Page 24 of The Trouble with Tweed

After all, presentation conveyed the approval of royalty, but society’s approval was perhaps even more important when it came to their futures. No matter how important royalty was, one could not marry them.

For Claire, the stakes were even higher. Not only was it the first ball for three of her sisters, it was her return to society after four years of increasing familial disgrace. Tonight would be telling—would the ton forgive Claire’s absence these past years, or would they resent her sudden reappearance?

Thankfully, the dresses that Dahlia Warrington had designed for the Prestons were impeccable. Claire begrudgingly admitted that even she couldn’t find fault with her ensemble. Her gown was navy taffeta, and it displayed a great expanse of her pale shoulders and neck. Mara had swept her hair up, leaving several wisping tendrils to frame her face. Claire had completed the look with a pair of dangling gold earrings that William had brought back from India.

The ballroom of the Duke of Bedford was awash in all of the glitter and splendor that the ton had to offer. Floral swags draped from marble pillars. Gold veining in the marble floor winked shimmering reflections of candlelight from the massive chandeliers above. Every dozen feet or so, huge urns were filled to bursting with an explosion of flowers. The arrangements were large enough for any wallflower to hide behind, though Claire sincerely hoped that none of her sisters would need to avail themselves of such cover.

She kept her eyes straight ahead as she and her sisters were announced. Despite Claire’s fears of entering a ballroom to stark, judgmental silence, there was barely a dip in the volume as they descended the staircase. By the time the Prestons gained the main floor—none of them had tripped, which had been Claire’s other fear—the conversations nearly overpowered the music as before.

Michael arrived at Claire’s elbow immediately. He looked exceptionally well this evening in a deep-charcoal suit with a light grey waistcoat. His reddish hair had already flouted whatever controlling measures he’d taken to subdue it, but that only made him look even more daringly attractive.

“This isn’t going to work,” he stated flatly, his gaze raking her from head to toe.

“Pardon?”

Claire was still recovering from Michael’s appearance. His was the kind of handsome that she easily dismissed as an exaggeration of her imagination when he wasn’t present, but it was impossible to ignore when she stood face to face with him.

“You’re far too pretty for any of the Tweeds to get the courage to ask you to dance.” Michael frowned at her as if in censure.

Her nerves of only moments ago loosened in the face of his complimentary obstinance. “I’ll be satisfied as long as none of us Preston ladies trip and sprawl in the center of the dance floor.”

“I hardly think they’re in any danger of that. Well, perhaps Margaret,” he admitted. “But the rest of your sisters are as graceful as you. Unless someone pushes them, I daresay they’ll stay upright well enough.”

“Your vote of confidence is appreciated,” she said dryly. “But tonight will determine much about my sisters’ futures.”

“It’s only the first ball of the Season.”

“And yet the first ball sets the tone,” she said, in a way that implied he was an idiot for not knowing it.

Though how could he possibly understand the pressures put on a young lady when he was a gentleman of rank and fortune?

Michael nodded to where couples swirled on the dance floor. “We must set a tone of our own this evening, one regarding our grand love story. Let’s join in the dance.”

“The dance is well underway.”

“Then it will be half a dance.”

Michael was already steering her toward the dance floor; she could hardly pull away without making a scene. A scene was the last thing any of the Preston ladies needed this evening. Claire had reminded her sisters on the carriage ride over until Beatrice snapped at her that, for heavens sakes, they knew that.

“Won’t it look strange? Wouldn’t it be better if we waited for the next one?” she whispered.

“Don’t be silly. Just follow my lead.”

Before Claire could utter another murmur of protest, Michael swept her into his arms and spun her in the steps of the waltz. She’d never waltzed with a man before—she’d only been asked to dance a handful of times her first Season out, and they’d all been dances with less contact between the partners.

Her skirts swirled beautifully around her feet as they moved in time to the lovely strains of the music. The entire setting was as beautiful as any painting, and she was part of it. Wasn’t that what she’d longed for, those four dark years? For her family to be restored, to be included in the merry swirl of high society once more?

Yet Claire found she could barely pay attention to the culmination of all her long-held dreams. The warmth of Michael’s hand at her waist was dreadfully distracting. She was grateful he guided her confidently through the steps; without his capable lead, she might have stomped on his foot or come to a stupid standstill on the dance floor.

“You didn’t tell me you were this nervous about the first ball of the Season,” he said. “I thought your concern lay primarily with your sisters.”

“It does,” she said, a bit too quickly. “However, there’s very little I can do to help them now.”

He hummed as if he didn’t quite believe her. “You can help set the example for their evening. If you enjoy yourself, it might give them the courage to do the same.”

“Perhaps.”

Claire refocused on the steps of the waltz, gratified that her many hours of dance lessons had apparently not been wasted. Even still, dancing with her sisters had not prepared her for the distraction of being so close to Michael. She could smell him—some mixture of fresh soap and cologne that had no right to be as enticing as it was.