Page 47 of Gentleman Jim

Turning sharply, she made her way back through the clusters of elegantly clad ladies and gentlemen that lined the ballroom. “Excuse me,” she murmured. “I beg your pardon.”

The music swelled as the dance came to a close, the orchestra playing so loudly that she could hardly think.

“Margaret.” Fred caught hold of her arm—the same arm he’d clenched so brutally during his last visit to Green Street.

She couldn’t conceal a wince.

He dropped his hand. “Where do you think you’re going? You can’t charge off alone.” His gaze flicked down the length of her in disapproval. “Not dressed like that.”

“I’m not alone. I came here with Miss Trumble, and with her brother and aunt.”

“None of whom are anywhere to be found.”

“Here I am!” Jane hurried, breathless, from the dance floor. “Is everything all right?”

Maggie had never been more relieved to see her friend. “Fred is objecting to my lack of a chaperone.”

Jane laughed. “Nonsense. She has three chaperones altogether. My brother has just gone to fetch us some punch, and then we’ll be rejoining my aunt.”

“Exactly so,” Maggie said. “I don’t need you hovering over me all night, Fred. You’ll only cause a scene.”

Fred glowered. “Very well. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Margaret, make no mistake.” He strode away to rejoin his friend.

“What was that about?” Jane asked.

“Possessiveness,” Maggie said. “And worse. He’s befriended a distant relation of Lord. St. Clare’s.”

“Oh?” Jane shot Maggie a look. “What mischief can he be up to?”

“I don’t know. But Fred never forgets a slight. I wouldn’t put it past him to be brewing some manner of trouble for the viscount.”

Jane sighed. “Men and their petty grievances. How tedious they can be.” She linked her arm through Maggie’s. “Come. Let’s find George.”

The evening continued in a flurry of music and dancing. More people arrived, and the ballroom was soon packed full to bursting. It was hot under the flickering lights of the crystal chandeliers, the air heavy with the cloying fragrance of perfume, pomade, and perspiration. One could scarcely draw breath. Indeed, midway through the evening—in a sure sign that Lady Parkhurst’s ball was a success—a woman dancing the scotch reel fell into a dead faint from the lack of circulation.

Maggie felt a trifle light-headed herself. She hated to think how much worse it would be if she was dancing.

But she didn’t dance.

Not even when the waltz was finally played. It was the supper dance—a dance coveted by any gentleman with aspirations toward a deeper familiarity with his lady. And not only because the waltz was an intimate undertaking, but because afterward he would have the privilege of dining with his partner. Of sitting beside her for an hour or more.

Maggie stood near to Aunt Harriet’s chair, watching the dancers swirl about the room. It was then that she saw him.

John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare.

Clothed in an elegant black-and-white evening ensemble, he was waltzing with Miss Steele. All but embracing her as they swirled to the music.

Maggie’s breath stopped.

When had he arrived? She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard any talk to indicate he was present. He must have come just before the dance began. Which meant he’d likely reserved it with Miss Steele ahead of time. An agreement the pair of them had come to at a prior engagement, perhaps, or during the course of one of their drives in the park.

Maggie rested a hand at her midriff, willing herself to breathe, even as her heart clenched with hurt and jealousy. She was ashamed to admit to the latter. She had no formal claim on St. Clare. He’d said he intended to court her, it was true, but he’d made her no promises. Had sworn her no oaths. Only Nicholas had done so, and that had been too many years ago to count. He’d been little more than a lad then. What had he known of the world? What had he known of women?

Across the ballroom, St. Clare looked as experienced as any world-weary rake. He smiled down at Miss Steele as they danced. She was talking to him. Flirting with him, more like. Garbed in a shimmering silver dress, she fairly glowed in the candlelight. Twinkling like a diamond. Young and pretty and vigorous.

Maggie had been so once.

But not now.