Page 31 of The Gentlewoman Author

“You stayed in Ireland alone?”

His legs pressed against her skirt, a distraction she breathed through. “I did for nearly twenty years, to finish what my husband started. It eased my grief.” With as much lightness as she could muster, she said, “The estate is thriving now, and under excellent management.”

“But you didn’t stay.”

“No. I missed my family and England. The occasional excursions home always felt too short.” The conversation shifted from her control as his questions became almost impertinent. He was not one for small talk, never commenting on the weather or sharing gossip. A serious man who appreciated thoughtful conversation. She’d said enough and wished to understand his past. “Your father wishes you to marry. You do not?”

His eyes grew flat. “No…I mean, yes. But I will not marry for love.”

“Why ever not?” The words were out before she considered them.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “It feels impossible that I should find one whom I trust well enough to share my heart. Most marriages are of a practical nature. Perhaps love is a complication.” His words were slow and deliberate, as if giving voice to an insecurity that sat unexplored.

Mary’s traitorous heart fluttered in her throat. The man was an idealist. No one ever said share my heart who was not a true passionate, but what made him hesitate? “And yet, here you are, dancing, dining, making calls. Sowing seeds of love.”

He smiled, a wry, half-effort that was no smile at all. “I…well, there was a lady whom I believed would be my wife, but…” His voice cracked. It was clear someone had broken his heart.

“I am sure she did not deserve you.” She slid her hand over his and squeezed. “There is a better lady for you.”

His eyes cut to hers and stayed. There was a deep sadness in them that begged her to be right.

“Perhaps. Well, I begin to believe there is a prospect,” he spoke haltingly, “for an understanding or that two people might understand one another…here…or at home, I meant to say.”

Was it Mary’s imagination, or did he shift toward her? They were already standing close enough that an observer might assume they were lovers. No bystander could know they were speaking of his future with Louisa.

“I am happy to hear that.” Ashamed that her words came out in a breathy sigh, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand and cleared her throat. “My niece is a dear girl.”

Mr. Fletcher blinked twice then turned away from her. When he said nothing in reply, Mary, feeling uncomfortable with the alteration in mood, searched for another topic of conversation. “Have you and Miss Thorpe decided on the next book for the literary society?”

“Poetry. We decided on something more sober, Thomas Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in Country Churchyard.’”

Mary laughed. “Rather morbid. Surely that was not Louisa’s idea.”

He smiled back at her. “No. But I persuaded her it would be less controversial than Ms. Haywood’s Love in Excess.”

“Dear me. I must thank you for saving us from that disaster.” Mary was both appalled that Louisa would make the suggestion and grateful for Mr. Fletcher’s interference. The discussion might include a comparison of her own book to Ms. Haywood’s, and she did not wish to be likened to an author of questionable morals. People already suspected her, and she did not believe she could maintain her countenance should someone compare the two books.

“Would you care to dance? I believe this is the last set.”

Mary nodded and linked her arm in his, ready to savor the delights of the dance floor and this transient joie de vivre. They navigated the crowded room, her arm linked through his, pressing against his rib. She felt the rise and fall of his breath, and it sent a jolt straight to her belly, liquefying her insides. The orchestra began, and she remained steady, light as a dandelion seed taking flight in his arms. His hand splayed against her back and pulled her to him. They stepped apart, palms sparking together, and turned, never allowing their eyes to stray. The room dimmed and sparkled, the music intensified and vibrated more harmoniously, and the moment became ethereal. She felt grounded, present, and calm while hummingbirds fluttered an unyielding rhythm in her chest.

This dance held danger. His proximity, his mere existence, frightened and tempted and allured her. She did not mean to step so close or to show longing in each brush of the hand. Her body exiled prudish manners, and they danced as lovers might. When the song ended, they would part ways, the heat would dissipate, their moment deteriorating into tepid friendship.

Louisa’s low spirits lifted when Mr. Savage asked her for the final dance of the evening. A shiver chased up her arm when he took her hand in his and looked at her as if he could read her soul. The music began, and Mr. Savage’s cool eyes did not leave hers. He wore an expression new to Louisa. A word from Aunt Mary’s book put a name to it. Sultry. His eyes pulled away and slid down her neck to her bodice. When the dance brought them close, she felt his breath, hot on her cheek and through her hair. She liked it.

“We are good friends. You must call me Tobias.”

Louisa nodded at the acknowledgement. It felt good to have a confidant, and she needed one, for John had not come. He had not written or even acknowledged the letters she sent him weeks ago, though she knew he had received them. Aunt Charlotte had written saying she had run into Mr. Lawrence in town. He told Aunt Charlotte Louisa had written, inquiring after the health of his sister, and asked her to please inform Louisa there was no longer any need to write to him. His sister was fully recovered.

A rejection.

“And you must call me Louisa.”

In step with the dance, he kissed her hand as if they were being introduced for the first time, his lips lingering a moment longer than she expected. Heat crept up her neck. He admired her. That much was clear.

“Let’s get some air.” When they progressed to the end of the line, they slipped out of the dance through the crowd and onto the balcony.

Louisa breathed. “This is nice. The ballroom is stifling.” Feeling bold, she squeezed his arm.