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“Business,” he said. “The curtsey was business.”
“Advertising,” she said.
“You make my head spin, madame,” he said.
He drew her into a turn that made her head spin, too. Then she forgot business. How had she ever thought the waltz was merely a dance? To waltz with him was like making love—a kind of tortured making love—touching but not caressing. Holding but not embracing. A feeling of growing urgency and heat with no way to relieve it, no climax possible.
She was close enough to feel the heat of his body and the way his breath came faster. It was so deeply intimate, like the feel of his hand clasping hers, his other at her waist. It seemed as though this was where she belonged and had always belonged. She wondered at the women about her, who could dance in this intimate way with men who weren’t their lovers.
How can I stop? she thought. How can I go back to my life without him?
Nonsensical questions. He and she played a game, and this love affair of theirs—if that’s what it was—was merely a happenstance. Only a complete ninny would turn it into a romantic tragedy.
She hadn’t time to be a ninny.
She had a job to do. And if she made a mistake, a young woman’s life would be ruined . . . and take three women’s hopes and dreams and years of hard work with it.
Yet it was hard to stay detached and calculating while she danced with him.
When the music faded to a close, it was far too soon. Sophy wanted to throw her arms about his neck and kiss him witless and hold on to him because . . .
Because for a short time she’d known what it was to live in his world, rather than trespass in it. For a short time she’d known what it was to be special in that curious way her ancestors had been special: not because they were skilled artisans or inventors or brave soldiers or had in any way contributed anything of value to their fellow men, but because they were simply born special: aristocrats.
Above all, though, she’d imagined—believed—felt, even in her cynical, black Noirot heart—that she was special to him.
Maybe she was. But she knew how this story had to end.
Time to put an end to the tragi-comedy. Or farce. She wasn’t at all sure which it was.
Sometime later
Longmore looked on while Madame proceeded to cut a swath through the gentlemen. At present he stood with his mother, who was watching her, too.
As was Adderley, on the other side of the room.
“Do you mean to let the other gentlemen steal a march on you?” his mother said. “I should not be too sure of her, if I were you, Harry. You might have been first out of the gate, as you would put it, but these others might easily make up time.”
For the moment, there was no one else about, except an extremely elderly lady—another of Grandmother Warford’s friends—who was profoundly deaf. For a time, they’d had to say everything six or seven times, as well as answer the same question at least that often, but at present, her head was sinking toward her ample bosom and she was snoring.
Even though no one could overhear them, he was surprised. He bent an enquiring look on his mother.
“Don’t give me that look,” she said crossly. “It only shows how obtuse you are.”
“I can’t help it,” he said. “The lady doesn’t strike me as quite what you’d choose for my bride—yet here you are, urging me on to the altar.”
“She’s nothing like what I’d choose,” his mother said. “Still.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Her English is atrocious,” his mother said. “She can’t have had a proper education.”
“Some people simply have no aptitude for languages,” he said.
“Apt or not, I’m not at all sure she isn’t a complete henwit,” she said. “But she is a handsome girl—”
“With a handsome fortune.”
“Don’t be vulgar.”
“If she were penniless, you wouldn’t be urging me to chase her,” Longmore said. “And I don’t see what the hurry is about.”
He glanced at the dance floor, on whose fringes Adderley lurked, watching Madame. “Oh, but look, that’s Lady Bartham’s third son Madame is dancing with. It would be a great pity if he won the lady’s heart and her formidable fortune.”
“It would be a great pity if you lost any girl to that callow creature,” his mother said. “But do as you like, Harry. You always did. Your sister, too. I vow, I have been plagued with the most undutiful children. If she had only listened to me, she would not be in this wretched situation. Every day that passes, I like him less and less—and I despised him to begin with. Look at him. Two dances with Clara and he abandons her. When I think of the men she might have had. Oh, it is too much. And see, even he is ogling Madame. How dare he?”
“They’re all ogling her.”
“And you’re mighty cool about it, I must say.”
“I believe it’s the sort of thing one must get used to. She attracts attention wherever she goes.”
She watched Madame for a time, her brow knitting. “Do you know, Harry, she puts me in mind of somebody.”
The dance was ending and Longmore saw Adderley making his way to Madame.
“Oh, no, my fine fellow,” Longmore said. “Amuse yourself if you like, but not with my merry widow.”
“Why should he not?” his mother said. “She isn’t yours. You make no push to fix her interest.”
“He has no business trying to fix it when he’s engaged to my sister—not to mention that Madame promised this dance to me.”
“Don’t make a scene, Harry. Not here, of all places.”
“Mother, you cut me to the quick. I never make scenes.”
He didn’t hurry across the room and he didn’t push anybody out of his way. Lord Longmore didn’t need to. All he needed to do was wear a certain expression, and people hastily moved out of his way.
When Longmore reached them, Adderley was leaning in much too close to say something to Madame.
“So sorry to interrupt the tête-à-tête,” Longmore said. “But this dance is mine.”
“I believe you’re mistaken,” Adderley said. “Madame has promised the dance to me.”
Madame looked in bewilderment from one to the other. Then her expression became chagrined. “This is too bad,” she said. “You must pardon me, Lord Add’lee. Lord Lun-mour speaks correctly. It was this dance I promised to him. My abominable memory—I beg you to forgive. But you will have the next one.”
“Next is supper,” Longmore said. “Since this is the supper dance, I have the privilege of taking you in. To sup.”
“C’est exact,” she said. “I forget this.”
“How easily you forget,” Longmore said.
She shot him an unfriendly look, then turned a more affectionate one upon Adderley. “I shall see you after the supper, Lord Add’lee. If I am not too greatly fatigued.”
Adderley bowed and left, still smirking.
Longmore watched him go before turning back to Madame. “You expect to find my company fatiguing?”
“That is not what I say,” she said. “You turn my words the wrong way.”
“And your gaze as well?” he said.
“I cannot comprehend you,” she said.
“I noticed the glance you cast his way. I’ve never claimed to be a genius, but I reckon I know a flirtatious look when I see one.”
“And why should I not flirt?” she said. “Why have we this disagreement again and again? Have I the collar around my neck, like a dog? I am not your dog on the leash, Lord Lun-mour. I do not belong to you.”
Dream on, he answered silently.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “But the gentleman belongs to my sister—as I have pointed out to you. Again and again.”
“This is monstrous. Of what do you accuse me? To steal this man from your sister?”
“The other day you seemed to think he needed to be stolen.”
She waved this aside. “I was angry, and some things I said we
re foolish things. But only a little time ago, I met your mother, who was so amiable to me. And your sister has forgiven me my little error. Why should I wish to distress them? Here I am a stranger. Alone. No one protects me. I have only my friends to guard me, and I am glad to make friends.” Her mouth turned down.
“I’m glad for you to make them, too,” he said. “However, when you grow too friendly—”
“No! I was only amiable.” The blue eyes flashed at him. “I flirt with him a little, in the way all the women do. I do not see why you must tell me I am wrong to do this. You have not said even one word of special regard for me.”
“I said three, as I recall,” he said quietly. “What more do you require, madame?”
Pink tinted her cheeks and spread downward, under the diamonds encircling her neck and dripping over her bosom. “I believe you play with me,” she said.
“Is that what you think?” he said. “That I’m toying with your affections?”
“You seem to think it is a great joke.”
“Is it not?”
Tears shimmered in her eyes, and in that moment he knew they weren’t playing—or if they were, they danced on the very edge of truth.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, it is. Hilarious. Ha ha.”
She turned away in a flurry of satin and lace, and made her way, hips swaying, chin aloft, across the ballroom.
Sophy had scarcely turned her back on Longmore when Lord Adderley loomed in her path. “I thought you’d promised this dance to Lord Longmore,” he said.
“It seems I am fatiguée,” she said. She snapped open her fan and waved it briskly before her face. “And too hot.” He’d think her heated reaction was to him. “I have lost my humor to dance. I have lost my pleasure in this ball.”
“As have I,” he said in his English-accented French. “And you know the reason.”
