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“Gin?” She did not have time to be alarmed, for he was already leading her out onto the dance floor. “I do not think I know this one,” Lizzie said craning to hear the tune above the noise of spirited conversation all about them.

Benedict looked unconcerned. “It doesn’t really matter.” He drew her firmly into his arms. “We can just dance our own steps.”

Involuntarily, Lizzie stiffened, feeling his hand at her waist. Shaking off the unfamiliarity of it all, she set one hand on his shoulder as the other was enfolded in his own much larger hand.

“You ready?” he asked, with a lurking twinkle in his eye.

She nodded and they started to move. Lizzie concentrated on following his lead as they glided about the bustling floor. Benedict moved easily and so assuredly he seemed almost graceful. Lizzie felt rather wooden in comparison, but after a while she found herself starting to loosen up to the flow of the music. She was just starting to enjoy herself when the next tune started up at a breakneck speed.

Around them, the couples starting galloping about the floor.

“Shall we sit this one out?” Benedict suggested.

“Yes please,” Lizzie replied hastily, and they forced their way out of the throng toward the trestle tables.

“It might be as well to get some supper now,” he said angling his head toward her ear so she could hear him.

Lizzie nodded and they went toward the cold collation laid out on the head table. Waiting staff periodically refilled the dishes with cold meats, tongue, cheese, pickles, and buttered bread.

Lizzie selected a savory tart and some slices of cold turkey and waited for Benedict to finish loading his plate. Then they made their way to one of the more empty looking tables and selected seats at the opposite end to another couple who were quietly conversing but looked up to nod politely when they saw them.

“I’ll fetch us another drink,” Benedict said after seeing her seated. He was soon back, and they both tucked into their cold supper with gusto.

Lizzie could not help but gaze about at the assorted clientele of The Fiddlers Green. She had never moved in such company in her life. It was somehow rather thrilling. When she had socialized, it had been with fellow members of St. Joseph’s church who were sober folk much like her aunt and uncle.

She had not been to a dance party since she had grown too old for the church Christmas parties at thirteen and she had advanced to more sedate and civilized social pursuits such as attending formal evening dinners instead. Prior to this evening, it had never once occurred to her that she might have been missing out when Betsy went off on pleasure bent with the Stocktons. Now, she reappraised her previous disdain. She had been missing out after all.

“Another dance? Or did you want some dessert?” Benedict asked, glancing over at the dessert table where big bowls of melting ice preserved cream trifles and cakes.

Lizzie shook her head, setting down her empty glass. “Let’s dance.”

Once more they took to the dance floor, and this time Lizzie did not worry about possible collisions with other couples. Benedict guided them through the throng, and Lizzie closed her eyes as she swayed against him. For a moment, she wondered if the punch might be going to her head.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, as the thought occurred to her. “Why would grown men wish to see a nude woman emerging from a chrysalis?”

Benedict leaned closer. “Say that again?”

“That was what Miss Wurtzel used to do apparently, to high acclaim. Try as I might, I just cannot understand why such a thing should hold any appeal.”

Benedict shrugged. “I suspect the entertainment was designed for more jaded palates than my own.” Lizzie cocked him an inquisitive look. “Aristocrats, likely as not,” he expounded. “They’re usually bored and on the lookout for something new.”

“Oh,” she regarded him thoughtfully. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense.” She nodded. “Apparently, she was the light of love of some duke of the realm at that time.”

“Light of love?” Benedict’s lips quirked. “Is that the polite term for it?”

Lizzie frowned. “I think I heard the term somewhere. Perhaps it’s not the correct one.” She hiccupped. “I believe I might have had enough punch,” she confessed, and Benedict laughed. “So,” she leaned forward confidentially. “You would not be interested in seeing Miss Wurtzel appear as a human butterfly at Vauxhall Gardens?”

He shook his head. “My tastes are not so refined.”

“It’s funny,” Lizzie rambled on. “For though she is very beautiful, I do not think she is as appealing as the twins, and Niamh’s hair is a far prettier color. Really, I think her appeal must boil down to her magnificent figure, although I’m sure she uses some artifices to supplement nature, as it were.”

At his quirked brow, she explained. “I suspect she wears some pieces of false hair to pad out her own. For when she dresses, she pins it up and I cannot see how hair which extends down past her bottom could possibly be contained in so neat a topknot.”

A smile lurked on Benedict’s lips. “It sounds as though you have reasoned out the puzzle.”

Lizzie narrowed her eyes. “Are you laughing at me, Benedict Toomes?”

“Who me? I wouldn’t dare,” he rumbled, then placed his head closer to hers. “It’s funny to think that the last time I saw you in that dress was our wedding day,” he murmured against her brow.