“Oh?” Robert’s heart twisted. He tried to smile, but it was challenging, since he ached with the longing to go and talk to Miss Brooke and they had just distracted him. “What is it?” he inquired, doing his best to sound mild.
“They were discussing the best silk to make a wall-hanging, and, since you know a little about the industry, I thought you might have something to say in the matter.”
“Mm?” Robert frowned.
“The silk industry! Are you not invested in the trade?” his mother said, a little chidingly. He inclined his head.
“I am, Mother. But I cannot pretend much expertise on the subject. Nevertheless, I will try,” he agreed, seeing her frustration grow. He was sure she knew as well as he did that, he had very little to say—it was merely her way of involving him in conversation with the Bardwell family when she knew he would rather avoid it. He was surprised that she had the tact to approach the matter indirectly and he followed her across to the table, where Lady Bardwell and her daughter stood.
“Your Grace!” Lady Bardwell greeted him. “Why! An honour to see you.” She dropped a slight bob. As a countess, she was almost of equal rank to himself, and a mere bob was all that was needed, rather than a full curtsey. Lady Marina did likewise, a slightly deeper bob. She raised her eyes to his face.
“An honour, Lady Marina. Lady Bardwell.” He bowed, greeting them both.
“Marina is of the opinion that French heavy-weave silk would be the best for a hanging,” Lady Bardwell told Robert. “I take it your opinion would be likewise? I understand that you are invested in the trade,” she added quickly.
“Yes. I am certain Lady Marina must be correct,” he said gallantly. Lady Bardwell chuckled.
“Spoken like a true gentleman! How delightful. Not so, Marina, my dear?” She added, turning to Marina. Marina blushed and Robert felt a little sorry for her. She might be no more comfortable with their parents’ machinations than he was.
“Quite so, Mama,” she murmured. She raised her eyes to Robert’s face.
Robert gave her a polite nod, his throat tightening, his jaw clenching. He felt annoyed with his mother, and hers, for forcing the conversation on them both. He found it hard to converse with either Lady Marina or Lady Bardwell—he could not understand their motives and their views. Sometimes, LadyMarina almost seemed indifferent to him, whereas at other times, she hung on his every word—it confused him terribly.
“Ah! Listen! A fine waltz!” His mother declared, gazing up at Robert expectantly. His jaw clenched again, annoyance stabbing into him.
“May I have the honour of this dance?” He asked Lady Marina woodenly.
“Of course, Your Grace!” Lady Marina beamed up at him, her lovely blue eyes tilting up at the corners when she smiled prettily at him.
Robert took her hand and led her to the dance floor, filled with resignation. He was at a ball and his mother insisted and so he had to dance with her. He promised himself that it would be just this one dance; that he would not let his mother persuade him into more. His eyes drifted across the room, gazing over the people, looking for a head of chestnut locks and a blue gown. He did not spot it.
“Is it not a fine ballroom?” Lady Marina asked him, gazing up at him as they moved towards the dance floor.
“Very fine,” Robert replied. He gazed down at her, wishing that he could feel something. He felt guilty that he could not. She seemed harmless enough—pretty, accomplished and well-mannered. There was nothing to dislike, and yet he could not warm to her no matter how he tried to do so.
“The musicians play a fine waltz,” she commented as they stepped onto the floor.
“They do,” Robert agreed. He rested his hand lightly on her shoulder-blade, taking her other hand in his own. Her white silk glove was cool against his palm, her small hand fitting neatly into his. Again, he wondered why he felt nothing, where any other gentleman would have felt his pulse racing with fearful admiration as he gazed into those beautiful eyes.
“How grand! I do enjoy a waltz,” she murmured as they stepped onto the dance floor. Robert tensed, feeling her soft muslin skirt swish against his legs. She was wearing a white muslin gown, the neckline low, the skirt gauzy and soft, pearls decorating her lovely reddish-blonde curls. Dark lashes rested on her cheeks when she looked modestly down and he wished again to be able to feel something beyond dutiful.
They stepped neatly about the floor, whirling close as they turned the corner. The waltz was dubbed scandalous, since it required that the two dancers pressed close to one another as they danced. It had become wildly fashionable early in his courtship of Elizabeth, and she had learned it with some amusement. They had never really taken it seriously, laughing together as they bumped into one another. He bit his lip, the memories tightening his throat.
Lady Marina was stepping gracefully about the room, the steps as fine and even as if they were performed by some mechanical device. She was an excellent dancer, coldly excellent. He did his best to keep up with her, his cheeks flushing in shame as he realized that he had forgotten how to dance in the last five years. He could sense her disapproval as she gazed up at him, her blue eyes a little frosty.
“The music is slower,” she told him a little tightly as they stepped back and he gritted his teeth, trying to slow. The waltz was, indeed, slow, and he realized that it meant it was nearing a conclusion. He felt relieved as he bowed and Lady Marina curtseyed to the conclusion of the waltz. The couples around them clapped, complimenting each other on their dancing abilities. He cleared his throat.
“Thank you for the waltz, Lady Marina,” he told her politely. “I appreciate your skill.”
“Thank you for the waltz, Your Grace,” she said tightly, as though she was still more than a little angry with him for miss-stepping and almost standing on her foot.
Robert inclined his head, sighing inwardly. She was a little petulant, but he reminded himself, she was nineteen years old. She had made her debut into society and she probably felt annoyed with him for not being able to waltz when she could do so with a high level of talent. He could not recall being so young, even when he had been her age.
“Thank you,” he repeated and looked around, trying to think of an excuse to allow himself some respite. “I think I will take some air. It is quite noisy in here,” he told her, gesturing to where the back doors had been opened to allow the cool night air to drift in.
“Of course, Your Grace. I will remain here. It is cold outdoors without my shawl.” Her gaze held his and he was not sure if she was vexed with him for going outdoors, or if she might be pleased to have him vacate the room.
He bowed low and walked across the ballroom, excusing himself as he almost stepped into people and narrowly avoided trestles and low chairs.
