Free A Baron in Her Bed by Maggi Andersen Page B

they all trouped into the ballroom where a string quartet tuned their instruments.
    Horatia was immediately claimed by twenty-year-old Henry Ferris, whom she considered barely out of short trousers. Lord Fortescue escorted Miss Emma Broadhurst, the curate’s daughter, and they formed part of the set for the country dance. The wine made Horatia reckless. She met the baron’s eyes over Emily’s head as they moved towards the end of the line, and she flirted with Henry as the dance progressed. At first surprised by the change in her, Henry needed little encouragement. By the time the dance was completed, he had become a clown, turning the wrong way on purpose, and making everyone laugh.
    He escorted Horatia to a chair and seemed inclined to remain by her side. Horatia battered her eyelashes at him as he hovered over her. “Could you see if they’ve found my fan, please, Henry?” She smiled sweetly at him. “It is so dreadfully close in here.”
    Henry hurried from the room. Almost as soon as he disappeared out the door, a waltz was struck up. Lord Fortescue appeared at her side, beating Frederick Oakley, who approached her with the same intention, by a whisker.
    Lord Fortescue bowed. “May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Cavendish?”
    Horatia baulked at the thought. When news of the waltz had first reached them, lessons had been held at the assembly rooms in St Albans. Despite Henry partnering her and treading heavily on her toes, she had enjoyed the dance but felt far from confident that she’d mastered it with any degree of grace. Manners dictated she must accept. She murmured a polite response and accompanied him onto the floor. This close, it followed that she would know whether or not he recognized her. She almost welcomed it, for she wished to bring the whole charade to an end.
    “This is a dance with which I’m familiar,” he said, drawing her close in his arms. “We danced it in Paris long before it came to England.”
    She supposed he considered England far behind Paris in most things fashionable. Finding herself pressed up against his hard chest produced the memory of how it looked unclothed. Her breath caught, and she wriggled within his arm. “We do not dance this close in England, my lord.”
    He let her go in surprise then took up the pose again, leaving space between them. “ Merci. I did not know. You have saved me from making a faux pas .”
    She suspected he knew quite well, for the devilry in his eyes betrayed him. “You might learn by observing others, my lord,” she admonished him.
    At least now she could breathe. But this was unlike the night they had spent together, when her disguise had protected her. Did he find her attractive? She had no idea if his charm was merely part of his personality. It shouldn’t matter, for he would choose a bride from the aristocracy, but somehow it did. His hand at her waist, guiding her, made her recall their time in the hut and his indecent revelations of lovemaking. Her breath quickened at the thought of such an act perpetrated by him on some woman, and even possibly her. His proximity and the strength and pure maleness of him overwhelmed her. Breathing in the familiar woody Bergamot scent, intermingled with starched linen and soap, she closed her eyes, but that made her dizzy. After examining his masterfully tied cravat adorned with a sapphire pin the color of his eyes, she raised her eyes to his. “I have not seen a cravat tied in that way before. What is it called?”
    He smiled down at her. “I believe it is called Trone d’Armour .” The style hailed from France most likely. He was different from the English in other ways too. The French had a disconcerting way of looking at someone. Was he the real Baron Fortescue or an impostor? He knew so much about the Fortescue family. And he had talked so lovingly of them, she found she couldn’t doubt him.
    To calm herself, she fixed on the dimple in his chin. His full under lip might be a sign of