An Unexpected Earl (Lords of the Armory #2) - Anna Harrington Page 0,4
are you here tonight, Lady Scarlet, when you so obviously don’t belong?”
“Why are you?” she countered, sending back the next shot in their volley. But the husky tone of her answer told him that he’d rattled her.
“So I could rescue you.” He had no intention of answering that honestly. “Why are you here?”
“Apparently, to be rescued.”
He smiled grimly. Their waltz was coming to an end, and so was his opportunity to learn the truth about her. “You’re not a light-skirt looking to make rent, and you’re not a courtesan searching for a protector.” His eyes searched what little of her face he could see beneath the mask, looking for answers. “You’re also not some jaded society widow looking for an evening’s entertainment.”
“I might be.” The trembling in her voice undercut whatever assurance she’d aimed for. “You don’t know.”
“But I do.”
To make his point, he stepped forward and brought the front of his body in full contact with hers.
She stiffened immediately with a surprised gasp, her hand at his shoulder flattening against the kerseymere of his jacket as if catching herself before she pushed him away. Or before she cracked him over the skull as she’d done to Derby. No courtesan or light-skirt would have done that. Just more proof of how far out of her element she was.
His point made, he shifted away to a respectable distance. Regrettably. The part of him that remembered her desperately wanted to rekindle old acquaintances.
“So why are you here?” He frowned as the last notes of the waltz floated away. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, I can help.” When she hesitated to reply, he added, “And I won’t even ask your real name.”
She paused a moment before muttering, “You do rescue women, don’t you?”
“A man needs a hobby,” he replied, deadpan.
When her shoulders eased down and she bit her bottom lip, he knew he’d won her over, if grudgingly. “If you truly want to help…” As the orchestra fell silent, she stopped dancing and searched for any sign that she could trust him. Either convinced of his trustworthiness—or simply desperate—she said, “I’m looking for Sir Charles Varnham.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Why?”
“Business.”
And none of yours. The unspoken words lingered on the air.
She dropped into a curtsy, which seemed as out of place at Torrington’s masquerade as the formal waltz had been only moments before, and the curious stares she drew confirmed it. “I need to talk to him. Alone.” She held his hand lightly in her fingers, but urgency pulsed in her touch. “Have you seen him?”
The dance had ended. He’d saved her from Derby and any other man who wanted to prey on her tonight. She was no longer his concern.
Yet he couldn’t stop himself from attempting to rescue her again. What could she want with Varnham? If rumors were to be believed, Sir Charles was here only to keep watch on his younger brother, Arthur.
“Please, Pearce.”
The familiarity of that soft plea pierced him. Damn the world that he couldn’t place the distant memory it stirred in the dark corners of his mind, couldn’t put that voice into a context that would tell him who she was.
He also couldn’t refuse. Reluctantly, he told her, “Varnham was lingering in the stair hall a few minutes ago. He might still be there.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shone with gratitude. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Brigadier.”
He suspected she’d wanted to say something more but thought better of it. Instead she slid her hand from his sleeve.
He reached for her arm, stopping her. “Who the devil are you? Your real name.”
“You said you wouldn’t ask if—”
“How do we know each other?” Her eyes flashed from behind the mask in an eruption of alarm and suspicion, yet he pressed. “Tell me.”
“I–I can’t… We don’t—” Unable to hide the immediate quickening of her breath and the pounding pulse at her wrist beneath his fingers, she forced out instead, “I have to go.”
Unexpected jealousy swirled up his spine. “Whatever you’re planning with Varnham, it isn’t a good idea. Going off alone with any man in a place like this—”
“Thank you,” she repeated and persisted in pulling away, yet something about her reminded him of a rabbit caught in a snare. “But as I said, I don’t need to be rescued.”
She turned to leave.
Oh no. She wasn’t getting away that easily. Pearce started after her—
“Sandhurst!” His name carried in a loud shout across the room. “Lord Sandhurst—Brandon Pearce!”
He ignored the calls and chased after her. Just as he was