Free A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh Page A

horrifying as the urge to laugh a moment ago was the frisson of heated awareness she felt now. She had just asked him in front of half the ton , all of which was watching them . . .
    â€œIf you are asking whether you may expect fumbling ineptness on our wedding night, Lady Annabelle,” he said, “I will simply advise you to wait and see.”
    The rush of aching awareness settled unmistakably between her inner thighs.
    He was behaving very badly.
    So was she, but she had been provoked.
    It was a good thing that so many dancers were now on the floor that their nearest neighbors had to shuffle close enough to be within earshot. Their conversation must become more decorous.

    â€œLady Annabelle,” he said, raising his voice slightly —it acquired a bored cadence, “may I compliment you on your appearance tonight? You put to shame the delicate beauty of all the roses and other flowers in the room.”
    â€œThank you, sir.” She inclined her head in gracious acknowledgment of the compliment.
    And the music began.
    If the ton had expected him to clump about the ballroom with vulgar ungainliness, they were to be disappointed. He danced gracefully and was light on his feet. He knew all the steps and intricate figures without making one false move. His fingers were warm and sure about Annabelle’s when the dance required them to join hands and steady on her waist when he twirled her down the set between the row of ladies on one side and gentlemen on the other.
    He had, of course, attended balls before tonight, though most of the ton had probably not noticed him. Annabelle had seen him more than once. She had never danced with him, though—until now.
    Oh, she could have enjoyed it under different circumstances. But these were not different circumstances.

    He gazed steadily at her throughout the almost half hour of the set. He made no attempt to converse, and he did not once smile.
    It was most disconcerting. It was, she guessed, meant to be.
    She smiled—dazzlingly—at him the whole while.
    He spoke again as the music drew to an end.
    â€œWalk out on the balcony with me,” he said. “It is as hot as hell in here.”
    â€œPerhaps you do not understand,” she said, “that two people do not monopolize each other’s company for two sets in a row or for more than two in a whole evening.”
    â€œCoal thickening the blood makes one slow of understanding,” he said—in his father’s thick north country accent.
    Lord Huey and Miss Coolidge were beside them and must have heard the exchange. They would be falling all over their feet to return to the sidelines to repeat it, Annabelle thought.
    â€œCome anyway,” Mr. Mason said. “This is my engagement ball, and if that does not entitle me to take my betrothed onto the balcony when I choose, then what use is a betrothal?”

    â€œAn interesting question,” she said, “to which I have no definitive answer. Lead the way, sir.”
    And she laid her hand on his sleeve and half-trotted beside him as he strode in the direction of the French windows without glancing to left or to right.
    Was he being deliberately... uncouth?
    But of course he was!
    â€œThey expect it of me,” he said as they stepped out onto the balcony, as though he had read her thoughts.
    â€œAnd you always give people what they expect?” she asked.
    â€œOh, always,” he said with a weary sigh, “when it suits me.”
    He took her to stand by the rail across from the ballroom and stood with his back to it—in full view of anyone inside who cared to glance their way.
    â€œOne would not wish to sully your reputation, after all,” he said by way of explanation, “by skulking in the shadows.”
    â€œI am overwhelmed by your consideration for my reputation,” she told him.
    He looked at her and pursed his lips.
    â€œThis has all been very hard on you, has it not?” he