A Spinster for a Spy_Lily - Clean Regency Romance by Arietta Richmond

Author:Arietta Richmond [Richmond, Arietta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dreamstone Publishing
Published: 2019-05-13T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Nine

When Trent returned to the ballroom, with the poem folded, rolled, and retied with its ribbon, and tucked deep within the narrow pocket of his jacket tail, Lady Lily was dancing with her brother – that was far easier for him to see, than had been her dancing with Wiltingham. He waited until the dance completed, and she had rejoined the rest of her family, before moving in that direction. There was only one dance to run, before supper, and he thought it probable that she would be spoken for, but he had to ask – he could not bear the thought of the evening passing without a chance to dance with her, to talk to her – and perhaps, somehow, to get her alone long enough to ask about the poem.

“Good evening, Lady Lily.”

He bowed, and her eyes met his as he rose. They were warm, welcoming, and his heart gave the oddest little flip within his chest.

“Good evening, Lord Canterford – I did not realise that you were here.”

Her words sounded almost admonishing, and he wondered at the tone.

“I did arrive rather later than usual, my Lady. Might I… might I hope that you still have a dance available?”

She blushed, and glanced away for a moment. He wondered why.

“Lord Canterford, you appear to have a talent for asking me to dance when I have but one space left on my dance card. This evening, that space is the next dance.”

Trent maintained his careful smile, but the thought flitted through his mind – how was that possible, with a woman as popular as Lady Lily? Unless… she had kept it available, for him… It was a wonderful thought, one which he wished to believe, but he chided himself for foolish imaginings as he offered her his arm.

It was a waltz, again, and that small core of warmth, which the thought of her saving the dance for him had created, grew larger. Did she want to be held in his arms as much as he wanted to hold her? Was the poem, that even now seemed an enormous weight in his pocket, actually written for him?

The thought of the poem steadied him – brought him back to the cold reality of the fact that he still did not know the truth of her, or of that clandestine correspondence. The determination to ask her about it, outright, filled him – somehow, he would manage it.

Then the music swept him away, the feel and scent of her so close was intoxicating, and he allowed himself to forget the poem, even if only for the duration of the dance.

They barely spoke as they danced, yet the silence was comfortable, comforting – a silence of closeness that needed nothing more. Then the music ended, and the magic departed, the noise of the crowded room rushing back into his awareness. He led her from the floor, and in to supper.

They spoke again, quietly, and he could not resist sending the discussion back to books, and poetry, as he had once before.

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