Page 24 of An Enchantress for an Earl

Chapter Nine

It was some days since she had last seen Lord Merryfield, and even then, that had been at a rather stultifying musicale, where the performances were so bad that almost everyone had appeared to be gritting their teeth in pain, and had mostly left early. There had been little chance for conversation, beyond a polite greeting, and certainly no chance for dancing.

Dancing… the memory of that waltz had stayed with Violet, sending a quiver of warmth through her every time she thought of it. Had she imagined the moment of connection between them? The miraculous sense of effortless flow of their dancing? Surely it had been real. Was she a fool to entertain the possibility that he might find her interesting, now that she had discovered that she found him rather more than that?

Probably.

She pushed the thought aside – there was no point getting herself all-a-dither about something she could not change – especially as she might well see him this evening, and might even dance with him again.

The evening’s Ball was to be quite large, and she prayed that he would be in attendance.

And that Lord Villeham would not.

The memory of Villeham and his friend, with their so casual acceptance of carrying out forgery, of treason, chilled her to the bone. Had Trent given the forged note to Lord Setford? Might the Spymaster have discovered anything of use? It was another thing she should not worry about, for she could not influence that any more than she could the whereabouts of Lord Merryfield.

She turned her attention to choosing a gown to wear, and then settled to allow her maid to assist her, and to dress her hair into a complex tangle of golden curls with amethyst tipped pins holding them in place.

By the time that they arrived at Lord Cavisham’s for the Ball, Violet had only partly succeeded in setting aside her worries – and all of that determined progress was undone in a moment, when, upon entering the ballroom, the first person she saw was Lord Villeham.

She hesitated for a second, making Iris glance at her in confusion, then continued across the room with her family, pretending that she had not seen the man, that he did not exist. They reached the other side of the room and her mother immediately launched into conversation with one of her friends, which allowed Violet to simply stand there, and observe those in attendance.

“Violet – back there, why did you…?”

“Don’t ask, Iris. Later, if you must.”

Iris regarded her with intense curiosity, but, after a moment, nodded.

Cautiously, Violet glanced around, wondering if Lord Merryfield was there. She could not see him, and disappointment filled her. She looked again, hoping that she just hadn’t seen him the first time – but she still saw no sign of him, rather she saw the frightening vision of Lord Villeham coming towards her, an odd expression of determination on his face. She shivered, and looked away, praying that he was not, actually, intending to come to her, to even, oh heavens forbid, ask her to dance!

Unable to help herself, she watched from under her lowered lashes as he came ever closer. What could she do? She had no socially acceptable excuse to refuse him a dance, yet the memory of his voice so coldly discussing threatening Lord Merryfield and his family rang in her mind, and every instinct warned her to flee. Perhaps the ladies retiring room?

“Iris, I…”

Before the rest of the words could leave her mouth, someone stepped in front of her. She looked up, and felt shock run through her. Lord Merryfield stood there, mere inches away, and past his shoulder she could see Lord Villeham turning away, his expression hard. For the second time in as many weeks, she felt the desire to simply step into Lord Merryfield’s arms and collapse in relief. How had he come to have such an effect on her?

“Good evening, Lady Violet. Might I hope that you have this dance free?”

“Yes.” It came out far too bluntly for politeness, and he considered her with a gently raised eyebrow. She felt her cheeks colour, and hurried to provide a more suitable response. “Thank you, Lord Merryfield – that would be delightful.”

He offered her his arm, and led her away towards where the couples were forming up for the dance.

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Arryn stepped into the ballroom and scanned those present, wondering, as he did so, if his eyes were passing over his unknown enemy. He could not allow himself to make any assumptions, but he also struggled to believe such malfeasance of many of the men he knew. Some however – those who gambled and behaved as if anyone who did not was less than a man – those he could perhaps see in the role of blackmailer.

He shook his head slightly, annoyed yet again at the destruction of the ordered pattern of his life. Across the room, he discovered Lady Violet Gardenbrook, standing with her family. Before conscious thought could intervene, he was moving in that direction. Just as he arrived before her, he realised that he had simply stepped in front of another man who had also been moving her way – Villeham! A surge of strange feeling filled him, protective, and tinged with jealousy, as if he had the right to choose who might approach her.

Madness! She was her own person, and he had no right to such a judgement – nonetheless, he was glad that he had pre-empted Villeham’s approach to her.

“Good evening, Lady Violet. Might I hope that you have this dance free?”

“Yes.” It came out far too bluntly for politeness, and he considered her with a gently raised eyebrow as her cheeks coloured before she hurriedly went on, “Thank you, Lord Merryfield – that would be delightful.”

He wondered what disturbed her so, that she would speak with less than her usual perfect grace. He found that he did not wish her to be discomfited, and the thought came back to him of the expression she had displayed, at that other Ball, when he had collided with her as she rushed in from the terrace. The two together made him pause, and wonder if this discomfort was related to that – but why he should think so, he did not know, for he had nothing to hint at such, beyond a vague feeling.

He offered her his arm, and she placed her hand upon it. For a moment, he was sure that hers shook, but then it steadied. He must have imagined it.

They took their places in the line, and he was glad that the dance was a slower country dance, one with significant periods where the partners were together, and circling about each other. They had not spoken, yet the silence did not feel strained, and, most oddly, given how she had affected him most times they had met, this evening he found her presence almost soothing, steadier and far more predictable than the rest of the world, where an unknown enemy might lie behind every face he saw.