Page 68 of The Trouble with Tweed

“We shall go together.” Claire nodded stoutly. “There’s safety in numbers.”

When they’d once more been enveloped by the warmth and sound of the grand house and taken their leave of Miss Bates and her friends, Sylvia whispered, “I don’t think I can face anyone. I feel as if I might burst into tears at any moment.”

“Wait for me in the ladies’ room,” Claire said. “I’ll alert Michael and call for the carriage.”

Sylvia nodded and hurried down the opulent hall. Claire headed toward the sparkling music spilling from the open doorways of the ballroom. The party was in full swing now. Laughter rang out above the stringed instruments playing in the corner, and light shimmered across silk as the dancers twirled in time in the center of the parquet floor.

Michael was across the room, standing with several gentlemen. As Claire debated the best route to reach him unobtrusively, he said something that made the other gentlemen laugh.

“Miss Preston,” Lord Sheldon said, appearing at her elbow so suddenly that Claire jerked in surprise. “I do believe I have the next dance.”

His name was indeed carefully printed on her paper booklet, but Claire wasn’t going to delay her conversation with Michael by the length of an entire dance. Sylvia needed to leave the ball, and Michael needed to go deal with Lord Nelson before the man staggered back into the ballroom, bloodied and hurling accusations. Claire glanced over her shoulder at the entrance as if her thoughts might have conjured the fellow.

“Apologies, Lord Sheldon,” she said hurriedly. “Matters have changed since the start of the evening. I fear I’m not available as promised.”

For any other gentleman, this explanation would have sufficed. But Lord Sheldon frowned, accentuating his toad-like features. Claire still stared across the ballroom in Michael’s direction. He glanced up; their eyes met. Claire raised her eyebrows in an obvious request for help. Michael frowned, turned, and murmured something to his friends.

“I say, Miss Preston,” Lord Sheldon said, pulling her attention from Michael. “This is highly irregular. I asked for the dance and you agreed. I distinctly remember writing my name upon your booklet.”

Lord Sheldon made to grab at the fanciful dance card dangling from her wrist as if he intended to show her proof of their prior arrangement. Claire pulled her hand out of his reach; his amphibious frown deepened.

“My sincerest apologies, Lord Sheldon.” Claire gave her most winning fake smile—the one that took great effort and pulled at the edges of her lips. “As I mentioned, circumstances have changed since we last spoke.”

“Circumstances?” he blustered, his neck turning pink. “What circumstances? You are free for the dance, are you not? And my name is on your card. I remember putting it there.” He jabbed his finger toward her booklet once more.

“Ah, Lord Sheldon,” Michael said, neatly sliding himself between Claire and the man. “Whatever seems to be the matter?”

Lord Sheldon frowned as if debating whether it was advisable to air his grievances to another gentleman. After only a moment, the desire to complain won.

“Miss Preston won’t honor the dance she promised me,” he grumbled petulantly.

“I fear that’s my fault completely,” Michael said smoothly. “You see, I’ve asked for another dance and she’s graciously acceded.” He turned to Claire; his smile was half amusement, half challenge. “Isn’t that right, Claire?”

“Indeed.” Claire put her hand in his offered one with only a small thrill of trepidation.

Three dances. It certainly would be noted by someone, and what would their excuse be for such a display?

Michael led Claire onto the dance floor. Lord Sheldon stared after them with a frown so marked that if he were to open his mouth, Claire thought a croak of anger would emerge. She shook both concerns away quickly. There were more pressing matters.

“What’s the matter, Claire?” Michael murmured in a low tone that sent butterflies loose in her stomach. His eyes were intent on her face; she hoped he attributed the pinkness of her cheeks to the dance, nothing more.

“You cannot react to what I’m about to tell you,” she said. “We are already an object of much attention.”

“Very well. I’ll do my best not to squawk or faint dead away.” The corners of his eyes crinkled, and a swarm of butterflies inconveniently erupted in her stomach.

“If you do react poorly, someone you care about very much will be forever attached to a loathsome gentleman—Lord Nelson.”

“What did that bastard do?” Michael demanded in a low tone.

There was a feathering at the corner of his jaw that she could read easily because she knew him so well, but otherwise he did an admirable job of keeping his anger under wraps.

Claire gave a tight smile. “It wasn’t her fault, I assure you. Or at least, most of her complicity can be attributed to naivete, and not any shortcoming in character.”

“Just tell me.”

“He took her on a walk in the gardens and tried to kiss her,” she whispered.

Michael’s hand spasmed around hers as he frowned down at her. “It’s a wonder you agreed to go with him in the first place, Claire. I got the impression you didn’t like the fellow.”