“Indeed,” he agreed. “And the quadrille?”
“It is fine enough but I find it tedious. I wish to feel something deeper. I believe a waltz allows for such things.”
Lord Owen paused, his steps faltering for a moment. “We shall see, shall we not, Lady Eleanor?”
The way he said her name, as if it was a delicate thing on his tongue, made her flush with warmth.
“We shall,” she answered.
As they danced, Lord Owen’s gaze lifted to the room around them. “I believe Lady Victoria continues to outdo herself with tonight’s decoration. She is a fine host. If I am honest, her balls are the highlight of my social calendar. Something scandalous always happens. An unwanted guest, a courtship that is the headline of all gossip sheets, an argument, a brawl, even. I believe she rather encourages it for the gossip and renown of her events.”
Eleanor loosened a laugh. “I do not disbelieve such a notion. She rather enjoys the attention. However, did you see the Countess of Eastward tonight? If her headwear is an insight to how her summer ball shall look then I fear for our eyes.”
Lord Owen laughed, loud and clear. He looked surprised at the burst of amusement and composed himself quickly. “I wonder if she shall have live peacocks roaming the ballroom.”
“Or a gathering of swans poised to dance,” Eleanor teased.
“Perhaps they will peck that scowl off my friend’s face.” He nodded over to the Duke of Blackthorn, but frowned.
“It appears my friend, Miss Amelia, has already done that.”
“She is indeed a swan,” Lord Owen appraised. “So perhaps I am not so far off.”
Eleanor felt a stab of longing go through her, riveted by their conversation. Most men boasted; Lord Owen, contrary to her expectations, did not. “Do you like swans, Lord Owen?”
“No,” he answered. “Not particularly.”
She beamed, and wondered if he had made the connection she had hoped. “Well, then, let us find a bird you are fond of.”
He looked back at her, his brow raising. “Let us indeed, although I believe I will not have to look very far at all.”
Her breath came fast. “Will you be attending the summer assembly, Lord Owen?”
“I shall. Although, I do hope the Rochdale brothers do not brawl again. It was rather awful last year. They cracked a very expensive bust.”
“And injured themselves!” Eleanor exclaimed, laughing.
Lord Owen managed to shrug even as he danced her around the curve of the floor. “That was their own choice.” A smile played on his lips. “I hope to see you there, Lady Eleanor.”
As he swept her down the last length of the floor as the song neared its end, Eleanor could not help noticing Cassandra and Beatrice watching. Both girls’ gazes were aimed at the floor. Beatrice’s eyes were piercing through Eleanor and Owen, jealousy flaring brightly in them, and tightening the corners of her mouth.
Similarly, Cassandra glared at the duke and Amelia. As Eleanor passed, she heard the hiss of, “how could a woman like her capture the attention of a duke? Miss Hawthorne is nothing but a plain, insignificant scrap of weeds from the garden.”
Her voice faded out as Owen took her further away. Beatrice’s white-knuckled hold on her fan left a knot in Eleanor’s stomach that was quickly undone when Lord Owen bowed to her, their dance finishing. He kissed her knuckles.
“Until the summer ball, then, my lady.”
***
The waltz drew to a close, and as the final notes faded away, Graham found himself strangely reluctant for it to conclude. Yet, to request a second dance would be to provoke a sentiment he was unprepared to confront.
“I did not ask your name,” he murmured as he stepped back. “And though it is considered improper to dance before we have been properly introduced, the unfortunate incident we encountered, coupled with my rank as a Duke, shall not give rise to any scandal.”
“Oh,” she said, blushing, not having thought of that matter. “Amelia. Miss Hawthorne, that is. My father is Baron Edward Hawthorne.”
“Hawthorne?” He pictured the graying man, sat at his favorite table in the gentleman’s club. “A good man indeed.”
“He is most kind,” Miss Hawthorne agreed.
