Free Gayle Buck by Hearts Betrayed Page A

gripped Michele’s arm. “It is Lord Randol, coming toward us this moment. I have already danced with him twice. Another set, and everyone will think that we have come to an understanding. What am I to do?”
    “Why do we not wait to see what his lordship wants before you become hysterical, cousin,” Michele suggested quietly.
    Lord Randol bowed impartially to the ladies, but he reserved a flicker of a smile for Lydia alone. “Miss Davenport, I see that you do not dance. Perhaps you would honor me once more.”
    Lydia identified the strains of music that were starting up. With relief she said, “I am sorry, my lord, but as it is my come-out, I am not permitted to waltz. However, my cousin is already out, and she waltzes divinely.”
    Michele stared at Lydia, appalled. She swiftly glanced at Lord Randol, who had registered an expression similar to what she was feeling.
    In an instant, however, his lordship’s face smoothed to polite indifference. He bowed with seeming alacrity. “Mademoiselle, I would be delighted.”
    Michele curtsied before placing her hand in his. With an unreal feeling she allowed him to lead her onto the floor and to take her into his arms. His left hand formed a loose circle about her fingers and his other hand pressed lightly against her slender back. Michele could feel the warmth of his arm where it encircled her. She closed her eyes for the smallest second. It all rushed back to her with such force that she felt giddy.
    “So you feel it too,” Lord Randol said. His harsh voice caused her to stiffen. She stared up at him, a questioning look in the depths of her deep blue eyes. “Pray do not go all wooden on me, mademoiselle. It is most difficult to guide a mannequin about the floor.”
    Michele flushed and her lashes swept down to hide her vulnerability. “I apologize, Monsieur,” she said in a low voice.
    Lord Randol smiled, a devilish light in his eyes. “Your tongue betrays you, mademoiselle. I have not forgotten that you had a habit of lapsing into French whenever you felt most burdened.” The observation appeared to give him satisfaction.
    Michele looked up at that, a spark of anger in her eyes. “Is it any wonder that I should feel burdened, my lord? The circumstances that I find myself in are bizarre in the extreme,” she retorted.
    “I am only too aware of how that might be, mademoiselle. I have appeared as a ghost from the past, and not a particularly welcome one at that.” As Lord Randol stared down into her face, his expression slowly altered.
    Michele felt the instant that his hand tightened about her fingers and his arm drew her nearer to him. Quite suddenly and horribly she knew what he meant to do. And it would taint her most cherished memories. “No, do not!” she said urgently.
    He glanced down at her. There was an implacable look about his mouth. “For a moment only we shall pretend the magic remains, mademoiselle,” he said softly.
    The next instant he swept her into an unbroken series of turns. They circled the ballroom once, twice, their passage graceful and extravagant in style. The murmurs of several individuals quickly brought the swiftly gliding couple to the attention of others.
    Lady Basinberry looked on the entrancing spectacle in astonishment. “My word! Michele and his lordship appear as though they have danced together scores of times!” she exclaimed. Beside her, Lydia jumped, then cast a swift glance at her aunt. But Lady Basinberry did not appear to notice her younger niece’s guilty start.
    Michele was caught up in the exhilarating rush of air, the sense of weightlessness, the breathtaking intimacy of the waltz. But tonight it had all become twisted and ugly. She knew that she would never again recall those long-ago happy times without remembering also this last waltz, a waltz that had been forced upon her with spiteful spirit.
    When the waltz at last came to an end, Michele tore herself free of Lord Randol’s slackening embrace. Her eyes