Page 48 of Gentleman Jim

She felt a sudden flush of embarrassment at her daring blue dress. She should have taken a page from Jane’s book, dressing in a modest ball gown more appropriate to her years.

Jane herself looked elegant and graceful, waltzing with Lord Irvine, an elderly widowed gentleman. She was closer to Maggie than St. Clare was. Close enough to flash her a beaming smile.

Maggie forced a smile in return. A brighter smile than she thought herself capable of, given the circumstances. She wouldn’t have her friend worry over her. Jane had already wasted the first half of the evening in looking after Maggie’s comfort.

It was when she was smiling with such artificial brilliance that the twirling pattern of the dance brought St. Clare and Miss Steele closer. A dip and a swooping turn, and then his stormy gray gaze caught Maggie’s across the floor.

Their eyes locked for an electricity-charged instant. For that timeless moment, he looked stunned. Stricken to his core. Maggie saw the emotion in his eyes, as plain as anything. But as quickly as it manifested, it was gone, lost beneath an air of glacial reserve.

He waltzed Miss Steele past, his attention once again fixed firmly on his partner’s face. He even smiled at her, though there was nothing of warmth about his expression.

Maggie looked after him for the space of a heartbeat before forcibly turning her attention back to Jane. It wouldn’t do to publicly pine after the season’s most eligible bachelor. Not when the entire fashionable world knew that he’d recently fought a duel with Fred. It would only spark further gossip.

“Has Harold returned?” Aunt Harriet asked, blinking owlishly about the ballroom. “He promised to take me into supper.”

Harold Trumble was Jane’s father. Aunt Harriet frequently mistook the younger generation for those who had come before them.

Maggie didn’t bother to correct her. “He’s in the gaming room playing cards, ma’am. I’m certain he’ll be here soon.”

The final notes of the waltz sounded, with St. Clare and Miss Steele ending their dance at the far side of the ballroom. Maggie could no longer see them through the crush of people.

She didn’t want to see them.

Though she’d resolved to keep her countenance, she didn’t think her heart could bear to witness St. Clare escorting his comely young partner into supper.

“Aunt Harriet.” George appeared out of the crowd, a little short of breath. He came to stand in front of his aunt. “Are you ready to go down to supper.”

“Yes, yes. I’m famished.” Aunt Harriet took George’s arm.

“Miss Honeywell?” He offered his other arm to Maggie.

She shook her head. “Thank you, but I must have some fresh air. I feel a trifle light-headed.”

When Jane returned with her partner, she offered to accompany Maggie outside. “It will be no trouble at all.”

“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “I’m fine on my own.”

“But if you’re going out into the garden—”

“I won’t venture that far,” Maggie promised. “I’ll only step outside onto the terrace for a bit, and then I’ll come and join you. You’ll scarcely notice my absence.”

As her friends and the rest of the guests made for the dining room, Maggie pressed toward the opposite end of the ballroom. Glass-paned doors led out onto a wide stone terrace. A liveried footman opened one of them for her.

She passed through and kept walking until her hands found the cool edge of the railing. Lit by torches, the terrace looked out over an expansive tiered garden. No one else seemed to be about. Except for a few lingering servants tidying up in the ballroom, she was alone.

The evening air was cool on her exposed skin. Far cooler than it had been when they’d arrived. She leaned over the rail, breathing deeply. Her eyes closed on a sigh.

It had been foolish to come here. Foolish to imagine she was well enough to dance with anyone, let alone St. Clare. Perhaps Fred was right. It was time to go home to Beasley Park. Time to resume the normal course of her life.

London had been a welcome distraction from reality. It was full of energy and industry. Alive with entertainments. But it was no place to recover one’s health. It was too dusty and dirty, the air filled with smoke and damp with fog. What she needed was the fresh air of Beasley Park. She needed to walk in the countryside. Perhaps even to ride again, if she could convince Fred that it was safe for her to do so.

Fred.

The prospect of a life spent under his thumb depressed her spirits. It would be no life at all. But many women endured worse. Many carved out lives for themselves in spite of brutish, bullying husbands. She was more equipped than anyone to do so. With her temperament and backbone, she’d never permit Fred to break her spirit, or to get the better of her.

As for the rest of it—

Maggie’s melancholy thoughts were arrested by the sound of the terrace door opening and closing again. Footsteps echoed on the stone as someone approached.