Hadley Fleming rushed to her side to ask for the first set of country dances, while Rodney Churchill was asking Georgina.
And then she saw him. He was not late after all. The dancing had not even begun. He was smiling and talking with Mr. Sherman and Papa. And looking so very handsome in pale-blue knee breeches and a darker blue coat with silver waistcoat and very white linen that Constance’s eyes widened.
“All the ladies in London ogled him at all the balls,” Georgina murmured into her ear. “I used to enjoy remarking carelessly that he was our neighbor. And I used to positively preen myself when he led me into a set, as he occasionally did.” She chuckled. “I wonder who will eventually net him.”
“I don’t know,” Constance said, and she felt that curious fluttering in the pit of her stomach that she had felt on the evening of the picnic when he had been walking home with her and had stopped to wrap his coat about her shoulders—though it had not been the cold that had made her shiver—and had kept his arm about her and almost kissed her.
She had been very thankful at the time that he had not. She was, after all, Sidney’s betrothed, even if no one but the two of them—no, three of them—knew of it. And yet, she had dreamed that night, before she went to sleep, that he had not held back but had allowed his lips to touch hers. And the dream had been so pleasant that she had dreamt it many times since. And had felt distressed and bewildered and ashamed of herself. She was to be twenty years old the following week but she could still indulge in the fantasy of hero worship—while she loved and planned marriage with another.
No, she should not be looking forward to this assembly, she decided.
But she was. And she danced with Hadley and Rodney and Dennis and felt happy and exhilarated. She scarcely stopped smiling, she knew, and was dazzling Dennis, if not her other two partners. And yet she could not stop herself, for the fourth set was to be a waltz. And he had danced the first three sets with older, married ladies. She was to be the first young lady he had danced with.
She could feel all eyes on them when he bowed over her hand and led her onto the floor. And she knew that it was neither imagination nor conceit that made her think so, for he was the focus of almost every eye. Constance had heard some ladies behind her remark earlier that it was very condescending of the viscount to put in an appearance at all. He was wearing the same cologne as he had worn before, she thought irrelevantly when he turned to face her and took her hand in his. Something musky and wonderfully masculine.
“You dance well,” he said. “I have been watching you. Do you waltz well too?”
“Sidney taught me,” she said, but her words for some reason set him to laughing and her to joining in.
“So what is the answer to my question?” he said at last. “Do you waltz well?”
She found herself laughing again, but then the music began and she discovered that he certainly did, better than any of the other partners she had ever waltzed with. Her slippers felt as if they scarcely touched the floor.
“Your answer is yes,” he said. “You do not need to say it.”
She found herself smiling and blushing, and enjoying herself so very much that when he twirled her about a corner, she closed her eyes and felt that she could keep on turning and twirling for the rest of the night.
He was laughing at her, she saw when she opened her eyes. “Constance,” he said, “you are wonderfully refreshing. If you had spent time in London ballrooms, you would have learned that the fashion is to look bored, as if you had been to so many entertainments that none had any further surprises or delights to offer.”
She sobered instantly. Oh, what a child he must think her. And she had tried so hard when he first came home to show him that she was now a sophisticated lady, quite a different person from that foolish girl who had taken fright one evening at a mere kiss.
“Ah,” he said, “I said the wrong thing, did I not? Come, smile again. You looked so very pretty.”
Pretty. Girls looked pretty. Young girls.
“Have you heard from Sidney?” she asked.
He shook his head.
She looked into his eyes, eyes that had made her doubt on other occasions. And she wanted to ask the question but could not do so. He is not coming, is he? she wanted to ask him. But she was afraid of his answer. For if Sidney was not coming and had not written to her either, she could not dare to look into the future and all its bleakness. Only the knowledge of her secret betrothal and the prospect of the future lived in comfort with her dearest friend had helped her to be content with her lot. And she tried so hard to be contented, not to long for what she could not have. She had tried so hard during this spring and the last not to envy Georgina too much.
“Sometimes,” she said, “he forgets to write. And I suppose there is little point in doing so when he is to be here shortly.”
“The weather has held,” he said, “for a whole week. And it will hold for at least another one. I have put in a special order for your birthday.”
“Oh, have you?” she said. “That is very obliging of you, I am sure. I did not know that God was your particular friend.”
“You did not?" he said, raising his eyebrows while his eyes laughed down into hers. “Did you not see me at church on Sunday? Did I not speak to you afterward?”
She smiled again, and even laughed when he twirled her about a corner once more, and they talked nonsense for the rest of the set. Glorious, delicious nonsense that had Constance thinking that a London ball could not have been more exciting.
It really was good to be home, Lord Whitley was finding. It was true that the assembly rooms at the village inn were plainer than even the shabbiest ballroom in London, and true that the music provided by the pianoforte was far less rich than that of an orchestra, which he was more accustomed to. And the dancers were less elegant and fashionable.
And yet there was a warmth and a friendliness about the village assembly that went far beyond anything he had experienced elsewhere. His neighbors were genuinely pleased to see one another—and him, he felt. And of course, Constance had never been at a London ball.
If he had not known better, he would have believed that she was thoroughly enjoying the evening. She danced every set and smiled and glowed at her partners. He had been delighted to discover earlier that the last waltz was also the last dance of the evening. He looked forward to that last dance with eager anticipation.
But he did know better, of course, about Constance’s true state of mind. He knew that she loved Sid and that she awaited his arrival within the next few days with eagerness and impatience. Perhaps the fact that she thought there were only a few days left accounted for her high spirits this evening. Would there were another cause!
