‘…And my daughter – Lady Hannah Haworth of Haysendale…’
Here, Vincent paused, indulging in the moment. Both he and Evelyn’s eyes turned between their daughter and the Duke as if they were watching a match of tennis.
The Duke seemed disappointingly detached – his face remaining stoic and sombre as he regarded Hannah by looking down his nose at her. He was polite and cordial but gave no indication as to whether he was pleased to meet their daughter.
Hannah – looking more radiant that night than they had ever seen her – had a sparkle in her eyes that suggested she approved of their choice. The blush that began on her chest and threatened to snake its way up her neck showed that she was flustered in the presence of the Duke. However, the hopefulness that graced her face as she looked up at Caleb quickly fell away when her smile was not reciprocated.
She was graceful in masking it – not allowing her head to drop or her affability to fade. She kept the smile on her face, though her Mother could tell the difference between her open, willing smile as she approached and the false smile she wore now; steeling herself against the discouraging expression on the Duke’s face.
‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Haworth,’ the Duke gestured in a slight bow and delicately kissed the back of Hannah’s hand.
‘The pleasure is mine, Your Grace,’ Hannah responded, curtseying to him, with a bob of her head.
His lips upon her hand felt warm and soft; a contradiction to the coldness he emitted through his demeanour.
As if on cue, the orchestra began to play a new piece of music – it was a waltz. Caleb knew what was expected of him and he did not wish to disappoint.
‘Would you care to dance?’ he offered his hand to Hannah, who nodded and took his hand.
Swiftly, Caleb led her to the dance floor where they took their places.
In his mind, he tried to catch the rhythm of the music – he was not a natural dancer and it concerned him that if he started on the wrong beat, it would throw him off for the whole dance. That would be humiliating.
Hannah stood, poised; every part of her body tensed and taut, holding herself to be the best she could be and also bracing herself against the coolness of apathy that rolled off the Duke.
He wasn’t looking at her – seemed to be focused upon something entirely in his own head. His grip on her hand felt a little too strong; his hand on her back was territorial; his palms were cold and there was such a rigidity about him that Hannah could never imagine he was capable of affection.
The dance began and a few steps in, the Duke released a stressed sigh. Hannah flicked her eyes up at him, only to find that his expression had not changed. His grip relaxed a little as they found the flow of the music together.
Hannah struggled to focus on the steps she should be performing whilst searching for some point of conversation. When she danced lithely, she could not concentrate on any words, and when she sought out engaging discussion, her steps would falter. She battled internally with which to prioritise.
‘You are a beautiful dancer, Lady Haworth,’ the Duke commented, although his expression belied a sneer.
Hannah laughed and promptly corrected herself.
‘Thank you, Your Grace. I must confess it is not my preferred pastime.’
‘You prefer to play music, than to dance?’ Caleb asked her, avoiding her eyes, looking over her head.
‘No, I….’
Hannah cursed the topic of favourite pastimes – she should not mention her love of painting to this stranger. It would scandalise her Mother.
‘Do you hunt, Your Grace? Montwood is certainly a fine estate…’
‘I prefer literature,’ was his curt reply.
Hannah could not find any response. She too, enjoyed books, but his tone closed the conversation and she did not feel venturing further into this topic was a viable option. They moved together awkwardly – above the music was only the sound of Hannah’s skirts swishing across the floor.
A few times, they fell out of synchronisation with one another – Hannah was unsure if it was her steps or the Duke’s which faltered. The result was the same – the shame of affluent and influential members of the Ton looking on in judgment. Hannah sought out the eyes of her Mother and was surprised to see her smiling enthusiastically. Perhaps she wasn’t performing as badly as she anticipated.
As they swooped past a crowd of faces, she saw a woman who glared at Hannah openly, with narrowed eyes and a sour, pouting mouth. It quite took Hannah aback – was her dancing so atrocious?
Some part of her found comfort in the height and physical breadth of the Duke – his sturdiness felt safe and secure, but there was a defensive wall around him that created such distance and Hannah bristled against it. It seemed no more would be spoken between the two of them – she simply endured the last few moments in a stifling lack of communication.
It was only one dance, she assured herself. Promptly, she would report to her parents that he seemed a pleasant man but that she did not wish any further involvement. This helped her to relax a little, but only at the end of the dance when they parted, bowing and curtseying respectively, did she release the breath she must have been holding in for the duration of the waltz.
***
