Page 7 of To Break the Rules

“How dare you!” she exclaimed, glaring at the dishevelled excuse for a gentleman. “I refuse to dance with you.”

“Then by all means leave me standing here,” he replied, the light of challenge gleaming in his eyes. “It will give the old tabbies something to talk about. I’ll be left off your list of possible protectors, won’t I? Though I doubt I was there to begin with.”

Lucia stiffened at his words, fighting to keep her face and posture calm for fear of causing the scene he was daring her to provoke. Her words were low but full of bitterness and fury. “I have no protector and never will have. I have no need nor desire for the protection of any man, ever. I would rather die. I am a respectable woman, no matter what the gossips tattle about, and have done nothing to provoke such an insult as you offer me.”

To her satisfaction, her words seemed to have surprised him and his expression softened a little.

“No,” he said, after a pause. “You have not. You have my apology. I ought not to have spoken so unjustly.”

Lucia stared at him, surprised at the ease with which he’d admitted his mistake and unsure of how to deal with him. She was saved from the effort as the dance began.

It was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable time of her life.

Cavendish was not entirely at ease on the dance floor, though for a man of his build he moved well enough, but Lucia was all at sixes and sevens.

She was furious with him for his insults, bewildered by his reaction to her own rudeness—even more so by his apology—and horribly aware of the blatant masculinity of his body. Never in her life had she been so affected by the closeness of a man, and it was a disconcerting experience.

Even as a girl, when she’d fancied herself in love for the first time, there had been nothing to compare to the quivering heat that invaded every corner of her being in response to the raw strength that this man exuded. Everything feminine in her reacted to him, despite her willing it otherwise.

She hated him for it.

The moment the dance ended, she hurried away from him without a backwards glance.

***

Silas stood on the dance floor, watching Miss de Feria run away from him as though her heels were alight. His heart was thudding in his chest, every part of him singing with awareness, like he’d been woken up for the first time in his life.

She was magnificent.

He’d been every bit the ill-mannered brute she’d accused him of being, and she’d not let him get away with it, either. Why he’d been so awful to her, he wasn’t certain, but he had the lowering suspicion it was jealousy.

The way she’d so summarily dismissed him with her glance still rankled, added to the fact that there were far wealthier and certainly more charming suitors falling over themselves to win her. He was hardly a pauper, but it appeared his father’s finances were in a mess and it would take months to discover whether or not the old fool had ruined himself. Taking on an expensive mistress was beyond him for the moment, though she’d certainly made it clear she was not on the market for a protector.

Whatever the reason for his bad behaviour, he’d hardly endeared himself to her.

Good, he thought savagely. The last thing he needed was to tie himself up in knots over a blasted woman, of all things. Whether or not he believed her denial of seeking a rich protector, she was looking for something, and he didn’t doubt that whatever it was would spell trouble.

He’d been a fool to come here, and a bigger one for allowing St Clair to introduce them. Having her so close to him had been the sweetest torment. A delicate perfume he could not place still lingered about him, teasing his senses.

The best thing he could possibly do was put Lucia de Feria out of his mind and never see her again. Vowing to do just that, Silas stalked from the ballroom and went home.

***

Still the evening of 1st July 1814. Lady Grasmere’s ball, Mayfair, London.

“Well?” Matilda asked, looking breathless with anticipation as Lucia made her way back to her.

“Well?” Lucia repeated. She was flustered, put out, and beyond irritated. “I have never in all my life met a more ill-mannered, rude, uncouth, surly, shabby—”

“Don’t forget shockingly arrogant,” St Clair added with a grin.

“Oh, I certainly don’t forget that,” Lucia said, still seething as she snatched the drink from Matilda’s hand and took a large swallow. “Hateful, odious, obnoxious—”

“Yes, he’s certainly made his usual impression,” the earl said with a cheerful grin. “Though, you know, he’s really a very good fellow when one gets to know him.”

“I have absolutely no intention of getting to know him,” Lucia replied with some force.

“Have you known him long?” Matilda asked the earl, who shrugged.