Birds of a Feather by Allison Lane

Author:Allison Lane [Lane, Allison]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Regency Romance
Publisher: Belgrave House
Published: 1999-09-25T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER NINE

Joanna stumbled, only her grip on Lord Sedgewick’s arm keeping her upright. Her head spun dizzily.

“Smile!” he growled as they approached the ballroom, three gushing ladies firmly in tow.

She risked a quick glance at his face. Despite the upward tilt of his mouth, he was furious. His eyes had faded to icy gray, though the rakish tilt of his cap and the feather curled over his brow hid them from all but the closest scrutiny. Fine lines clustered at their corners, matching others near his nose and chin. His tone would have sent a dog scurrying for cover.

The ladies swept past as he paused to survey the crowd. Gasps sped across the room. Eyes and quizzing glasses snapped to attention.

She swayed, spots dimming her sight.

“It’s too late to swoon,” he advised dryly, widening his smile even as his arm stiffened. He radiated tension in palpable waves.

“This is absurd,” she hissed, finally able to force words from her mouth. “I cannot—”

“Do you wish to be unemployed, my dear?”

“But why—”

“Enough. This is no time to debate. The least thought should reveal our position. If not, I will explain later. For now, you will express delight over our betrothal and refer any questions to me.”

He was quivering with rage, so she abandoned her protests. They would straighten out this mess when they were under less scrutiny. In the meantime, she would play out the farce, if only to avoid embarrassing him yet again.

Descending the stairs, they circled the ballroom, exchanging pleasantries and accepting congratulations. Her mouth stiffened from false smiles. Shock joined forces with the bump on her head, pounding pain into her temples until she wanted to scream.

If only she could escape. The usual cloud of perfumes gagged her. Tinted haze danced before her eyes, occasionally pierced by improbable figures. An armored knight. A turbaned prince. Madame Pompadour’s foot-high coiffure. Cleopatra. Only her mounting dizziness seemed real. Her increasing desire to be held was even more unreal. She clamped down on any sign of attraction, knowing it grew only from her spiraling weakness.

When the music stopped, she dropped his arm, duty finally jolting her from her lethargy.

“I must return to Harriet.”

“Her mother can look after her. We must dance the next set.”

She abandoned her frigid smile. “Chaperons don’t dance.”

“Betrothed young ladies do.”

“I am neither young nor a lady. Nor will I wed you.” Ignoring his frigid eyes, she doggedly continued. “Lady Wicksfield cannot look after Harriet. She is undoubtedly in the card room. Would you have me abandon my charge?”

“Like it or not, we are betrothed, so your first duty is to me. I will not tolerate a scene. You will allow me to partner you in this waltz.”

His rage was growing. But she could not give in, despite the increasing difficulty of stringing thoughts together. “Honor makes its own demands, sir – as you should know, since you are the first to criticize any lack of it. I vowed to chaperon Harriet. Would you see an innocent ruined because I left her to her own devices? Even this very proper ballroom can be unsafe.

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