“Dance cards,” Ophelia said, procuring them from by the door. They helped each other tie the ribbons around their wrists. Soon enough, men were being persuaded by the music to beginlooking for partners, and while it was too late for this dance, soon Eleanor’s dance card filled up.
But while it was lovely to have Mr. Blakely pencil his name in for a dance, when Tristan came up to request a dance, she felt as if she might begin to shiver.
“Might I sign your card as well?” Tristan asked, not at all sounding abashed or ashamed or stiff.
“Of course,” she answered, extending her arm so that he might take the card from where it dangled.
He looked at her wrist—covered in gloves of course—and seemed to contemplate it in a way that heated her entire body. He did not carefully take the card without touching her. He did the opposite, dragging a finger from her mid forearm down to the ribbon. He pulled up the card and penciled in his name, but before he let it go, he looked up from his bent pose.
“You only have one space left, Eleanor.”
“Miss Piper here, Mr. Bridewell.” Eleanor gave a polite smile that most likely looked like a wince.
“I think I liked it better in the woods,” he said. “Where I could be Tristan, and you were—”
She was so painfully aware of him holding her hand. It made her fluttery and impatient and anxious. “There are many things in the woods that are commendable.”
“Many,” he agreed, and she knew he wasn’t speaking of trees or stars or campfires.
The heat in his eyes brought the memory of their kiss to the forefront of her mind. How could he work such magic when she was so determined to forget it?
“But we haven’t danced in the woods,” he said.
“There was no music.”
He shook his head gently. “Not like a minuet or a waltz. So we might as well take advantage of civilization.”
Eleanor jolted. Two dances was perilously close to a declaration of interest. “Are you certain?”
“I am. Are you?” Golden brows lifted in question.
She felt as if he were asking another question. Not just about a second dance, but about something bigger. Something that might look like courtship. “I’m... certain.” She hated that she sounded breathless. She wished she could be more like Justine in her confidence, or like Prudence with her poise.
“Excellent,” he said, penciling in his name.
Ophelia came sashaying over, her ruffles twisting with the movement. “I’m surprised Arthur saddled us with dance cards. It’s a private ball. What’s the point?”
“You know Herringbone,” Tristan said, then winced. “I mean Arthur.”
Eleanor smiled. She knew Tristan had a penchant for nicknames, but she wondered why he was giving up what was likely the oldest one.
“Are you finally showing some respect? Who talked to you?” Ophelia put her hands on her hips.
“Papa,” Tristan said, “has asked me to be more respectful.”
“Does this extend to Justine as well? You’ve been calling her that awful nickname for years.”
“What nickname?” Eleanor asked.
“Bad News. I’m surprised you didn’t know. They print it in the newspapers, after all.”
Tristan shrugged, cheeks coloring. He was embarrassed. How unexpected. “I didn’t realize you called her that,” Eleanor said.
“He started it,” Ophelia said, staring at her brother, as if he could dare him to apologize right then and there. “It’s given her a devil of a time.”
“It was only meant as a joke.”
“It wasn’t a terribly funny one.” Ophelia screwed her face up, possibly trying to counteract her fury. “You haven’t known the trouble it caused.”
