Page 4 of How to Wed a Courtesan

‘Yes, but dancing is preferable by far to patience.’ He offered her his arm. ‘Shall we?’

She slipped her hand into the warm crook of his elbow, near enough to him now to make out the warm sandalwood notes of his shaving soap she’d caught earlier.

He led her through the opening notes of a cotillion. ‘Do you attend balls often?’

‘I must confess, this is my first.’

His mouth fell open as they danced apart and towards other partners. When they returned to one another, he appeared much chagrined. ‘Then I suppose any hope of finding you at a ball in London would be impossible?’

‘Unfortunately,’ Lottie replied with genuine disappointment.

‘If you were in London I would find you at every ball. I’d parade you through Vauxhall Gardens and ensure everyone saw you sitting at my side in my family’s box at the opera.’

It was fascinating, how he described it. ‘Goodness, that does sound exciting.’

‘You would love it.’ He twirled her around in the dance.

Her gaze met his, even as the room around them seemed to continue to spin. ‘I want to hear of it all.’

‘In Vauxhall Gardens a whistle blows at night, and lanterns as far as the eye can see all light up at once.’

She could imagine the spots of light flickering to life amid a sea of darkness and smiled. ‘Tell me more.’

He went on to sweep her away into another world of grand entertainments in London and summers spent at the family castle in Scotland. Lottie had always cherished her life in Binsey, and had never once thought it dull. At least not until now, as she heard of the splendour to be found beyond the cottage.

As she listened to the velvety rich detail being painted in her mind, she could not help but be dazzled as Lord Murray swept her away into another world—one she had never been party to until this night.

While she did dance with other men that evening, the cotillion was not the only dance set Lord Murray claimed. He secured her for a country dance later, though the steps were so lively there was little talking to be had. Still, they laughed and smiled, eyes locked, her heart racing throughout.

Facing the end of the evening, and her time in his presence, had been difficult. For this ball had been the most magical thing ever to have happened in her life. And Lord Murray the most fascinating man she’d ever met.

Never had she known someone whose speech, for better or for worse, was so honest. A refreshing change from the polished conversation she tiptoed around every day. He filled her mind with the experiences he so eloquently described and easily drew her in with his infectious grin. And, while she would never wish away her happy life in Binsey, she couldn’t help but hope to see Lord Murray again.

Evander, Baron Murray, heir to the Earldom of Westix, floated on the proverbial clouds the day following Lady Pensville’s ball. In the past years there had been several ladies who had caught his eye as he’d sought the woman he intended to wed. He’d even called on a few of them the day following a dance, with flowers in his hand. But never had he selected a bundle with more nervous care.

It was ironic that he should meet such a woman just as he was due to return to Westix Manor in Southampton, to aid his father following the Earl’s return from India.

Evander considered the flowers on the padded seat beside him. Daffodils for his regard, pink carnations for his affection, and a few sprigs of myrtle to signify love and marriage—a play on what they’d spoken of the night before. However, as he drew his curricle to a stop before Lady Hasgrove’s sprawling estate he thought better of his decision and plucked out the sprigs of myrtle.

They lay scattered over the rocks lining the curved drive like large flecks of snow. What was worse, removing them left the bundle of flowers woefully apparent of their absence. It looked no better than the miserable weeds he’d plucked at Comlongon Castle in Scotland for his mother and sister when he’d been a boy.

Damn.

He kicked himself for not having gone with roses or tulips or bloody lilies. Hyacinths, even. Anything more typically in fashion and more appealing.

He jumped from the carriage with the intent of reclaiming the small white flowers when a cheerful voice broke through the silent country morning.

‘Good day, Murray.’

Charles, Lord Folton, offered him a congenial grin as he made his way up the path to where Evander was preparing to climb the stone steps.

‘Might I hazard a guess that your visit has something to do with a certain lovely vicar’s daughter?’

Evander drew up short at the sight of the other man, leaving the white flowers where they lay, limp and discarded.

When Folton had implied the night before that no one had claimed a space on Miss Rossington’s dance card, Evander had assumed this duke’s heir had no interest in the stunning young woman. But if he was calling on her now, after the ball where he too had shared a dance with her...

Lord Folton cocked an eyebrow at the bunch of flowers, whose slender stems had become rather warm and wilted in the cradle of Evander’s palm. ‘I dare say Lady Langston will be quite put out at what you have no doubt done to her garden to obtain those.’