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Ned looked at his father with a shocked expression and replied innocently, “Father, it pains me that you would think I would do such a thing.” He then caught Sarah’s eye and grinned.
She narrowed hers at him.
He grinned wider and looked directly from one to the other.
The ballroom at Ardleigh House was banked with white roses and lit by a chandelier that had cost his lordship, by Mrs. Jennings’s reliable computation, nearly as much as a small parsonage; and into this splendour, a little before ten, came Anne Brandon and Sarah Ferrars, each upon her father’s arm. They were followed by Miss Annabelle Ferrars, on her father Robert’s arm. Mrs. Jennings, ensconced in the best chair, declared afterward that it was the prettiest sight London had produced in a decade.
Anne came first, fair and quick-eyed in ivory, with a single spray of orange-blossom in her hair. Within the first quarter-hour, four young gentlemen had contrived to be presented to her, while a fifth, a tall, fair, exceedingly correct Mr. Ashby, had secured her hand for the first two dances.
The Colonel observed this.
As Henry took Sarah’s arm and escorted her to take up their positions for the first two sets, Sarah said, “You are nervous.”
“Perhaps a little.”
“Why?”
He looked at her. “Because this is different.”
Her smile softened. “Yes.”
“You are very beautiful tonight.”
Sarah lowered her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I have wanted to say it since I saw you come down the stair.” Henry paused. “Sarah?”
“Yes?”
“I believe I am becoming rather hopeless.”
She smiled. “I think you are.”
“And you?”
She looked up at him. “I think I have been hopeless for some time.”
Mr. Ashby and Anne took their positions nearby, and soon the first dance of the season began with many more to come.
Meanwhile, Colonel Brandon had stationed himself near the doorway, ostensibly in conversation with Sir William St. John, and had spent twenty minutes watching Mr. Ashby with an expression so fixed, silent, and unsmiling that, when the young man was formally presented to him, he lost the thread of his own opening remark and recovered it only with difficulty.
“He seems a very civil young man,” said Marianne, coming to her husband’s side with a glass of lemonade and following his gaze with amusement.
“He held her hand a great deal longer than the figure required.”
“Did he?” asked Marianne.
Moments later Edward came up with Elinor upon his arm and was greeted by the sight of his old friend standing motionless, glass untouched, regarding a harmless young man across the ballroom with an expression a stranger might have mistaken for the beginning of a challenge.
“Brandon,” said Edward mildly, “you are terrifying that poor boy. I can see it from here. He has twice forgotten the figure.”
“I am doing nothing whatever.”
“You are doing a very great deal, and silently, which is more alarming than doing it aloud,” said Edward.
“I have not accused him of a fault.”
“You have accused him of existing in her vicinity, which this evening amounts to much the same thing,” Elinor added in jest.
