Free Kate Moore by An Improper Widow

more intoxicating than champagne. Even as she sat with her slippers firmly planted on the floor, she could feel the melody tugging at her, lifting her, seducing her from sense and prudence and duty. She clutched her fan tightly with both hands.
    “You will break the sticks, Mrs. Bowen,” said a voice at her side. She started and lifted her gaze to find the marquess standing at the edge of her chair, studying her intently. He took her hands in his and loosened her grip on the little fan. The manner in which it was done, at once careless and gentle, sent a hot current of sensation through her. When he released her, her hands burned from the contact, and she buried them in her lap.
    “You do not dance?” he asked, seating himself beside her.
    “Of course not,” she replied.
    “You have no wish to cut a dash among the ladies of the
ton
?”
    Susannah touched one shaky hand to the little lace cap on her head. It was still there. “Cut a dash? Lord Warne, you cannot make me believe you are ignorant of the nuances of ladies’ dress. Do you see one woman dancing with a cap such as this? Such as chaperones wear?”
    “Not one,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I do see Mrs. Trentfield, a widow, whose year of mourning has just this day ended if the gossips may be believed. Your cousin says that you have been a widow for many years.”
    Susannah lowered her gaze and spoke the familiar lie. “Yes. Bowen has been dead since Corunna.”
    “Then you wear your cap because you failed to snare another husband in the interval?”
    “Snare?” she said, lifting her chin to stare him full in the face, ready to relieve herself of a blistering condemnation of gentlemen who imagined that all the treachery of love was on the woman’s side. She saw a teasing gleam in his eyes and knew that she had fallen into his trap. She shut her mouth abruptly and lowered her gaze. She had revealed a weakness to the clever man at her side, and no doubt he would use it against her.
    The lilting music filled a brief pause, but Susannah felt his scrutiny.
    “How do you manage it?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “That trick of lowering your lashes to hide the fire inside.”
    Susannah gripped her fan tighter and strove to recall her purpose. “I am not here to seek dancing partners or a husband,” she told him. “My duty is to my cousin. Her match is my concern this season.”
    “Her mama’s too, of course,” he said, looking across the room at Evelina engrossed in earnest conversation with a woman Susannah did not know. Her aunt appeared to have forgotten Juliet entirely.
    Susannah blushed and straightened. The man was too shrewd. Either her aunt was irresponsible, or her own chaperonage of Juliet was redundant and officious.
    “My cousin’s parents do not entirely agree on the most suitable match for her,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze with a level look of her own.
    “And you are here to represent your uncle’s views?”
    “Yes.”
    “A serious responsibility that allows no time for dancing?” His gaze shifted to Juliet and the gentlemen surrounding her.
    “My lord, I will see my cousin safely wed,” she said.
    “
Safely
?” With a look of swift comprehension, his eyes returned to Susannah. “Hence Brentwood, Mrs. Bowen?” He shook his head.
    Susannah stared at him. “My lord, excuse me. I can’t think what you mean,” she said.
    “But you can, Mrs. Bowen.”
    “If I do understand you,” she said with heat, “you are presuming to suggest that Lord Brentwood is not a proper suitor for my cousin, with whom you have the merest acquaintance. And that is a piece of long-nosed effrontery—”
    He laughed, an undeniably pleasant sound. “Long-nosed effrontery? Dance with me, Mrs. Bowen.”
    “Pray, excuse me, Lord Warne.” She rose abruptly, intent on distancing herself from him, but he stood, catching her wrist and holding it so that she was obliged to stand at his side. She looked pointedly at the gloved hand gripping hers.