Free The Secret Mistress by Mary Balogh Page A

habitually, and unsuccessfully, attempted to teach her the wisdom of a lady’s always pausing to consider what she was about to say or do before actually saying or doing whatever it was.
    She had done it again.
Acted
, that was, before thinking of the consequences of what she was about to do.
    Her ankle was not damaged. It was a little sore, perhaps, but only with the sort of pain that diminished to nothing at all within minutes and was really not worth the bother of fussing over. But …
    Well, this was her come-out ball. Worse, this was the opening set of her come-out ball. All eyes were upon her. That seemed to include even the eyes of her fellow dancers.
And
of the orchestra members. She had turned her ankle, though
not
the ankle belonging to the leg she had broken last year, and she had stumbled awkwardly, and she had gasped with pain, and …
    Well, and the world gasped with her and converged upon her from all corners of the globe. The music stopped abruptly, and dancers and spectators came dashing, all presumably in the hope of catching her before she hit the floor.
    The Earl of Heyward reached her first and wrapped an arm about her waist and held her firmly upright so that she could notpossibly tumble to the floor even if that had been her intention, which it had not.
    It was a distracting moment, or fraction of a moment. For he was all firm, muscled masculinity, and Angeline would have liked nothing better than to revel for at least a short while in the unfamiliar delight of being held in a man’s arms—well, almost in his arms, anyway. And not just any man’s arms. And what was that absolutely
wonderful
cologne that clung about his person?
    But voices all about her were raised in alarm or concern or puzzlement.
    “Lady Angeline!”
    “You have hurt yourself.”
    “She has hurt herself.”
    “Set her down on the floor. Don’t try moving her.”
    “Carry her over to the French windows for some air.”
    “What happened?”
    “Hand me my vinaigrette.”
    “Send a servant to fetch a physician.”
    “Did she faint?”
    “The music was too fast. I
said
it was, did I not?”
    “The floor is too highly polished.”
    “Have you sprained your ankle?”
    “Has she broken her ankle?”
    “How dreadfully unfortunate.”
    “Oh, the poor dear.”
    “What
happened
?”
    “Trip over your own toes, did you, Angie?” This last in the cheerful voice of Ferdinand.
    And those were only a sampling of the myriad exclamations and comments Angeline heard. This, she thought, had
not
been one of the best ideas she had ever conceived.
    “Oh, dear,” she said, feeling the heat of a very genuine blush rise in her cheeks, “how very clumsy of me.”
    “Not at all. Are you hurt?” Lord Heyward asked her with flattering concern.
    “Hardly at all,” she said, laughing lightly.
    But
that
was no answer, especially for a large audience, all of whose members were now hushed in an attempt to hear what she had to say. She winced as she set her foot back on the floor, and the guests winced with her.
    “Well, perhaps just a little,” she said. “We had better sit out what remains of this set so that I will be able to dance for the rest of the evening. I am so sorry for causing such a fuss. Please ignore me.”
    She smiled about at the gathered masses and rather wished it were possible to be sucked at will into a great hole.
    “Thank you, Heyward. I shall take Angeline to a withdrawing room to rest for a while. The dancing may resume.”
    It was Tresham, cool and black-eyed. In control. Taking charge.
    Lord Heyward’s arm loosened about her waist but did not entirely drop away.
    “Lady Angeline is my partner,” he said, sounding as cool as Tresham. “I shall help her to that love seat over there and sit with her, as is her wish. She may then decide if she is fit to dance the next set or if she would prefer to withdraw for a spell.”
    It was an exchange that did not even
nearly
qualify as a confrontation, Angeline