“Miss Blackmore,” Thomas greeted, his eyes dancing as if he took extraordinary pleasure in the pretense. “Miss Finch. I believe I have had the honor of an introduction, but I findmyself so eager to renew it that I must beg you to forgive any appearance of forwardness.”
Clara pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to smile too widely. “Why, Captain Harrow, I am not at all certain I recall you at all.”
“Then I am desolated,” he replied. “And must begin again from nothing.”
“That may be for the best,” Clara replied in playful solemness. “I have been advised not to place too much confidence in gentlemen of easy manners.”
“Excellent advice. I shall endeavor at once to appear disagreeable.”
“You would fail.”
“I feared as much.”
Aurelia might have laughed had she not then found Owen standing before her. He bowed.
“Miss Finch.”
The name, spoken with such quiet gravity, touched her more than any endearment could have done.
“Lord Westbridge,” she replied, curtsying.
His gaze held hers for one breath too long to be entirely proper.
“I hope you are enjoying the evening.”
“I believe I am beginning to.”
Owen glanced toward the dancers, then back to her. “May I have the honor?”
They had pretended an understanding before half of London. They had walked, written, argued, trusted, and stood together against a man who had once seemed beyond reach. They had spoken of love without naming what must come next. Yet they had never danced.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He offered his hand and she placed hers upon it. The touch was gloved, proper, scarcely intimate at all, and yet every nerve in her body seemed to wake beneath it. He led her into the set, and across from them, Clara and Thomas had taken their places.
Then the music began.
At first, the dance required all the ordinary attentions: the proper step, the turn, the advance and retreat, the brief surrender and return of hands. Aurelia had danced often enough in girlhood, and again this season when necessity required it, but never had she felt so aware of every small movement. They separated, crossed, came together again.
“You are very quiet, Miss Finch,” he said when the figure allowed him near.
“I am attending to the dance.”
“Is that all?”
“No,” she confessed, because there seemed little use in caution now.
His eyes softened. “Then I shall not ask you to explain. I find myself in the same condition.”
The dance carried them apart before she could answer.
“I have been thinking,” he confessed, once they met again, “that I am extraordinarily glad to have made your acquaintance.”
Aurelia’s lips trembled despite her effort to command them. “That is very civil of you.”
“It is not civility.”
She looked up. The composed gentleman remained, outwardly faultless, but beneath that surface was a feeling so deep and steady that it seemed to strip away the noise of the room.
