Read Online The Perfect Waltz by Anne Gracíe - Free Book Online Page A

of them had a good word to say.” She counted them off on her fingers as she spoke. “Sir George Arthurton—who has several interests in Manchester where That Man comes from—told me straight out that the man is totally ruthless! Others confirmed that. Lord Etheridge said Sebastian Reyne was an extremely dangerous man; they were his very words, and he has interests in the cotton industry and would know! And Mrs. Beamshaft told me a great deal about his history. He just sprang from nowhere. And ended up with everything. His wife and father-in-law dead!” She sat back and allowed her words to sink in.
    Mrs. Jenner’s smug delight in the scurrilous tale annoyed Hope. “So what are you saying, ma’am? You cannot mean to suggest that Mr. Reyne murdered his father-in-law and wife?”
    Mrs. Jenner lifted a bejeweled forefinger to the side of her nose and tapped it significantly.
    “What sort of an answer is that!” Hope exclaimed crossly. Her scowl took in both her sister and their chaperone. How dare they sit there, comfortably thrilled by the horrid gossip about Mr. Sebastian Reyne. To them, it was no more than an exciting story. To Hope, it mattered. Why, she did not care to examine at this point. But she wanted to know the truth.
    “He is capable of anything,” insisted Mrs. Jenner. “You can tell by looking at him he has a violent history.”
    Hope snorted. “I don’t believe a word of it. If he murdered his wife and her father, why was he not hanged or transported?”
    Mrs. Jenner rubbed finger and thumb together. “A few guineas to grease a palm here and there, witnesses intimidated—or worse! Anything is possible if you are lord of all you survey and not bred to it as a proper gentleman is. And he is not.”
    Hope rolled her eyes at the melodramatic tone. Like many members of the ton, Mrs. Jenner was prone to taking a shred of plain fabric and embroidering it into something quite different. But Hope was curious and could not help asking, “Lord of all he surveys? What does he survey, then?”
    Mrs. Jenner waved her hand extravagantly. “You name it, my dear. Mills and manufactories in the north. Mines, canals, ships—he is immensely rich, there is no doubt of it, but how he got that way is another matter. One only has to look at his face.” She shuddered. “Those pitiless, cold, gray eyes.”
    Hope did not think his eyes were pitiless or cold. Lonely perhaps. Hungry, she was sure. But for what?
     
Never a good sleeper, Hope found herself wide awake after the ball, tucked up in bed but thinking about the enigmatic Mr. Reyne. In the other bed Faith slept peacefully, untroubled by thoughts or frustrated dreams.
    Hope ached to be loved by someone other than a sister. By a man other than a great-uncle. To be loved by the man of her dreams.
    Sebastian Reyne was close in some ways to the shadowy man she’d dreamed of: dark, mysterious, brooding. He’d prowled the room with assurance, indifferent to society’s approval, secure in himself, watching her hungrily, as a dream man ought.
    Hope sighed in disappointment. He was close, but not close enough. Dancing with him was nothing like dancing with anybody’s dream man. And she knew it had to be perfect for the dream to come true.
    He was a terrible dancer, poor man. The moment he’d touched her, he’d become stiff, abrupt, awkwardly precise, holding her at bay as if she were a wild beast of some sort and steering her around the dance floor as if she were a delicate, fragile . . . wheelbarrow.
    For some reason that made her want to hug him.
    For most of the dance he’d been counting under his breath and minding his steps. But when Lord Streatfield had crashed into them, Mr. Reyne hadn’t missed a single beat. Without hesitation he’d curled one arm around Hope and made a shelter of his body for her. He’d hauled the drunken earl upright, set him on his feet, reprimanded him for drinking too much, not caring a hoot for the earl’s good opinion, and