Free Raven's Ransom by Hayley Ann Solomon Page B

face-to-face with her debonair stranger and her legs trembled unforgivably in their daring undergarments of rouched pantalets.
    Lord Denver Barrymore, viscount of the realm, regarded her with amusement tinged with a hint of resignation. Trust him to not have bided by his instincts and called the damned horses up! But no, he would have to do a right turn and demand of Sally an introduction. By the looks of it, she needed it, for it was a waltz striking up and he could bet his last farthing—quite literally, as he probably did not have a guinea to his name—that the chit had not been visited with the celebrated permissions. He looked sternly at Sally, who could never, he knew, resist a gentleman of charm and address. He just prayed he had both. He obviously did, for Lady Jersey’s frown lightened considerably as she applied her lorgnette to Lily and glared at poor Mr. Campion, who had the foresight to at once drop his arm and relinquish his prize.
    “Ah, Miss Chartley!” Lady Jersey scrutinized Lily from top to toe until the youngest Miss Chartley would undoubtedly have squirmed in alarm had she not been fortified by a most unscrupulous wink by the dazzling gentleman at her side.
    “I see Mr. Campion here was just escorting you to acquire permission to waltz. Well, permission granted, since you are a goddaughter of my very dear friend Lady Rochester and she has just rather obligingly vouched for you. You are fortunate.” This last tone was dry and Lily realized at once her mistake and the lady’s supreme graciousness in overlooking it. It did not occur to her to wonder how Lady Rochester—associated with her only by a prodigiously large diamond pin—should act her sponsor. She did, however, remember her manners sufficiently to bob a grateful curtsy. Mr. Campion seized her eagerly by her satin-trimmed arm. Lady Jersey froze him with a glance.
    “I believe you have not yet met the Viscount Barrymore, Miss Chartley. Be warned. He is both a scoundrel and a rogue, probably in equal proportions. He has, however, the felicity of being a gentleman, so I commend you to his care and trust you enjoy the dance.” With that, she deflated many a poor debutante’s hopes, caused untold matchmaking mamas to seethe, and headed for the antechamber, where she could enjoy a comfortable coze with Emily Cowper and the Baroness Esterhazy. Lily, of course, did not look back.
    Mr. Campion, seeing the direction of her gaze and divining, at last, that the great triumph of a waltz with Lily was not that night to be achieved, bowed perfunctorily and set his sights on the west wing, where he hoped he might make better headway with one of the other sisters. Again, Lily did not notice. She was blinded, in fact, by the deprecating smile of the gentleman before her, who apologized for his intervention and wondered, gazing all the time at her soft, berry red lips, whether she cared, at all, to favor him? Whereupon Lily uttered something that sounded very much like a squeal but which he obligingly took to be an affirmative. He then bowed, and led her, rather dazed, onto the floor.
    Daisy felt she could breathe again. She would not have been so certain if she had noted the brooding eyes of a gentleman, darkly dressed in a frock coat trimmed with gold. He had just won a splendid, matched pair of high-stepping bays, but seemed to hold this to little account. Rather, his attention was fixed so wholly upon her shining eyes and remarkable ringlets, that he was forced to mutter an abstracted apology when he collided with Lady Dorset and her plaguey full-length hems. Fortunately, Daisy’s complacency remained intact, for she had no notion of his extraordinary attention.
    As the grand clock struck half past the hour, Primrose finally appeared, arm in arm with the Marchioness of Rochester, a circumstance that caused many a knowing brow to lift. She suggested that they depart at once, for the hour was quite advanced and she was anxious to check that Lord Raven