But no matter. The bloody dancing challenge came first. Getting a seat would also be his score to settle with Havisham.
So here he was, dressed in his best evening suit; his valet had spent a week, choosing the outfit and putting it together. Oddly enough, the shirt, waistcoat, and trousers had been just fine when he’d left the house. Smooth, fresh, and soft. Plenty of space to move. Now that he stood at the edge of the ballroom in Lord Redvers’s house, his clothes had turned into instruments of torture, chafing, restricting, and tightening.
He fiddled with his tie to give more room for his throat to work.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered under his breath.
Angeline stood next to him. “I’m looking forward to showing everyone how the baron who never dances has become a great dancing partner.”
“I don’t share your enthusiasm.”
Lord Redvers walked over to them, his face tense as if he were the one who had to dance. “Are you ready, Wharton?”
“More or less. Yes. As ready as I can ever be.”
“They’re all here,” Lord Redvers said.
Yes, Royston could see that. From Mr. North, Miss Taylor, Mr. Wright to Havisham and the other ladies and gentlemen who had attended the ball where he had fled., They were all there. And last but not least, Mrs. Haywood; she shot him daggers with her gaze whenever he glanced at her.
The last thing he needed was to have an argument with her before the dancing started. He’d stay out of her reach for as long as possible.
“I don’t mean to worsen the situation,” Lord Redvers said, “but North started a round of bets on you. He thinks you aren’t going to finish the dance.”
Which is likely.
“Very unlikely,” Angeline said, seemingly reading his mind. “Lord Wharton will show everyone how elegant and skilled he is.”
“Let’s not exaggerate.” Royston scrubbed the back of his neck.
Murmurs spread when the master of ceremonies announced the dances would start soon. Young couples drifted towards the centre of the room. Sideways and curious glances were thrown in his direction.
“Good luck, Wharton.” Lord Redvers gave him a paternal pat on the shoulder.
He was so nervous he couldn’t say anything.
“Let’s go.” Angeline tugged at his hand. “Don’t be too anxious. I know you can do it.”
He followed her, dragging his feet onwards. The deep breaths he kept taking didn’t seem to help, and he became dizzy while the lights were too bright.
“Look at me,” Angeline said. “Focus on me only.”
He nodded, not trusting his voice.
“Ouch!” She wriggled her fingers. “You’re crushing my hand.”
“Sorry. I’m nervous.”
When he and Angeline found their spot among the other couples, following the social ranks, a combination of mutters and whispers swept the room. Some shook their heads. Others nodded their approval. A few smiled, either in encouragement or mockery. Then the music started.
“Royston,” Angeline whispered. “You recognise the type of dance, don’t you?”
“F-flat major.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I didn’t understand a word you said. I mean that this is a polonaise. It starts with a sweeping step, then we form a circle with the other couples. We’ll head right while the others… just follow me.”
“Yes.”
“Let’s begin.”
