He was drawn into a group that included the marchioness, Lady Carver, and Sir Patrick Newton. Annabelle, he could see, was with her mother and Lady Newton, and Josh with Lord Carver and the Reverend Strangelove.
He had to be careful. He felt as if he were on display all evening. He had to make a special effort to converse at table as if nothing momentous had just happened in his life, and when the ball began, he had to dance with as many ladies as possible and smile and converse.
He even danced once with Annabelle, who kept her eyes lowered through much of the set. But there was a strain of courage in the girl, as he had found that afternoon. She looked determinedly up at him before the dance came to an end.
“Have I caused you terrible embarrassment tonight?” she asked him. “Are you very angry with me?”
“No on both counts,” he said smiling at her and feeling other eyes on them. “I would have been angry had I discovered much later that you had left Josh unhappy and made yourself miserable by doing what you thought proper. I sincerely wish you well, Annabelle. Josh is a friend of mine, you know.”
“You are very kind,” she said. “And I am so very sorry.”
She did not dance with Josh. But, then, of course, Josh never did dance a great deal because of his leg. Not that he allowed his handicap to curtail many activities.
He had to be careful, the earl felt. So many people were watching, even the neighbors who had come from miles around. Clearly word had leaked out about the announcement that was to have been made. Whether those people were still waiting for the announcement or had already heard that it was not after all to be made, he did not know. But he had that very uncomfortable feeling of being on display.
He would not dance with Rosamund or even stand beside her between sets to talk with her. He would not even look at her deliberately. He would not open his feelings for her to the interested scrutiny of half a county.
And he was afraid to dance with her or talk with her. For as long as she had been forbidden to him he could dream of what might have been if only he had been free. He could dream that her feelings matched his own. Now he was free, and he was afraid to put those dreams to the test of reality.
And so suppertime came and he led Christobel in and seated them with Michael Weaver and Valerie Newton and with Lord Carver and a local beauty. And he participated quite as much as anyone else in the conversation that developed and was aware with some amusement of the blushing glances darted his way by Carver’s beauty.
And every moment he was aware of Rosamund at quite the other side of the room with Strangelove and Marion and David and an unknown couple. She was to leave the next day. Should he let her go without a word? Find her out at a later date, perhaps, when the present family embarrassment had dimmed in memory? Should he try to find the opportunity of a private word with her the next morning before she left? Or should he let her go and forget about her, preserve the memory of his snow angel and their brief affair and not risk having the sweetness of that memory melt before his eyes?
He smiled as everyone else in his group laughed at one of Lord Carver’s anecdotes.
And then he became aware out of the corner of his eye of Rosamund’s getting to her feet with Strangelove, who made her a bow and raised her hand to his lips. David and the other gentleman also rose, and Rosamund turned away and left the room alone.
“Excuse me,” Lord Wetherby said. “Carver, will you escort your sister to the ballroom when supper is over?” He got to his feet and made for the door. He did not particularly care whether people watched him or not.
Rosamund knew as soon as she entered the drawing room on her brother’s arm. She could not have expected him to rush across the room to take her into his arms, of course. She could not even have expected a special look or smile. But there would have been something, something unmistakable if there had been any hope.
As it was, there was nothing. She doubted he even noticed her entrance. And all through dinner, though they were seated at no great distance from each other, there was not so much as a glance. In the ballroom later, though she was frequently free until the music was about to begin, he did not once ask her to dance. He did not once speak with her or look at her.
It was as if she were not there at all. For days she had felt his awareness of her as if it were a tangible thing. And yet now, when that awareness was no longer a forbidden thing, there was nothing.
The lure of the forbidden—that was all she had been to him. She had known it deep down, of course, but hope is sometimes a stubborn beast.
It was lowering. She felt humiliated. She supposed that when she was finally alone, she would feel far more painful things than humiliation, but that was quite bad enough.
He was probably feeling some anxiety, she thought, wondering if she were about to make claims on him that he now had no excuse to avoid. But, no, the Earl of Wetherby was doubtless quite adept at warding off hopeful females— of which number she had become one for a brief and unwilling moment a few hours before. It was humiliating.
She danced and smiled and talked. She smiled so dazzlingly and talked with such animation to the Reverend Strangelove that she feared perhaps he felt encouraged to renew his addresses. Certainly he assured her, as he led her into a vigorous country dance, that he did not feel it at all inconsistent with his calling to kick up his heels on occasion in order to dance with a lovely lady.
Somehow, she thought, smiling at him, one could not quite imagine Toby kicking up his heels.
But she need not have feared that she had raised his hopes again. Whenever the pattern of the dance brought them together, he told her about a lovely and modest young cousin of his patron, a lady whose character quite made up for the fact that she was impoverished. The patron, it seemed, had hinted at his willingness to arrange a match between his cousin and his pastor. Toby was in the process of persuading himself that he would be doing both the young lady and himself a favor by agreeing.
It was the supper dance. Rosamund sat at supper with the Reverend Strangelove and two other couples and felt that the evening must surely have been three nights long already. The noise level was high—all the guests seemed to be enjoying themselves and everyone drank a toast to the marquess with great heartiness.
Annabelle, who had not danced with Lord Beresford all evening, was now sitting beside him. They were holding hands beneath the cover of the tablecloth, Rosamund saw with a fleeting smile.
And Justin was sitting across the room, smiling charmingly and talking as he had all evening. Looking breath-takingly handsome in his formal evening clothes. Looking so achingly familiar that she found it hard to swallow the food she had put on her plate. And as unaware of her as if they had never been so much as introduced.
“I am afraid I must retire,” she said suddenly. “I am so very tired, and I have a long journey to make tomorrow.”
“But of course, my dear Rosamund,” the Reverend Strangelove said, scraping back his chair to rise with her, and bowing and raising her hand to his lips. “I shall do myself the honor of escorting you to your door.”
“Please don’t,” she said. “I shall just slip away unnoticed. Good night.” She included all the occupants of the table in her greeting and smile.
