“Lady Kate, will you do me the honor of dancing with me?”
Kate jumped at the deep male voice, sloshing the lemonade in her glass onto the skirts of her blue silk gown. “Oh, bother.”
Mr. Hunter stepped around from behind her and produced a handkerchief from his pocket. She nearly told him she didn’t need it—she had enough sense to bring her own—but she bit back the sharp retort. Being rude to the man only seemed to encourage him. And reason dictated that if he pursued her merely for the fun of ruffling her feathers, she need only stop allowing her feathers to be ruffled and he would lose interest and let her alone.
She daintily accepted the square of linen. “Thank you.”
“The least I could do, after startling you.”
She rather thought it was. “It was my error. I was woolgathering.”
“We can debate the matter over our dance. You will dance?”
She’d rather not. “Yes, of course.”
“A waltz.”
A waltz? After he’d been so forward that morning? And when he’d never before asked her for so much as a reel? Suddenly the man expected nothing less than a waltz? Oh, she desperately wanted to make another comment on his arrogance.
“A waltz would be lovely.” She sincerely hoped the words didn’t sound quite as ground out as they felt. “How very kind of you to ask.”
“Not at all.”
The best she could manage in response was a tight smile. She assumed he would leave after that—she was more than a little surprised he’d braved her company at the refreshment table at all—and return for her when it was time for their waltz.
He didn’t. He just stood there, watching her in silence, his lips curved up in a half smile as if he knew full well what she was about.
Let him look, she thought, he’ll see no ruffled feathers. She turned away to watch the dancers, sip at the lemonade remaining in her glass, and even tap her foot in time to the music. She glanced at him, once…twice…
She couldn’t stand it. She had to talk. She had to make him stop looming over her.
“Will you return to London on the morrow, Mr. Hunter?”
His lips curved up just a hair more. “Briefly. And your plans?”
“We’ve a house party to attend in Sussex next week. Lord Brentworth’s affair. Mother forgot to inform me of it until today. This afternoon, actually.” She licked lips gone dry. Did the man never blink? “I realize it’s not the most fashionable of parties, but…” She gave up and leaned forward to hiss at him. “Would you kindly refrain from staring at me that way?”
Rather than appear abashed, he merely raised a brow. “Nearly every man in the room is staring at you.”
“I rather doubt it, but if so, they have the courtesy to pretend otherwise,” she chastised. “Or, at the very least, blink now and again.”
He had the unmitigated gall to actually wink at her. “Will that do?”
“No.” The absurdity of it, however, did create a tickle of laughter in her throat.
“Are you certain it wasn’t effective?” Mr. Hunter inquired with a grin. “Because you look as if you might like to laugh.”
Either she wasn’t nearly as accomplished at hiding her feelings as she thought, or the man was too perceptive by half. Better if it was the latter, she decided. She didn’t care for the idea that everyone could read her so easily.
“Are you not familiar with the phrase ‘looks can be deceiving’?” she asked pertly.
His smile grew and there was a pause before he answered. “I’ve a passing familiarity with the saying.”
Kate thought it sounded as if he might have more than a passing familiarity, but the sound of the musicians beginning the first bars of the waltz kept her from responding.
Mr. Hunter offered her his arm. “I believe this is our dance, Lady Kate.”
She laid her hand lightly on his forearm and was surprised by the swell of muscle beneath her fingers. She looked down at where the ivory of her glove rested against the black of his coat sleeve. How strong did a man have to be, she wondered, to have noticeable muscle in his forearms?
She’d not felt it with any of the other gentlemen she’d danced with in the past, and that accounted for a respectable number of gentlemen. Did it have something to do with his mysterious past? She recalled Whit mentioning that Hunter’s father had been a merchant of some sort, but a father’s profession needn’t always dictate the son’s. Had he been