Elisabeth Fairchild Read Online Free PDF Page A

fallen to their feet, but Miles, who had anticipated the tragedy of clumsiness before it occurred, beat him to it.
     
    Aurora Ramsay groaned as she stared up at the exquisitely coffered ceiling and the elegantly gilded chandelier. She took a deep breath and held the angry exclamation she would have liked to have shouted, firmly in check. Damn the clumsy twit who had dared ask her to dance when he had no more idea than she how to go about it. Damn her own stupidity in accepting his assurances that there was nothing to it. Dancing was not her strong suit. She had never taken the time to master the art. Why had she not acknowledged her ineptitude and clung to the wall and the punchbowl like any other wilting flower, never setting slipper to the polished wood floor where everyone whirled as gracefully as falling leaves? Why did dancing look so simple, effortless and easy, when it was anything but?
    Of all people to drag down in a clumsy heap in the middle of a crowded dance floor, it must be Lord Walsh-- Walsh, whom she had decided she must marry--huge, handsome, sandlewood-scented Walsh, who had landed on top of her as they stumbled to the floor and was crushing the life out of her even as he breathed a spate of oaths into the lace tucker she was sure did not cover enough of the cleavage of her bosom. Dear Lord above! This was, of course, the very position she had hoped to one day share with this man, but the mode and manner of their achieving such a stance exceeded the scope of her imaginings. What a mess! Her face burned. This was not at all the impression she had planned to make.
    Lord Walsh got off of her quickly enough but when she put her hand out, expecting his assistance in rising, she was surprised to find another gentleman took her hand with alacrity. He was a stranger to her, a vaguely familiar stranger with exceptionally fine legs encased ie long, snug black pantaloons buttoned above the instep that Beau Brummel had made popular in certain sets for evening wear. His shoes were as black as his pantaloons and noteworthy for their glossy shine. The stranger who wore them struggled manfully not to smile as he raised her to her feet.
    He smelled faintly of citrus. They were of a height. He looked her straight in the eyes as she rose. She was struck by the darkness of his hair, by the chiseled sharpness of his features, by the deep blue gleam of his eyes.
    “Are you badly bruised?” His tone was as formal and polished as the floor of the statue gallery she had just risen from. “Do you wish to sit down?” he asked politely. His face, his look, even the question he asked had a sharpness to it. Cheekbones, chin and nose--he seemed chiseled from the same pale, Italian marble that stared blankly down from the wall behind him.
    “Sit? No!” she snapped, rubbing the aching hip upon which she had landed. “I do not want to sit. The problem is in having chosen the floor to sit upon, as it is.”
    The blue eyes sparkled with suppressed glee. His mouth, the only softness in his sharp-edged, clever face, twitched with withheld laughter. She marked him a dandy by the dazzling, white de Chasse knot at his throat and the impeccable cut of his coat. It was so perfectly tailored to his measurements she was amazed the seams did not split immediately asunder when he exerted himself in helping her to her feet. Impeccably accoutered in broad lapels, long coal-black tails, high stock, pristine white gloves, and an unusually fine, figured white-upon-white waistcoat, his sleek, black hair spoke of the dandy too, cut short on the sides, long and curling on the top. Add to this his clean-shaven chin, a heavy gold watch fob and the mirrored shine of the quizzing glass he raised to regard her and she felt the perfect clodhopping dowd beside him, even in her ball gown.
    Her host murmured something comforting and took himself off to encourage the musicians to fill the too-silent room with music again. The guests’ attention must be returned to