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Mabel’s face shuttered so quickly, Mac wanted to throw something. He rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I did not mean—”
She raised her eyebrows. “By all means, sir. I do not expect you to sit out with me when you’d rather be dancing. I do not hold you accountable to your request, particularly after I am unable to comply—”
“No, Mabel. I only meant—”
“Really, Mac,” she said, her voice stern, but a smile bravely fought to remain on her lips. “I am not so weak as to be offended.”
“Good. Because I do not plan on doing any such thing. I meant that I would rather—”
Her eyes closed and she lifted a hand in protest. “Do not concern yourself—”
Mac grabbed her lifted hand and pulled it down, holding her fingers tightly within his. She paused, glancing to him, startled.
“If you would allow me to speak, Mabel, you would understand that I did not mean I would rather dance than sit here with you. I meant that I would rather be dancing with you, holding you in my arms, than sitting out and watching your friends enjoy themselves.”
She was silent, searching his face.
He dipped his head, holding her gaze. “In the case that you should not dance, however, I would much prefer to spend the whole of the evening in this chair, beside you, than anywhere else in this room.”
Her eyes widened further, and he hoped he hadn’t gone too far. But how many hints could a man drop? Should Mabel not realize by now that he was implying his feelings for her had grown, developed? Soon he would need to speak to her explicitly about the matter and take her answer as it stood.
But, not yet. He could not speak his heart until he knew for a surety he could support her.
“Is that little Amelia?” Mrs. Sheffield asked, lifting her fan and waving to a woman dressed in black.
“Yes, Gram,” Mabel said loudly, shifting closer to her grandmother. Mac felt the distance and wished he had it in his authority to slide her closer to him once again.
But little Amelia was coming their way, her gaze darting between Mabel and her grandmother, and Mac. Her deep red hair was pulled back in a conservative style, the black ball gown done up in what appeared to be the most recent fashions. He knew Amelia but couldn’t recall her new surname. Mrs. Ferris…no, that did not sound right.
“Good evening,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.
Mabel gestured between them. “Mr. MacKenzie, you remember Mrs. Fawn?”
Ah, that was it. Mac rose immediately and caught Charles’s gaze over the top of the woman’s head. Charles watched her move despite his dance partner requiring his attention. He bumbled along the set, doing his best to smile at Miss Pemberton, but Mac could see clearly on his friend’s face how difficult it was for him to tear his gaze away from Mrs. Fawn.
Mac bowed. He indicated the chair beside Mabel. “Please, take my seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” She took the offered chair, but her scrutiny remained on him. “It has been a few years. Is this a long visit?”
Mac clasped his hands behind his back, planting his feet firmly. “No, unfortunately.”
Mabel’s head swung around, her beautiful eyes startled. “Are you leaving us soon?”
“When the cottages are finished, I’ll no longer have a reason to remain.” He watched her, hoping to see a spark of emotion—anything which might reveal her disappointment at his confession. He’d provoked her with purpose, and it appeared to have been for naught. Her face looked carved from stone, so still and emotionless it was.
He tried not to feel hurt by her lack of emotion, but she brushed him away like a stray piece of lint on her sleeve.
“I will leave you to visit together.” Mac dipped a bow, waiting as the women acknowledged him with a nod—Mrs. Sheffield, with cool indifference—then walked away.
