Free As Rich as a Rogue by Jade Lee Page A

claim his dance.”
    â€œOf course.” But then he held out his hand to her arm, stopping her. “But if I may, is there a dance left for me?” He quickly caught her arm and stroked over her glove until he grabbed the dance card attached to her wrist.
    â€œPerhaps it would be better if—” she began, but he was already scrawling his name boldly across two lines. He returned her card to her, releasing her arm much more slowly. His fingers seemed to linger on her glove, and the heat burned through the fabric as if it were parchment. Her lips began to tingle in memory, and she was so distracted by the dual sensations that she didn’t at first realize what he had done. But then she forced herself to look away from his eyes and down at the card. “You’ve claimed two waltzes,” she said.
    He nodded, his gaze almost distracted. “I cannot understand why they weren’t claimed, but never fear. You shall have a partner now.”
    Meaning him, obviously, the dolt. As if she couldn’t get a partner without his beneficence. “That’s because I don’t dance the waltz,” she said firmly.
    That brought his gaze back hard to her. “You don’t dance it? Whyever not? It’s all the rage in India.”
    â€œI’ve never received permission.”
    That wasn’t exactly true. She’d never asked for permission. Even though every other debutante eventually got the nod for the scandalous dance, she’d never taken the risk, fearing it would appear too wayward.
    â€œThat’s nonsense,” he said. “You’re not a green girl. Just dance it.”
    She didn’t dare, and she was about to say so, but she’d run out of time. The first notes of the next dance had started, and Mr. Midean was clearly irritated. That would never do. He was a rising star in the legal arena, and she considered him an excellent potential husband. Number 31 on her list, in fact. Her father wanted a title, but she was more interested in intelligence and potential influence, which Mr. Midean had in abundance. So she pushed Lord Whitly from her thoughts—or she made a valiant attempt at it—and turned her smile onto Mr. Midean.
    An hour later, she was still thinking of Lord Whitly instead of her dance partners. She’d seen him talk with Lord Rimbury, then steadily make the rounds of the room. He greeted many people, danced with a few young misses, especially the wallflowers, which she thought was sweet, and then sort of meandered about the room.
    If he’d settled with one knot of gentlemen or another, she would have known better what to think of him. If he’d stood with the bankers, well then he was a man of finance. If he’d stayed to chat with the politicals, then she could classify him with them. It was clear from his dress that he was neither dandy nor Corinthian, though he was greeted by both sets.
    In truth, he seemed to be wandering in search of something or exploring to some mysterious purpose. But what? She hadn’t the slightest clue, except he spent an inordinate amount of time catching her looking at him. Annoying man. What was he doing watching her so closely? And why was she looking back all the time?
    She refocused on her partner, finished the set, and then instead of wandering to where Lady Eleanor was holding court—which happened to be near where Lord Whitly stood talking with an aging solicitor—she went to her more typical place near the dowagers. They greeted her like a Greek chorus, all happily in accord. But that lasted only as long as it took for them to smile.
    â€œGoodness, my dear, we all thought you’d forgotten about us.”
    â€œOf course not—”
    â€œLady Mary here thinks Mrs. Wotton has suffered a brain fever that hurt her sense of color. Look at that gown. It’s purple!”
    Mari glanced across the room at the gown in question. It was a beautiful color in her estimation,