Free Most Eagerly Yours by Allison Chase Page A

gifts and served punch and Christmas pudding.
    Ah, but it was not the heat or noise or confusion, or even the assault of masculine shoes against her toes, that put her out of sorts. It was he , Lord Barensforth, and what his being here would mean to her mission.
    What his being here would mean to her .
    “I need some air,” she said to Lord Wentworth. “I . . . do not feel at all well.” Snapping her fan open, she fluttered it in front of her face.
    Wentworth’s mouth held a trace of annoyance. He conveyed her to the tearoom and handed her into the first available chair, which happened to be at a table occupied by a half dozen young people of about Willow’s age. “Wait here. I shall attempt to procure you something cool to drink.”
    She nodded and continued to fan her face. After initial greetings the others at the table returned to their own lively conversation. Laurel scanned the crowd for Lord Wentworth. Surely he should have returned by now.
    Rising and wandering back into the octagon room, she pondered the various doorways and tried to remember Lady Fairmont’s explanations of where each one led. Entering the gentlemen’s cardroom would raise a scandal sure to keep people twittering late into the night. She avoided that door and chose another.
    As soon as the frigid air hit her skin, she realized her mistake, yet the stone terrace overlooking the backs of nearby buildings offered a haven she could not resist. The terrace stood empty, and as the din of the ball faded to a muted hum behind her, she welcomed the chilly air against her cheeks. She tugged off her cream satin gloves and leaned her hands on the balustrade.
    Behind her, the door opened. “Good evening. It is Mrs. Sanderson, is it not?”
    Laurel whirled and pulled up short at the sight of him .
    He stood framed in the doorway, the light behind him gilding his silhouette and draping his face in shadow. Nevertheless, she recognized the Earl of Barensforth immediately. No other man stood as he did, tall and solid and steadfast, with broad shoulders and a bearing she could term only . . . noble. However fanciful a description, she could not help thinking it.
    Her heart clamored, then stood still, then clamored again as he stepped toward her like the hero of a beloved fairy tale walking off the timeworn pages.
    “Yes, it is Mrs. Sanderson.” On his lips, her false name took on a world of meaning, of innuendo. Tingles showered her spine. He raised a hand, the light from inside glinting off an object grasped in his long fingers. “I thought perhaps you could use this.”
    When Laurel merely gaped up at him like a fox at the hounds, he reached for her hand and pressed a champagne glass into her palm.
    “I thought only tea and punch were served here.”
    “Madam, spirits are always available in the cardroom. Drink. It will revive you.”
    She obeyed with a small sip. He was right. The bubbles tickled her throat, instantly making her feel more alert and not nearly as overheated.
    No, the flush warming her skin now had nothing to do with the sweltering crush inside, and everything to do with how Lord Barensforth’s eyes held her, traveling a leisurely course across her face and her bared décolletage.
    “Thank you.” She inhaled, her breath audibly trembling. Why did he make her feel so capricious, so unlike herself? Until this instant, she had even failed to notice a highly pertinent detail. “How do you know my name?”
    “We have a mutual friend.” He smiled with a quirk of his lips she remembered from Knightsbridge; now, as then, her pulse leaped at the sight of it. “Beatrice Fitzclarence. She pointed you out to me.”
    “Did she?” Good heavens. How ironically inconvenient for Lady Devonlea to bring her to the attention of the one person Victoria most wished her to avoid. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I must return to the tearoom. Lord Wentworth will—”
    “I shouldn’t worry about him. His own fault for abandoning you as he did. Any