“Nothing and no one ever gets to you, Valentine, not in any of the years I’ve known you, much less a woman. Even me, you would only let in so far and yet I barely scratched the surface. I have never seen you so…ruffled over a lady.”

He scowled. “She’s not a lady. She’s a bloody nightmare draped in satin and sapphires.”

“But you are ruffled,” Lisbeth said grinning.

“I am aggravated.”

One shoulder lifted, eyes drifting to the source of the aggravation in question, as Lisbeth tapped her lips with her fan. Tinkling laughter like the sound of broken glass drifted toward them as one of the bucks dropped dramatically to one knee, a hand pressed to his chest.

“Good God, she’s preposterous.”

“Why? She’s not the one dropping to her knees, is she?” Lisbeth remarked, and that unleashed a different spool of thoughts in his head, ones which he did not want to entertain. “How can you fault her for the actions of a few infatuated gentlemen?”

“She is encouraging them!”

“No, she is not.” Lisbeth huffed a laugh. “You truly are ruffled. Why are you so annoyed by some harmless amusement, Val?”

He tugged on his collar, annoyance spiking as yet another fop fell to the floor in mimicry of the first. Didn’t they have any dignity? “Ashvale is my friend. If his fool sister goes and gets herself compromised by the end of this voyage, who do you think he will blame, if he learns I was also on this ship?” Valentine clenched his fingers into fists. “But we should be looking for the Kestrel, not watching a charming chit put on a show for all the witless idiots in this room who only want a rich heiress to fund their diversions.”

“So she’s charming now?”

He ground his molars. “Charmingly dim.”

“I think there’s a lot more to Lady Bronwyn than meets the eye, to be honest. All women put on a mask in one way or the other, especially women of the ton, but she’s different. The mask she’s chosen doesn’t quite fit.”

“How so?”

“I don’t think she’s as empty-headed as she pretends to be.” Her gaze returned to him. “Especially when she’s around you. She tries too hard to put you off.”

“Not hard enough,” he muttered.

The polka on the ballroom floor came to an end and the strains of the waltz began. Valentine’s feet were glued to the floor, a feeling of reluctance swelling inside of him. His instincts were screaming and he’d learned to listen to them over the years. They didn’t warn of danger, but they warned of something all the same. This dance he never should have agreed to would be pivotal.

“Enjoy your waltz,” Lisbeth said with no small amount of mirth.

“I’d rather go for swim in the Thames at the height of summer.”