The music began.
Eleanor knew the steps. She had waltzed on occasion. She had always been a little disappointed, for it was such a potentially romantic dance, and she had seen it done as it ought to be. She had seen it just a short while ago with her sister and brother-in-law, still obviously very deeply in love with each other even after five years of marriage and three children. She performed the steps now. So did he. He knew them well and danced with confidence. It was easy to follow his lead. After the first minute or so she relaxed despite the fact that his words—or rather Georgette’s—were still whirling about in her head.
And suddenly it was no longer a mechanical exercise. Suddenly they were dancing and twirling and she was acutely aware of him—of the feel of his hands and the heat of his body and the solid firmness of his presence and the smell of his cologne—and of their surroundings too: the wheeling lights from the chandeliers, the smell of flowers and candles and perfumes, the kaleidoscope of colors as ladies in bright gowns twirled and flowers spilled over the sides of pots. Suddenly waltzing was the loveliest thing she had ever done, and she would never forget. Oh, she would never forget it—or him. And she would not remember with sadness. She would remember with gratitude that she had met him at all and spent brief moments of time with him. She might have gone through the rest of her life without even that much of a new dream.
She was smiling up into his face, she realized suddenly, and he was smiling back. Had her awareness only expanded beyond him, she might have noticed that a great deal of curious attention was upon the two of them, at least among the house guests, though most of them were also waltzing. But she was unaware and so she was unselfconscious.
“What manner?” she asked him when the music stopped. “What has my manner been like?”
“Forbidding,” he said, but he was still smiling. “Warning me to keep my distance.”
“I did not want you to think,” she said, “that I was...well, pursuing you.”
“And I did not want you to think,” he said, “that I was in relentless pursuit of a mother for my children without any regard for you as a person. And without regard for your chosen way of life.”
“My chosen way of life,” she said. “I am selling my school. I have not been as happy since I purchased it as I was when I was simply a teacher. I do not know what I will do once it is sold. I will doubtless think of...something. But what of Miss Everly?”
“I made it clear to her and her mama before you and I went walking that afternoon,” he said, “that there was no courtship between us and never really had been except in their imagination. It was my title and fortune that were the attraction, I have no doubt. Lady Connaught is determined that her daughter will make an advantageous marriage. I wish Miss Everly well, but she would not do as my wife, you know. And she certainly would not do as the mother of my children, both present and future.”
Eleanor bit her lip and gazed back at him.
“Sometimes children possess a great deal of wisdom,” he said. “I believe I have been stupid, Miss Thompson. And dare I hope, unmannerly as it seems, that you have been too?”
She released her lip. “Oh, I have,” she said.
The third waltz of the set began. And if there was such a thing as magic, then someone must have waved a star-studded wand about their heads and created a world of music and dance and wonderment that enclosed them and became all their own. If only it could last forever.
He stood and gazed at her when it was over, making no move to return her to her mother’s side. “I do not know what the next set is to be,” he said, “or the one after that. I have absolutely no desire whatsoever to dance them, however. Do you?”
She shook her head.
“Come.” He offered his arm and led her toward the open French windows and out onto the wide stone balcony beyond the ballroom. It was still deserted this early in the evening. “Miss Thompson—may I call you Eleanor?”
“Yes,” she said, “Michael.” Her heart was pounding so hard she felt breathless.
“Eleanor,” he said, “I come encumbered with two children.”
“Encumbered?” she said. “What a strange word.”
“It is surely a thankless task to take on someone else’s children,” he said.
“Michael,” she said, and she felt quite dizzy as she clung more tightly to his arm, “are you asking me to take them on?”
“The trouble is,” he said, “that they have chosen you and have been embarrassingly public about it. Did you know that Robert announced your willingness to have me in a crowded billiard room this morning?”
Oh, dear. Oh, no!
“So you feel honor bound to offer for me?” she said.
He uttered a muffled oath. “I would not have believed,” he said, “that I could be so gauche, or so stupid, to use my daughter’s word, as I have been recently. I am offering for you, Eleanor, because I believe we can be happy together even though we do not have a lengthy acquaintance. And because, at the advanced age of forty, I have fallen in love. Will you marry me?”
They were standing at the top of the steps leading down to the moonlit garden. They were still alone on the balcony.
“Oh,” she said, “I cannot think of anything I would rather do. I love your children and delight in the prospect of being a mama to them. But I could not marry you just for their sakes. I do love you, Michael. It is absurd. The world would call it so anyway. We have known each other for such a short while, and for years past I have never thought to love again. But I do. I have dreamed a new dream in the last couple of weeks and it is already coming true. How well blessed I am. Yes, I will marry you.”
There were people gathered close to the doorway behind them, talking and laughing. They might at any moment decide to step outside into the cooler air.
“It is not even cold out here, is it?” he said. “Or dark. Can I persuade you to stroll to the lake with me.”
