The earl’s fascinating mouth was moving. Oh, Lord, he was speaking to her and she hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention.
“I beg your pardon?”
A corner of his mouth twitched again. She didn’t know if it was in irritation or amusement, but she hoped for the latter. “Woolgathering, were you?”
She smiled, happy he understood. “Oh yes, I’m afraid I was. Another bad habit, you see. You were saying?”
If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the gray eyes softened for a moment. But they wouldn’t soften — he was a rake earl, and she was a penniless, half-American nobody. Gillian suddenly felt it important that he know she wasn’t one of the ton.
“I asked if you would honor me with the next waltz.”
Gillian was sure she wouldn’t be able to drag her gaze from the earl’s eyes if her life depended on it. She mused upon the black flecks interspersed with the silver. The effect was mesmerizing. “I’m afraid I do not waltz, my lord.”
A flicker of annoyance passed over the earl’s face. “Do not, or will not, Miss Leigh?”
“Cannot, Lord Weston.” Gillian put her hand on his sleeve and leaned forward. “It’s shameful, I know, but you see, I was raised by my aunt and uncle in Boston.”
Weston leaned closer. She was drowning in his eyes. Happily, eagerly, willingly drowning. A heady, spicy scent wafted up from him and tickled her nose. She greedily inhaled it, feeling it permeate down to her bones, sure that if she were to expire on the spot, she’d die a happy woman.
“Do they not waltz in Boston?” His voice rumbled intimately around her. Gillian’s mouth went instantly dry.
“Yes, they do,” she croaked.
“Then why?” Weston took her hand and held it between his palms. Gillian felt the touch burn up her arm and directly into her brain. “Why will you not waltz with me?”
“Um.” She was lost in the sliver and black and gray of his fascinating eyes. Why was he trying to distract her with talk? And what was he talking about? Waltzing? What was that? “My uncle would not allow me to learn how. He was a very devout man. A Shaker, as a matter of fact.”
Gillian’s eyes rounded and she stepped back under the influence of Weston’s sudden, feral smile.
“Then you must grant me the privilege of teaching you how. The next waltz?” He squeezed her hand gently.
“No, my lord, you mustn’t,” she gasped, horrified at the thought of learning to dance in such a public venue. Given the accidents that inexplicably seemed to shadow her, he’d probably end up with a broken leg — or worse.
“Ah, I see. You have not yet been given permission to waltz? I will speak with Lady Jersey on your behalf.”
Gillian frowned up at the quirked brows. “Good heavens, my lord, I don’t care about having permission to dance. It’s not as if I’m…that is, I should warn you…” She glanced over at her cousin for help, but Charlotte had turned away in an obvious attempt to give them privacy. Gillian leaned forward again. “I’m not supposed to be here, you see. On virgin’s row, that is.”
“Virgin’s row?” One side of the earl’s mouth curved up. Gillian watched it, fascinated. She’d do anything short of murder to run her fingers along those lips.
“Yes, that’s what I call it. I’m not really here to have a Season, I’m merely accompanying my cousin, Lady Charlotte. I’m not an heiress, you know. I don’t have any illustrious family connections other than my uncle, and I’m not an Original or an Incomparable, so you needn’t feel obliged to dance with me.”
The other side of that lovely mouth curved up, and Gillian blinked with pleasure at the surprising warmth of the Lord of Sunshine’s smile. She felt her own lips curving in response. Perhaps she had been a little hasty in ruling out murder.
“I assure you, Miss Leigh, I do not have a standing requirement that my waltz partners be heiresses, titled, or Incomparables.”
“Or Originals?” Gillian asked with a decidedly mischievous look. Weston noted with interest that her dark green eyes had brilliant little gold flecks that seemed to light up when she smiled.
He pressed her hand, then released it. “I suspect, my dear, that you fit that title rather well. Ah, it sounds as if that’s a waltz beginning. Shall we?”
He held out his arm for her.
“Oh — but — are you sure? I wouldn’t want to hurt you.” She tilted her face up to peer into his eyes.
Weston noted the fine bone structure of her heart-shaped face. She was heavily freckled on all her exposed surfaces — obviously she was one of those redheads who freckled at the slightest hint of exposure to the sun, and if the golden hue of her skin was any clue, he suspected she spent a good deal of time outdoors. Rather than finding fault with the flaw in her complexion, he found himself wanting to stroke the silky, freckled skin. The warmth of her presence drew him like a moth to a flame.
He took her hand and, placing it on his arm, led her out onto the floor. “I have survived many worse situations, I assure you.”
“Not with me,” she mumbled, looking momentarily disgruntled, but immediately that look fled and one of sheer terror replaced it.
“Just follow my lead,” Weston said, speaking softly into her ear, “and listen to the music. A waltz moves to the count of three.”
He tried to maintain his amusement at her terror, but truth to tell, he found himself drawn to the warming glow that seemed to surround her. Her unsophisticated display of emotions beguiled him; if she wasn’t voicing her every thought, they were quickly discerned by one look at her easily read face. Weston found such candor refreshing in a society that did its best to hide honesty and truthfulness.
“Oh, my!” Gillian gasped as he moved her expertly into the dance. She caught her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on matching his steps. Despite her stiffness and awkward movements, the earl felt a sudden flash of lust knife through him. His attention was drawn to her lips. They were mirrors of her emotions, twisting into a rueful grimace as she made a misstep or curving into a stunningly brilliant smile when she caught the rhythm of the dance.
“Look at me, not your feet,” he quietly commanded, wanting to bask in the glory of that smile again. She tipped her head back and flashed him an impish grin that he felt deep in his chest.
“You’ll be sorry, my lord. Or rather, your toes will.”
“How old are you?” Weston asked before he could stop himself.
“Five and twenty. How old are you?”
“A decade older than you,” Weston answered, amused by her brashness. She was forward, that was certainly true, but he didn’t see any signs that she was putting on an act of innocence for his benefit. One look in her guileless eyes convinced him that she was indeed an Original — open, honest, and completely untouched by the debauched society that made up the ton. The glow from her innocence and gentle femininity washed over him in a wave of sudden welcome warmth. He entertained a pleasant picture of her sitting by the fire in his library, her head bent over a bit of feminine frippery, their evenings spent in quiet, tranquil companionship.