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"Yes, of course. How was your hunt this morning?"
"A bit slow, I'm afraid." He launched into a description of the disappointing ride. Marissa nodded politely and shifted her feet. Unlike her mother, she preferred that the men linger over their port with a bit more tenacity. If they spent a full hour discussing their unfortunate male topics amongst themselves, perhaps they'd have exhausted the tales by the time they joined the women.
"But," he finished his story with a deep breath, "I wished to inquire if all was well with you?"
The muscles of her neck went stiff. "Yes, of course. Why wouldn't they be?"
"You seem... not yourself today."
"Mr. Dunwoody," she said with a brighter smile. "I hope you are not telling me I look unwell."
"No! No, of course not, Miss York. You are radiant as ever. Your eyes are the loveliest shade of green, and your hair ... an indescribably delicate red."
His cheeks went pink as he spoke, and Marissa couldn't help but notice the sculpted bow of his mouth. Such fine lips he had. A bit narrow, but perfectly proportioned to his slim face. She had tried to tempt him to kiss her, but he had grown flustered and nervous.
She smiled more widely. "I hope you will still beg a dance tonight."
"I will! Absolutely, I will. In fact, might I commit you to the first dance?" He raised his hand, drawing her attention to his long fingers. Her waist tingled at the thought of his hand touching her there.
"That would be lovely, sir."
He smiled in answer, but it faded quickly. "Urn. I inquired after your well-being because I had heard that you and Mr. White argued last night."
Her skin ceased to tingle and turned to ice instead. This might be it. This might be the moment when she realized that she had no choice but to marry Jude Bertrand.
Dunwoody cleared his throat. "I can't help but notice that he has since departed. I hope that whatever happened, your feelings weren't injured. He seems a nice enough fellow, but perhaps overconfident."
"Oh ..." He looked sincere, not curious or sneaky. He might truly believe there'd been only an argument. So Marissa nodded. "We argued, yes. And in my anger, I asked him to leave. I regret that now, of course. It was impetuous."
"I'm sure you had your reasons, Miss York. I've never known you to be rash."
Marissa forced a smile. Mr. Dunwoody was the type of man she would rather marry. Quiet, gentle, and handsome... and apparently unaware of her flaws. But perhaps not biddable enough to accept another man's child? Still, he seemed to like her, even if he'd never mentioned a future.
He cleared his throat, and she had the brief, mad thought that he might propose then. "Do you know if Miss Samuel is expected this week? I know you are close friends, and I'd heard her mother has recovered from the illness that kept them from London."
"Oh, I think ..." Her words faded away as she realized what he must mean. He admired Elizabeth Samuel. Perhaps he even thought he loved her. As well he should. Beth was her best friend and a wonderful person. This solved the mystery of why Mr. Dunwoody had never kissed her. "Yes, she promised she would try to come. I'm sure she'll arrive any time now. Have you written to her?"
He flushed again. "I did not feel it proper. We only met once. "
"Well, I'm sure she'll be happy to know she's been in your thoughts."
The music paused for a moment, then started again with a chorus of swirling notes. Mr. Dunwoody's elegant fingers touched her arm. and he smiled brightly. "The first dance?" he asked, and Marissa rose to dance with him.
He swung her around in a lively jig, and soon enough others joined them. By the time the dance was over, Marissa was laughing and struggling to catch a full breath at the same time. Mr. Dunwoody's hand settled on her back with a steady touch, but she told herself not to enjoy it. He liked Beth, and Marissa could only be glad.
As he led her back to the settee, his smile grew strained. "Who is that man?" he murmured.
She looked up and saw that Mr. Bertrand had finally arrived. Arm resting on the mantle, he spoke with Aidan, but his eyes watched her. She expected jealousy, and yet his eyes sparkled with laughter.
He made no sense to her.
"That's Mr. Bertrand, a friend of the family." And perhaps my husband. He was bigger than every other man in the room. Taller and wider. He drew her eye even as she thanked Mr. Dunwoody for the dance.
When she saw that Jude was moving toward her, the hair on her neck rose with awareness.
"Miss York," he murmured. "You're a beautiful dancer."
"Thank you. Do you dance, Mr. Bertrand?"
