“You have to dance the first dance, Callum,” Harriet reminded him, grinning brightly.
“Yes,” Callum replied dully. “I know.” He tried to smile, but the prospect of dancing with Miss Rothwell was uncomfortable. She had no apparent interest in him, and he was determined to fight his growing interest in her. He walked across the ballroom and bowed low.
“Miss Rothwell,” he said carefully. “It is customary for me to request the first waltz with you.”
Miss Rothwell blinked, her gaze cool. Then she curtseyed. “I believe that it is customary for me to accept your offer.”
Callum bristled at the disinterested reply. He inclined his head frostily. “I imagine so,” he said tightly.
She offered her hand, clad in a white silk opera-glove, as was custom. Her gaze was cool and indifferent.
Callum gripped her fingers gently with his own. His heart thudded. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin silk. Her touch was so light, so gentle that it set his blood racing. He could smell floral perfume, and he looked away, his heart aching. His response to her surprised him and unsettled him.
They walked wordlessly to the dance floor.
“Excuse me, miss,” he murmured; his cheeks burning as he placed one hand on her back, just over her shoulder blade. His other hand rested in hers. Then he stepped back smoothly as she stepped forward, stepping into the waltz.
They moved seamlessly together around the dance floor. Couples glided past them, and they stepped lightly, twirling around the corner of the ballroom. It felt effortless, as easy as he could imagine. Miss Rothwell was not only a fine dancer, but it was as natural as though they had danced a hundred times together. She moved very formally, both of them reserved and cool. Even so, the dance felt easy, not stiff at all.
Callum could hear someone talking nearby and he glanced over. Harriet was on the dance floor too, and he shot her an angry glance. She was dancing with the viscount’s son. Mr Rothwell.
The impertinent wretch! Callum thought grimly, shooting a glare at Mr Rothwell. If the impudent fellow saw him, he pretended not to notice, gazing at Harriet instead.
Callum turned back to Miss Rothwell. Her lovely hazel eyes had been fixed on his face, but the moment he looked at her, their glance moved demurely to the floor. It was hard to tell ifshe was shy or disapproving, and his own cheeks burned with embarrassment.
The music had altered cadence, becoming slower and solemn, and he knew from experience that the waltz would conclude within a few bars. He slowed his pace, keeping in step. The joyous major chords vibrated loudly, filling even the big space of the ballroom with their triumphant, happy sound. Then, abruptly, all the dancers stopped and bowed and curtseyed. Callum released Miss Rothwell’s hand and bowed low. He had not even noticed that the waltz had concluded, and his cheeks flared even more hotly at the thought that she might have noticed his error.
She straightened up from the curtsey and for a second, her hazel eyes held his. He gazed into them, staring into their golden-coloured depths. Then, shaken, he looked away.
“I must excuse myself,” he said, glancing across the ballroom to where his mother stood with some of her friends. “I have a matter I must discuss with my mother.”
“Of course,” Miss Rothwell said tightly.
Callum inclined his head and walked as speedily as he could across the ballroom. He reached his mother’s side just as she turned and spotted him. Her face broke into a big grin.
“Son. There you are! Now that you are here, I recall you wished to ask Millicent something.” She beamed at him, and he cursed inwardly.
“Lady Millicent,” he managed to say, angry with himself for literally walking into his mother’s scheme. “May I have the honour of the next dance?”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Lady Millicent murmured. She dropped a demure curtsey. “I would be delighted.”
Callum shot his mother a furious glance, but she was chatting to Lady Bronham, entirely oblivious to—or ignoring—his anger. He looked over at Lady Millicent, who smiled at him.
“A fine evening is it not, Your Grace?” she asked him. Her voice was neither too high nor too low. Her curtsey was poised and graceful. Her choice of conversation was neutral. He could see exactly why everyone in society admired her so much—she was exactly how she ought to be, playing by society’s rules.
“Yes, most fine,” he agreed politely.
“Your mother has done such a fine job. And such a grand idea! A Christmas house party. So festive!”
“Mm. Very festive,” he agreed distantly.
They stepped about the dance floor. The dance was a quadrille, and they partnered with Millicent’s friend—Lady Amelia—and Lady Amelia’s betrothed. They walked lightly, twirling and stepping and touching palms and stepping back into line. The quadrille was a complex dance, and Callum was surprised that he recalled all the steps. He let his mind wander as they danced.
A man with chestnut hair was talking to his mother on the other side of the room and Callum frowned. He recognised the man—the way he stood, the long, slim profile and angular chin. He simply could not recall who it was. His gaze narrowed and he almost missed a step. He stiffened and apologised.
By the end of the dance, after concentrating for so long, he felt exhausted. He bowed low.
“Thank you, Lady Millicent,” he murmured. He thanked their companions and then moved towards the terrace doors. They had been opened briefly, and even though the breeze that blew through them was icy, he felt drawn to them, wanting to step outside for a moment or two.
