“Why did you ask me to dance? Or rather, why did you pull me against my will onto the ballroom floor? Your haste was most extraordinary. Are you running from the law, perchance?”

Carter arched his brow. He could not possibly have heard her correctly. “Pardon?”

“I asked why you insisted that I dance with you,” she replied calmly.

For a moment, Carter’s mind went blank. Her forthright manner caught him very much unawares. Females generally blushed and stammered in his presence or else sent him sly, seductive glances. They never challenged him so directly.

“I was overcome by your beauty, fair lady,” he said, deciding to disarm her with some harmless flattery. “It drove me to bold madness.”

“What a bunch of rot. You barely glanced at my face before carting me away like a sack of grain.”

Carter’s brow raised as he feigned indignity. “I am the Marquess of Atwood, my good woman. I do not cart females away. I gracefully, elegantly sweep them away.”

“Do you really? Even when they have promised the dance to another gentleman?”

Ah, it was as he suspected. She was piqued because he had stolen her away from her intended. “Your previous partner will have a lifetime to enjoy your dances. ’Tis only fair he give others a chance, dear lady.”

She tipped her head to one side. “You don’t know my name, do you?”

Caught! Carter bestowed his most charming, heart-melting smile on her, hoping to distract her question. But it didn’t seem to work. Her gaze remained on him, solemn and intent. There was a long, drawn-out silence.

“Of course I know who you are,” he blustered. “We met at the Willingfords’ ball. You are Arthur Pengrove’s future bride. And I should like to add that he is one very lucky fellow.”

Her blue eyes filled with shock and regret, then quickly returned to a mischievous gleam. It was such a brief expression of emotion that Carter would have missed it had he not been observing her so closely.