Free Lady Pamela by Amy Lake Page A

smiling at friends and acquaintances in cheerful greeting. Her ease in company was complete, for she had been born into a family of high rank, and never had reason to doubt her place in society.
    ’Twas easy, Pam knew, to be accepted in the ton when your birth demanded it, when your brother was the Marquess of Luton, as your father before. Lady Pamela did not regret her station in life–how could one regret a roof over one’s head, or enough food on the table?–but she was aware, as many of her contemporaries seemed not to be, that it had all been a matter of luck.
    Pure luck that she was a lady, and not Haymarket ware selling her favors along Byward Row.
    The bitterness of her own thoughts brought Lady Pamela up short. Stop this , she told herself. Stop this childish brooding and be happy again. There were many in London without a ha’penny to call their own, and what would they say, if they could hear her thoughts?
    It should have been easy. To be happy, when one had such beauty, such friends, such a life. Lady Pamela tilted her chin. She would not succumb to self-pity. Not a moment longer. The past half-year had been enough.
    Couples swept around her in a kaleidoscope of satin and lace and velvet. Once, her feet would have tapped their impatience to join the dance; once, her heart would have sung the music as the orchestra played.
    Her heart, Pam decided, would sing again.
    A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention; a young woman with shining, long brown hair was being led onto the dance floor by a much older gentleman. Lady Pamela’s eyes narrowed. The man was dressed in an abominable concoction that proclaimed no expense had been spared to make him look twenty, and thus ridiculous. Something furtive lurked in his eyes, and Pam did not like it. The young woman was unhappy, perhaps disinclined to be in present company–
    “Lady Pamela?”
    The Duke of Grentham’s voice, so unanticipated, was deeper than she remembered and sounded mere inches away from her side. If she turned in that direction, she would see him, standing directly in front of her.
    It was not possible. Lady Pamela turned, nevertheless, her upbringing and years in society allowing no other transaction. She favored her visitor–whoever he was, surely not the duke–with a smile.
    But it was him.
    * * * *
    She was more beautiful than he had remembered, even having seen her only a few days earlier at Marchers. She was more beautiful than any woman, and Benjamin felt the need once again, the need to touch her, to be with her.
    A waltz was not enough. He heard himself asking for the dance, nevertheless.
    She stared at him.
    “I... I beg your pardon?”
    He couldn’t blame her. Not after what had happened. The last waltz they had shared, and everything that transpired afterwards. No, he couldn’t blame her.
    The music continued, and the dancers swirled past them, neither moving, standing like stones in a swift-running stream. Benjamin wondered what came next. In the world of the haut ton , what was the appropriate response when a lady refused one the honor...the honor of a dance?
    Had he repeated his request? He must have done so, thought the duke, for Lady Pamela was nodding, gravely, and had reached out her hand, to place it upon his arm–
    Her touch was fire, a wild river of fire rushing through his veins, to his heart.
    * * * *
    She had intended to say no. The words were on her lips, were they not?–when Lady Pamela found her hand on the arm of Lord Benjamin Torrance, and her feet following his into the throng of waltzing couples.
    Surely, she had intended to say no. The duke was looking down at her with that expression–she knew it so well, from their last night at Luton–the expression which said I only want to be with you. I only want to understand. Please, tell me. Explain this to me, so I can understand.
    I cannot explain.
    Do you suppose it would be easier, a small voice asked, if he was not so handsome? If his shoulders