conversation, Rosalind took a backward step, and then another, and then another, until she was far enough away that she could slip away.
Sliding her gaze over to her aunt, she was relieved to see the woman hadn’t noticed. She seemed to be craning her neck in order to look toward the front of the room.
Rosalind supposed she ought to be standing near her brother, but she could inspect the faces in the crowd much better from the back of the room. If her guardian was here tonight, he’d be watching her, wouldn’t he?
A smear of red hair caught her attention. Lord Stokes, the very man Rosalind imagined would someday make a declaration to her friend Lucy, was slowly walking the perimeter of the room. He seemed to be watching everyone carefully. Perhaps he was looking for someone in particular, but then again . . .
perhaps he was her guardian.
Her lips lifted in a small, secret smile. Nothing was going to distract her from her mission. If she were to slip away from the ball room, perhaps he would have no choice but to follow her, and then she’d know for certain.
She turned to do just that when the butler’s flat voice resounded throughout the room. “Presenting the Marquess of Winterbourne.”
Hissing whispers, giggling debutantes, the jovial mumblings of men—all of it lowered as heads turned to the front of the room.
Being short, Rosalind couldn’t see a thing. For a fleeting moment, she toyed with the idea of standing on a chair but decided her aunt might have an apoplexy if she did.
All thoughts of her guardian flew out the doors at her back in the face of discovering why this new marquess held the guests in such a state of open curiosity.
As she threaded through the guests, whispers surrounded her.
“He’s a Scot, eh?”
“He’s a handsome one.”
“God’s truth, that isn’t a padded jacket. That’s him!”
“Did you see those legs? Now there’s a man who needn’t employ false calves.”
“Stand straight, Mary, or else his lordship might not ask you to dance.”
“Formidable-looking fell ow. Kincaid’s the family name.”
Rosalind’s head snapped to the right. Did someone just utter “Kincaid,” or was she simply going mad? Her heartbeat tripped and her breathing quickened.
She rushed ahead, desperate to see what held everyone so spell bound. But the crowd seemed to close in around her as others shuffled closer to the top of the room. She looked to the right and left, but there was no escape.
Her shoulders heaved with a sigh and she relinquished the fight.
Perhaps if she feigned a swoon, a space would be cleared. She gave her head a slight shake. No, that would never do. At least not right now. Everyone was so distracted that they’d probably step over her.
Squeezing past the back of a portly gentleman, Rosalind thought she heard someone say her name.
“Pssst. Rosalind.”
She turned to see Lucy Meriwether slide up to her.
“We’re thinking about calling him ‘Lord Sin,’ ” Lucy whispered in delight. She did a little excited hop. “
‘Lord Winter’ doesn’t sound half as exciting, though his stare is rather frosty.”
“Who are you speaking of?”
“Why, Lord Winterbourne, of course.”
“Already?” Rosalind gritted her teeth.
“Already what?” Lucy even had the nerve to look perplexed.
“ Already, ” Rosalind repeated with an agitated nod.
“I can’t even get to the top of the room in my own house and you’ve all made a nickname for him?” Lucy looked taken aback. “Well, it’s not our fault you’re loll ygagging.”
you’re loll ygagging.”
“Lolly—” Rosalind cut herself off before she lost complete control of her temper. She paused and breathed deeply. In and out. In and out. “Now,” she said, feeling infinitely more at ease. “Why are you all calling him Lord Sin? Is his name Sinclair?”
“La, I am not aware of his family name.”
“Is he a rake?”
Lucy shrugged and shook her head.
“A scoundrel?”
“Well, no one