Free A Matter of Class by Mary Balogh Page B

said.

    She smiled and fanned her cheeks.
    â€œBut not at all on you,” she said.
    It was not a question.
    He raised his eyebrows.

    D espite her white gown, she looked breathtakingly lovely. There were silver threads in the fine fabric, and they shimmered in the candlelight. The garment, what little there was of it, had probably cost a king’s ransom. It was cut low at the bosom, which was lifted enticingly by her stays, and clung in soft folds to her slender, shapely form. It left little to the imagination, but in her case reality surpassed even the most salacious of imaginations. She was not particularly tall, but her legs, outlined beneath the flimsy fabric, were long and slim.
    Her very blond hair was piled high in intricate curls, with wavy tendrils left to trail artfully along her neck and over her temples. Her eyebrows arched over thick-lashed blue eyes. A straight little nose drew attention downward to a mouth that was graced with soft, very kissable lips.
    She was a rare beauty.

    It was a pity she had eloped with a coachman. She might have married a prince. Or Illingsworth, who would be a duke one day and had been besotted with her until she disgraced herself. And very rich, of course.
    It was a pity she was now doomed to marry a coal merchant’s son.
    Reggie, well aware that he was on public display even if they were outside the ballroom, looked her over coolly—even insolently—while he stood with his back to the balcony rail and she stood a few feet distant, half turned toward him, half toward the ballroom as if she would flee for safety at any moment if he gave her mortal offence.
    She had just given him mortal offense. Did she believe all this business had caused her more suffering than it had him? That she had some sort of exclusive ownership of the suffering business?
    Guests strolled by arm-in-arm inside the ballroom, waiting for the next set to begin. A few couples came out onto the balcony and strolled farther along. All, without being at all obvious about it, were observing the two of them, hoping for . . . what?
    â€œWhat, do you suppose,” he asked, “are they all expecting?”

    â€œOf us?” She turned her head to look fully at him. All evening, even when she had been smiling, she had looked cool and aristocratic. The ice maiden. Except, of course, when he had provoked a blush in her pale cheeks and a flash of indignation in her eyes with his question about virginity. He enjoyed discomposing her. “A cool civility, I suppose.”
    â€œAnd is that what we are going to give them?” he asked her. “How tedious!”
    â€œYou would prefer,” she said, “that I walk away and ignore you for the rest of the evening?”
    â€œThat would be even more tedious,” he said.
    She raised the fan that was dangling from her wrist, opened it, and wafted it before her face despite the fact that it was rather cool out on the balcony.
    â€œYou do not intend, surely, to keep me at your side all evening?” she asked. “People might begin to think that we welcome this situation in which we find ourselves.”
    â€œOn the other hand,” he said, “they might think me blind and daft if I do not show some sign of appreciation for the beauty my father’s fortune has bought me. You made a bold move choosing that particular gown to wear this evening, even if it is a virginal white. It is also rather . . . provocative, is it not?”

    Her fan closed with a snap.
    â€œYou would have me dress in a black shroud, then?” she asked him. “Or in sackcloth and ashes?”
    â€œIt might be itchy,” he said. “The sackcloth, I mean. And ashes might make me cough when I dance with you. And black? No, I think not. You will note that I have not complained of your choice of attire. I would have to have nothing but tar running in my veins not to appreciate it.”
    â€œYou are being deliberately . . . ” She made