The earl’s fascinating mouth was moving. Oh, Lord, he was speaking to her and she hadn’t been paying the slightest bit of attention.

“I beg your pardon?”

A corner of his mouth twitched again. She didn’t know if it was in irritation or amusement, but she hoped for the latter. “Woolgathering, were you?”

She smiled, happy he understood. “Oh yes, I’m afraid I was. Another bad habit, you see. You were saying?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the gray eyes softened for a moment. But they wouldn’t soften—he was a rake earl, and she was a penniless, half-American nobody. Gillian suddenly felt it important that he know she wasn’t one of the ton.

“I asked if you would honor me with the next waltz.”

Gillian was sure she wouldn’t be able to drag her gaze from the earl’s eyes if her life depended on it. She mused upon the black flecks interspersed with the silver. The effect was mesmerizing. “I’m afraid I do not waltz, my lord.”

A flicker of annoyance passed over the earl’s face. “Do not, or will not, Miss Leigh?”

“Cannot, Lord Weston.” Gillian put her hand on his sleeve and leaned forward. “It’s shameful, I know, but you see, I was raised by my aunt and uncle in Boston.”

Weston leaned closer. She was drowning in his eyes. Happily, eagerly, willingly drowning. A heady, spicy scent wafted up from him and tickled her nose. She greedily inhaled it, feeling it permeate down to her bones, sure that if she were to expire on the spot, she’d die a happy woman.

“Do they not waltz in Boston?” His voice rumbled intimately around her. Gillian’s mouth went instantly dry.

“Yes, they do,” she croaked.

“Then why?” Weston took her hand and held it between his palms. Gillian felt the touch burn up her arm and directly into her brain. “Why will you not waltz with me?”

“Um.” She was lost in the silver and black and gray of his fascinating eyes. Why was he trying to distract her with talk? And what was he talking about? Waltzing? What was that? “My uncle would not allow me to learn how. He was a very devout man. A Shaker, as a matter of fact.”

Gillian’s eyes rounded and she stepped back under the influence of Weston’s sudden, feral smile.

“Then you must grant me the privilege of teaching you how. The next waltz?” He squeezed her hand gently.

“No, my lord, you mustn’t,” she gasped, horrified at the thought of learning to dance in such a public venue. Given the accidents that inexplicably seemed to shadow her, he’d probably end up with a broken leg—or worse.

“Ah, I see. You have not yet been given permission to waltz? I will speak with Lady Jersey on your behalf.”

Gillian frowned up at the quirked brows. “Good heavens, my lord, I don’t care about having permission to dance. It’s not as if I’m…that is, I should warn you…” She glanced over at her cousin for help, but Charlotte had turned away in an obvious attempt to give them privacy. Gillian leaned forward again. “I’m not supposed to be here, you see. On virgin’s row, that is.”