Free Elisabeth Fairchild by Captian Cupid Page A

soft.” She ran her hand along the cloak’s sleeve.
    “Begs touching,” he agreed.
    A suggestive remark, an unmistakably teasing glint in his eyes, and yet he made no move to put words to action, as others would have. Did he lack desire? Or an awareness of her reputation? Or did the fogged faces at the window keep his hands to himself?
    She took strange comfort in the woolen warmth and solidity of his arm’s support, in his deference of manner, and yet she did not trust him.
    “I have heard, sir, that you are not Mr. Shelbourne at all, but Lord Shelbourne,” she said mildly.
    He laughed. She liked his laugh.
    “Gossip,” he said. “Rarely gets the story straight, you know.”
    “Indeed, I do.”
    “I thought you might.” He drew her hand a little deeper into the crook of his arm. In so doing his hand passed over her sleeve, a quick caress of velvet. It might have been an accident, and yet she knew it was not.
    He slowed his steps, in no hurry.
    “You mistake me for my brother. He is Lord Shelbourne. Anything else you have heard of me, that I may set straight?”
    His eyes glinted starlight, challenging her, admiring her, and somewhere deep within fearing what she might say next. Fearing? What had he to fear, this cockaded marksman?
    “It is assumed you stand to inherit a fortune,” she said.
    Again he laughed, his breath ghostlike in the moonlight. “Regrettably not, unless a plague of some kind should level the field. I am third in line, you see.”
    “Ah. And thus obliged to make a living on your own.”
    “Precisely. The military once seemed sound direction in building a career.”
     “No longer?”
    His gaze strayed, but the answer came swiftly. “No.”
    “And yet, you were successful?”
    “Too much so,” he said softly, voice thin as a knife blade.
    “What would you do now instead?” she asked.
    “Dance,” he said simply.

    It had been too long since he had danced, carefree, arms, legs and heart engaged in a pace that had nothing to do with marching, stealth, or a race for one’s life. He enjoyed dancing with her, a Ninepins Reel, the steps too fast and breathless for much conversation. Their eyes spoke to one another. He could not stop looking at her. She, eyes glowing, cheeks flushed, looked back with steadfast interest, her lips turned slightly upward, not quite smiling, laughter in her eyes. He could not tell what sent his pulse beating faster, the speed of their movements, or the heated promise of amethyst  eyes.
    She liked him. He could see it was s. It gladdened him. He had begun to think himself beyond liking--on occasion--when the worst of what he had done played itself over and over again in his mind.
    And yet, he did not linger at her side when the dance was finished. It would not do to seem too interested, too attentive. He bowed before her, and said, “A pleasure.” Then he turned reluctantly away from her brightness, her beauty, and asked another young lady to dance. He must remember his purpose.
    He led a freckled young woman onto the floor, and watched with satisfaction as a blushing young fellow took Penny Foster’s arm. He allowed his gaze to meet hers only when appropriate to the ensuing movements of the Cumberland Square.
    Such eye contact made his blood race more than the energetic movements of the dance, but he kept it fleeting, sweeter for its very brevity.
    He made a point, when the dance ended, of approaching the group of men in which Mr. Foster stood. Investing himself in a half hour of tedious conversation full of indecipherable local references, he managed at last to make slight mention of the child, Felicity.
    “What a kindness that you take her in,” he said.
    A sudden attentiveness marked the group of gathered Cumbrians, as Mr. Foster, a man of few words and steady gaze, said, “It is no trouble.”
    “A pity for one so young to go fatherless.”
    The old man nodded. “And motherless but for my daughter’s care.”
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