to attend Lady Calvert’s midnight ball, wanting a distraction.
By all rights, he should be concentrating on the stunning widow Lady Galveston, who had been throwing him sultry looks since his arrival, but he had to admit the slender redhead with her cold, golden eyes interested him far more. Well, she had at least made his cock stir for the first time in ages.
“Orwell is trying to find you in the crowd. I am taller than most, so he will find us shortly,” he observed.
Her lips parted as he whirled her several paces away, out of Orwell’s view. “The oaf is distressingly persistent,” she agreed.