“Oh dear, I am never laughing at you. At least, not in a mean way. I only think that sometimes you are dreadfully funny, and it is a shame that no one else is aware but me.” A smile lit up her face, her bright green eyes suddenly playful. “But then, perhaps that means I am quite privileged, for it is like a secret.”
Leave it to Ginny to find good fun in all things.
As it was, Augusta could not find any fun in the evening. Dr. Pinkton’s words had been bumbling around her mind since hermeeting with him at the cafe.
Since the two of them had met two years ago, Augusta had been to countless public alienist lectures, insisting to Reginald that it was all a mere morbid curiosity. She had met alienists even more important than Dr. Pinkton himself, and had even impressed some of them with her knowledge. Knowledge that she’d been required to obtain in her own time, with her own piecemealed resources.
Now, she’d reached the peak of her efforts - time spent truly treating patients alongside one of the great alienists of England - and yet, a part of her felt a deep ennui that soon, she would have accomplished all that she could. Twenty and four, and she had only the secret house calls with Dr. Pinkton to show for it. It was excellent. It was also not nearly enough for her.
Dr. Pinkton was right; perhaps she did quite feel like burning something down.
“I say, what on earth is he doing?”
At the sound of Ginny’s voice, the ballroom came back into focus. Blinking, Augusta looked at the object of Ginny’s curiosity.
Through the crowd, Lord Brightwater, whom Augusta had last spoken to nearly ten years prior, was walking in her direction, his eyes decidedly fixed upon her. It was odd, but not so much as some might presume. She knew the newly-titled viscount was good friends with Reginald. Likely, he was looking for him, and could not find him in this crush.
When Lord Brightwater had made it to a few paces from themselves, she was not surprised to find that the man had not changed much in ten years. His shoulders had broadened some, but his blond hair still waved in its usual pattern, his blue eyes were still slightly too intense, and his smile was still good-humored as ever.
“Good evening,” he said, tipping his head to Augusta as he came to stand before the two women.
“Good evening,” Augusta said back with a small curtsy. “Reginald is in the card room.”
She turned back to Ginny then, assuming that that was the end of it. But Brightwater, thrown off by her brusqueness, stammered, “Oh, erm, actually I came to speak with you.”
Augusta’s neck nearly snapped with the force of her head turning toward him. “I’m sorry?”
“I came over to ask if you’d like to dance the waltz.”
It felt as though he were speaking French to her, for all she understood him. Then, she recalled the dance card around her wrist, which she so often forgot about at these things.
“Oh, I see,” she said, straightening herself into the properest of proper young ladies in an instant. “Yes, of course, my lord.”
Glancing at the dance floor, she saw that the waltz would be next. When Lord Brightwater extended his arm to accompany her to the floor, she took it lightly, keeping some space between them as they weaved into the crowd.
Even as they walked arm in arm, she struggled to comprehend what was occurring. Though she had not spoken to Lord Brightwater in nearly a decade, she had seen him a few times in Derbyshire over the years, though always at a distance. He was one of the young gents who was friends with everyone, always laughing with one young man or another that he knew. He’d never courted anyone, so far as she knew, and he only occasionally danced.
So what, exactly, was this about? There were more than enough gentlemen here to give him an excuse to galavant about the party without the expectation of dancing.
Before she knew it, they stood on the dance floor facing one another. With those ridiculously sharp blue eyes on her, he slipped a hand about her waist, and used the other hand to take one of hers. The music started, and they were off.
“I do not believe either of us is much of a dancer,” he said lightly, a small, crooked smile playing at his lips. “But I do believe with much faith, we might make it through this together.”
He spoke so congenially that, were she an outsider, she might have thought that they were old friends. It was all Augusta could do to keep from openly gaping at the man.
“Have you danced much already tonight?” he asked, filling the silence that she had left open.
“Not so much, my lord,” she said, aware of the slight husk in her voice that she’d heard others call unpleasant. It had been a long time since she’d been self-conscious of it. “Some evenings I find I prefer conversation. Especially in a crush. Have you danced much?”
He shook his head. “Not at all tonight. Just as you said, the crowd has made it difficult. One would think that the more people present would make for more opportunities on a lady’s dance card, but at times the effort required to reach said lady is prohibitive.”
“I understand, my lord. I appreciate you making the effort for my own attentions.” Her words were perfunctory, and came out more stilted than she had intended.
He cocked his head. “Do you?”
She blinked, and stumbled only slightly over her feet during a sudden turn. “Do I what?”
“Appreciate it? I get the feeling you would rather be at the wall.”
