I Love the Earl by Caroline Linden Page A

amused curiosity. Miss de Lacey eyed him with cool suspicion and said nothing. “Freddie, I didn’t know you were acquainted with His Lordship.”
    “And why not?” replied Eccleston, to Rhys’s surprise. “We’re both Emmanuel man.”
    “Quite right,” he said easily. How fortunate Eccleston had been in his own college at Cambridge. “And I shall presume upon on it. Miss Stacpoole, may I beg the honor of a dance?”
    Margaret, who had braced herself for that very question, blinked. Clarissa’s eyes opened wide, and she stared at the earl without blinking. Oh, he was a canny one, she thought in irritation. He wasn’t even looking at her, his attention fixed on poor Clarissa, who had gone as pale as snow beneath her freckles. Margaret remembered all her friend’s ruminations about how wild a Welshman might be, and wondered if Clarissa was truly frightened.
    “Er . . . Yes, sir.” Clarissa’s voice was higher than usual as she bobbed a clumsy curtsey and laid her hand in Dowling’s waiting palm. “Freddie . . .” She looked at her fiancé in mute appeal.
    “Go on,” he said with a good-natured smile. “I trust Dowling—but I’ll be waiting right here, eh?”
    “Of course.” Smiling nervously, Clarissa let Lord Dowling lead her to join the dance without a glance backward. The earl didn’t look back, either, and Margaret caught sight of that slashing dimple of his as he said something to Clarissa.
    “I expect I’ll never hear the end of this,” said Mr. Eccleston at her side, watching them. “Heaven help me if Dowling’s a better dancer than I. Would it be wrong of me to hope he treads on her toe?”
    Margaret snapped open her fan. “As long as you wish for him to tread lightly on her toe, I see no harm in it.” Eccleston laughed. For a moment they stood in silence, watching the dancers step through the elegant minuet. To her disgust, the Earl of Dowling appeared to be a fine dancer.
    “Are you old friends with Lord Dowling?” she asked, telling herself it was to make conversation, and not from rampant curiosity about the earl, that she asked.
    “Not lifelong, no. But he’s a fine fellow, that one.”
    Was he? She watched how he smiled at Clarissa, and how her friend’s cheeks flushed as bright as cherries. She was unaccountably irked—at him, for charming her friend, and at Clarissa, for succumbing to it. Even more annoying was how attractive he was while doing it. Some gentlemen were beginning to wear their hair unpowdered, but no one else did it with such brazenness. His hair was as black as coal, with long loose waves any woman would weep to have. In a room of snowy white coiffures, he caught the eye and held it—her eye, at any rate. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and broad-shouldered as well, standing above all the ladies and most of the men. She savagely hoped he did step on Clarissa’s toe, quite heavily, and then wondered at herself for wishing such hurt on her friend.
    When the minuet finished, Lord Dowling escorted Clarissa to them. “Eccleston, I’m in your debt.”
    Mr. Eccleston laughed. “As long as you brought her back to me, Dowling! Well, well, Clarissa, have you decided to abandon me for this rogue?”
    Clarissa smiled. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were almost glowing. “Don’t be silly! We all know Lord Dowling has other interests. But oh my heavens, sir, you are the most divine dancer! I have never felt so light on my feet. It was . . . oh, my . . . quite a pleasure!” She groped for her fan and plied it vigorously.
    “I would not be satisfied with anything less than your pleasure,” said Dowling with one of his sinful smiles.
    “Hmph,” said Mr. Eccleston, although without any real anger. Margaret was amazed and a little indignant over his careless attitude. “You’d better dance with me now, so I don’t get a fit of jealousy.”
    “Oh, Freddie.” Clarissa made a face at him, but Margaret could see she was enormously pleased. Clarissa