Page 13 of The Gentlewoman Author

He bowed and stood to face her. Their eyes collided, and the room seemed to hold its breath. Mary was falling, sinking, drowning in his pale blue stare. A slow smile ticked the edges of his mouth and grew into a lopsided grin. His gaze held her like a physical embrace, the room spinning around them in a blur of light. Mary felt her mouth hitch in an answering smile. Her lips parted, and a silent breath escaped. Butterflies fluttered from her toes into her head, but more than that, she became the butterfly. Blossoming warmth opened in her stomach and spread to her feet, to her chest, through her arms. She felt beautiful—even desirable—under his gaze. More than that, she wanted him.

He cleared his throat, and she looked away. Goodness. What was that?

In the noise of the room, he stepped toward her, and speaking into her ear, he told Mary, his voice as low and rich as coffee with cream, how pleased he was to make her acquaintance. “Mrs. Allen, would you… er… care to dance?”

He seemed nervous, in a charming way. Heat traveled up the back of Mary’s neck. It had been an age since she’d danced. She blinked up at him, sure she had not heard him correctly. Declining an invitation to dance was not among her cache of polite phrases. Her fingers covered her locket, and she opened her mouth, waiting for the words to come. Agnes pinched the back of Mary’s arm, alerting her to her social faux pas.

“Yes. Thank you.”

She slipped her arm through his, and all unease melted away at his touch. Why shouldn’t she dance? It was a respectable diversion for a widow. Her lavender-colored gown embroidered in black hinted at her loss, though perhaps full mourning would better express the profound depth of her sorrow. This evening marked the first time she’d discarded her blacks and greys in favor of color. While it stung to shed her mourning in the same room where she’d danced with her husband, her movements became a tribute to her loss rather than a show of disrespect for her departed loved one. She’d been widowed over two decades ago. Surely it was time to dance again.

And dance she did.

Her feet recalled each step, and her arms moved with what felt like immaculate grace. Reaching up, she pressed her palm against his. Heat burned through silk. She examined his face. The line between his brow suggested private worries, but his eyes were large and candid, his face open and intelligent. Though his dancing lacked polish, the unpracticed movements made him seem unaffected, and he never stepped amiss. They separated, chasséed down the line.

Framed in dark lashes, his eyes followed her. How long had it been since a man’s gaze had made her feel so desired, so assured? They came together again, hands touching, sliding together then apart in a way that suddenly felt unseemly. The room was so very warm.

It ended. They bowed, and Mr. Fletcher walked her back to Agnes.

“I have seen you before,” he said. “Through the window of the bookseller’s, looking at A Woman Who Loves. Have you read it?”

Her stomach plummeted and she reached for a lie that was not a lie. “I have heard of it.”

“The shop is well-stocked both with new and used books. Do you enjoy reading?”

His voice, so deep and rumbling, reverberated through her, so it took a moment for her brain to catch up with his words. “Yes. Very much.” She searched for a change of topic. “Where are you from?”

“Gloucestershire.”

She wanted to reply but could not remark on that part of the country.

After a beat he said, “The weather is fine.”

“Yes. We are fortunate that it is not raining.” He kept opening his mouth and leaning toward her as if to speak. She did not care if he remained mute, wanting only to look at his lovely blue eyes, the line of his jaw, the slope of his lips.

“Mrs. Allen, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Roberts.” Agnes arrived, yet another man in her wake. Mr. Fletcher thanked Mary for the dance and left her bereft.

“He wishes to dance with you,” Agnes said, pushing a short, thin man toward her.

Before Mary could contrive a response, her arm linked with his, and she walked toward the dance. The night continued thusly. She never lacked a partner and did not know Louisa’s whereabouts or whether she was enjoying the evening. Mary consoled herself that she had done her best to encourage all whom she judged worthy to call and meet her niece, with the notable exception of Mr. Fletcher.

It wasn’t until one of her partners asked after the size of her estate that she understood. The men were set upon her by Agnes, who had certainly whispered that Mary was a widow who loved to dance. Mary hoped Agnes had not said more. Agnes thought Mary should find another husband and was not above exaggerating the truth to make Mary seem more appealing. Her modest fortune and lack of children made her attractive to men. But the more information Agnes shared, the more likely someone might guess she authored A Woman Who Loves.

Candles burned low, and the orchestra began making exhausted errors in their harmony. With the final dance afoot, Mary stole herself away into a quiet corner where Agnes could not find her and where she could watch the final moments of the ball half-tucked behind a leafy plant. Through the palm fronds, she met Mr. Fletcher’s eyes from where he stood directly across the room. She lowered her head in acknowledgement and tried to find Louisa among the dancers, but her gaze kept returning to Mr. Fletcher, who seemed to watch her.

An effervescent bubbling excitement trickled through her, a sensation she believed was lost in her past. She threaded her locket along its chain, recalling with pleasure of their dance before forcing herself to consider how well Mr. Fletcher and Louisa would suit.

The following morning, Mary trudged downstairs, hoping breakfast waited for her at so late an hour. The ball had ended at eleven, but thoughts of Daniel Fletcher kept her awake well into the night.

In the breakfast room, Mary found the sideboard replete with food, a welcome sight.

“Mary, how are your feet this morning?” Agnes sat with a bowl before her.

“Well, thank you. Why do you ask?”

“On account of all the dancing.”

Mary served herself and sat down across from her friend, wondering if she should feel guilty for having enjoyed herself so well and if Agnes noticed how taken she was with Mr. Fletcher. “I have you to thank for sending all those gentlemen my way,” she said primly.