Page 66 of Return to Satterthwaite Court

“Not when dancing,” she said. “I prefer not to think at all.”

He guided her into another sweeping turn. “You must have waltzed a great deal during your season.”

Her skirts swayed in a graceful arc. “I did. Including with your Mr. Catmull.”

The amused glint in Charles’s eyes dwindled. “Unhappy thought.”

She would have liked to press him on the subject of Mr. Catmull. Or perhaps even tease him a little about the possibility of his being jealous. But they weren’t in a London ballroom. They were in her parents’ drawing room at Beasley Park, with her father and mother only yards away and her overbearing older brother even closer.

James held Hannah as formally as a dancing master. Indeed, Kate would wager that if she measured the distance between the two of them with a ruler, it would come out to the same prescribed number of inches her old instructor, Monsieur Laurent, had told her must be maintained in a closed hold. That didn’t stop Hannah from blushing rosily as James led her into every turn, her mismatched eyes fixed at the approximate level of the top button of his waistcoat.

Kate’s father turned the pages of her mother’s music, ushering the chords of the waltz toward a swelling close.

“Did you have occasion to waltz much during your time in the Navy?” Kate asked Charles.

His mouth tipped at one corner in a smile so faint she might have missed it if she wasn’t gazing up at him so intently. “My sister asked me just the same at Christmas.”

“And your answer?”

“I was on a ship, Kate. Whom do you suppose I was waltzing with?”

“Did you never come off your ship onto dry land?”

“I did,” he said grimly. “But not for dancing.”

Kate searched his face. He was referencing fighting, presumably. She would have asked him about it, but the family’s butler, Selby, chose that moment to make an appearance. She caught sight of him as Charles waltzed her past the entrance to the room.

Ivo was there as well, having spent the past two dances lingering conspicuously by the doors.

Selby’s usually inexpressive face was pained. “Miss Burton-Smythe, sir,” he said, as though reciting the line of a play he’d been forced to practice in advance.

Meg Burton-Smythe entered the room behind him. Her red hair was caught up in a thick coil of plaits, secured with a tortoiseshell comb that complemented the pale apricot of her simple silk dress. The candlelight danced over her profile, bringing light to the liberal sprinkling of cinnamon-colored freckles that dusted her face.

Kate stumbled at the sight of her, briefly losing track of her steps. Charles’s arm tightened around her waist, instantly steadying her.

“Bloody hell,” Jack muttered under his breath. “What the devil is Ivo playing at?”

Mama brought the waltz to an abrupt close. She rose from the pianoforte to stand alongside Papa. Despite Jack’s indecorous outburst, their expressions were inscrutable.

Kate remained with Charles on the dance floor. James stood nearby alongside Hannah. His frame was taut with barely concealed anger.

Ivo approached his guest with a smile. “Mother, Father.” Taking Miss Burton-Smythe’s arm, he drew her into the room. “Seeing as how we were short of ladies for the dancing this evening, I took the liberty of inviting Miss Burton-Smythe to join us. Meg, you remember my parents, Lord and Lady Allendale? And doubtless you recall my sister, Kate, and my brothers Jack and James.”

There was an awful silence. Kate’s stomach tensed. She had the feeling they were all of them standing atop a tinderbox. One wrong word—one wrong move—and the entire situation would explode.

“Miss Burton-Smythe,” Mama said at length. “This is indeed a surprise.”

Miss Burton-Smythe curtsied prettily—and a bit bashfully. She gave every indication of being as embarrassed by Ivo’s stunt as Ivo should rightfully have been himself. “M-my lord, m-my lady,” she said in a voice nearly too soft to be heard. “I was honored t-to receive your invitation.”

Kate had forgotten Meg’s stutter. It was an endearing trait, really. One that softened Kate’s heart toward the girl a fraction. It wasn’t, after all, Meg’s fault that Kate’s brother was such an unremitting arse.

“Miss Burton-Smythe,” Papa said, with a curt bow. “How fares your father?”

Kate inwardly winced. Leave it to Papa to cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“His gout is t-troubling him, m-my lord,” Meg replied, her stutter worsening. “He’s b-been abed all day.”

And was still abed, Kate suspected, probably fast asleep, under the influence of laudanum or some such drug, blissfully unaware of his daughter’s defection. It was likely the very circumstance that had allowed Miss Burton-Smythe to slip away for the evening unnoticed. Were he awake and coherent, Sir Frederick would never have permitted his daughter to set foot in Beasley Park. He despised Kate’s father as much as Papa despised him.