Bending Tyme Read Online Free Page B

gown constricting her breath. Several seamstresses had worked all day altering a few outfits left behind by Logan’s sister, who had been married off to a lord someone-or-other of something somewhere…
    Byron rescued her from her corner, where she was endeavouring to make herself inconspicuous—an unattainable goal, given every eye in the room cast its gaze in her direction.
    Byron leaned over, whispering in her ear, “Smile, as we construct a pretence you find me handsome and witty, by far the most magnificent specimen of manhood present here.”
    Esme laughed. “I do find you handsome and witty, Lord Byron.” She sighed. She always had enjoyed his poems from this era best of all. Esme caught her breath at the energy emanating from the impassioned poet, unsettled by the fact that he would be dead in just ten short years… Catching Byron’s quizzical look at her own facial expressions—Esme made a mental note to work on a poker face since, clearly, emoting was so not de rigueur around here—she shook off her discombobulating memories, glad to feel at least somewhat at home in his presence, even if for reasons she could not share.
    Byron took her arm, for a stroll about the grand ballroom. “Then ours shall be a successful ruse.” He engaged in small talk, flirting with the young women, introducing Esme to the ladies, evading pointed questions with his poet’s grace and sly tongue.
    With Byron by her side, Esme managed to walk the length of the room without undue incident.
    I wonder if I can high-five him without anyone noticing , she thought, smiling her gratitude towards Lord Byron for helping her shed some of the tension she carried inside.
    Standing now on the other side of the room, Esme, still smiling, found herself face-to-face with Logan, an inevitable turn of events. She tensed, then blushed, angry with Logan for these feelings trumpeting her lack of self-control around him—and angry with herself for letting this man get under her skin so.
    Logan’s own countenance lit up at her smile. Then, just as fast, he appeared to grind his teeth again as he and Byron watched the emotions flitting across Esme’s face.
    Esme scowled, watching Bryon chuckle to himself while Logan’s jaw clenched. Could it be the dashing Lord Davenport had never experienced the look of frustrated annoyance Esme felt crossing her face?
    Damn the man …
    “Shall we, Miss Tyme?” Uttering a command, not a request, Logan took a firm grip on one elbow, escorting Esme to the dance floor.
      As the opening strains of a quadrille filled the ballroom, Esme breathed out, relieved—she recognised this music from Charisse’s arrangements for their party…except these people walked through the steps, rather than danced.
    OMG , Esme thought. This fucking song will never end at this speed .
    Esme watched the couples changing partners at an insufferably slow pace, forced to make awkward small-talk at every turn. Would this damnable music never stop?
    Byron moved into place next to her again, leaning down to speak in her ear. “Ah, virgins on parade. Although I know for a fact more than one nubile offering this evening cannot truly claim the prize remains intact.”
    Esme laughed, enjoying his company for a few minutes’ precious respite. She looked up to see Logan watching her over the heads of several other dancers, his eyes narrowing at Byron’s easy conversation with her. Logan’s gaze locked with her own. Esme shivered, seeing his eyes go that deep blue, her skin tingling although he danced with another, touched another.
    She looked away.
    Esme blushed, aware that Byron had intercepted her exchange with Logan. She blushed again, noting that Byron was not the only one. More than one young woman—and her mother—sent a scathing look in her direction. Esme clenched her fist, annoyed—again—at her loss of control over her emotions.
    Byron smiled. “I return you to our host.”
    Logan stepped into a turn with her, silent, as the