Free Winning the Wallflower: A Novella by Eloisa James

Cyrus’s was. She could tell exactly what he was feeling at this very moment. His eyes were sparkling, and she would have bet her entire new fortune that he was marveling at the fact that he’d never really paid attention to his friend Gordon’s sister.
    She had been only a wallflower.
    And now she wasn’t. At least, in his case and to his credit, it didn’t have much to do with her fortune, if at all. He had no need for money.
    “I think Byron runs the risk of turning into a conceited caricature of himself,” she went on. “That poem about parting from his beloved, for example . . . the lament about the dew of the morning sinking into his brow was utterly absurd.”
    Rathbone laughed again. “I should be terrified to show you one of my own poems.”
    “You write?” she asked, genuinely delighted.
    He nodded. “Sonnets.”
    She liked the way he said it, without defensiveness or boasting. “Are you better than Byron?”
    “No.”
    She liked the way he said that too.
    “But I could write a sonnet about you,” he said, his voice deepening a little. “Maybe I’ve just lacked for material.”
    “You do me too much honor,” she said, rising. Cyrus and Miss Edger were still sitting together, talking over a plate of sugared grapes. He would never offer to write a poem. He wouldn’t even know what a sonnet was.
    Rathbone leapt to his feet with gratifying eagerness. There was something awed and sweet in his eyes, as if he were thinking of marriage for the first time.
    She smiled back as if she were feeling the same, and slid her hand under his arm. Muscles rippled under her fingers.
    “Do you ride?” she asked, giving him a soulful smile. She could feel Cyrus’s eyes on her shoulder blades.
    Olivia was right. It was a pleasure to flaunt the fact that Cyrus could no longer have her, not after he valued her at such a poor rate.
    Her smile almost slipped at the truth of that . . . the notion that she was for sale to the highest bidder. But Rathbone was drawing her back to the ballroom, talking of Byron and horses, so she looked up at him and thought about informing her parents that she intended to become Lady Rathbone. Somehow the idea wasn’t disturbing at all.
    Pole finally left with an entourage of fellow gamblers, which meant Lucy could rouse her mother. She had just collected her reticule when there was a touch on her elbow.
    Her heart bounded like a foolish rabbit frightened from a hedge. “Oh, hello,” she said, managing a casual smile by some miracle.
    “It’s you.”

 
    C HAPTER N INE
     
    “Y ou look a bit tired,” Cyrus remarked. They were standing to one side of the ballroom; the musicians played on, but many guests were drifting toward the entryway. “Surely Lady Towerton has not returned home without you?”
    “My mother is napping. The excitement of having one of her daughters touched by King Midas led to a slight overindulgence in champagne.”
    A thread of amusement crept into his eyes. “I did sense a rather unholy excitement in the crowds that surrounded you; perhaps it infected your mother.”
    “My friend Olivia compared me to a golden idol,” Lucy said with a laugh.
    “Idols are cold,” Cyrus said. He stood with his back to the room, so no one could see him run his fingers down her bare arm. “ You are rather warm, Miss Towerton.”
    She shivered at his touch—and then she frowned. “Mr. Ravensthorpe, you missed the chance to dally when we were betrothed. I believe because you were uninterested.”
    Cyrus’s eyes darkened, and she raised her chin defiantly. She refused to be reduced to a silent fool merely because he had green eyes. Or long eyelashes. Or all those other delectable parts. The only thing that mattered was that he hadn’t wanted her enough to fight for her.
    Fight for her? He hadn’t offered a single word in opposition.
    “Lucy.” He said it quietly, but his fingers suddenly circled her wrist. “Surely you are tired of wearing gloves?”
    “It’s my