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They walkedarm in arm to the open double doors of The Pearl’s ballroom, an Art Deco addition to the hotel, all crimson and chrome.
The ball was in full swing already, but there was no hope of an anonymous entrance, what with an actual herald at the door who blew a hunting horn as every guest entered and shouted their name to small, medium, or great acclaim.
And so it was their turn to be—loudly—announced as Lady Ferry and Lieutenant Arthur Godwick.
Heads turned at her name.
Jaws dropped at his.
Theyreallyhadn’t been expecting Regan to bring a date, Arthur thought. Especially not another member of the peerage. The shocked expressions he saw reminded him of Munch’s famousScream.
He placed his hand over Regan’s and escorted her into the throng of guests who stared and smiled awkwardly at them. Of course, it made sense they’d be shocked if this was her dead husband’s crowd. It would be like bringing a date to your dead spouse’s annual family reunion a mere six months after their funeral.
Arthur chuckled softly when he realized how audacious she was being.
“What?” she said, playing innocent.
“You really did hate your husband, didn’t you?”
“When we waltz tonight, I’ll imagine we’re waltzing on his grave.”
“The sooner the better, then.”
Arthur took her by the arm and led her not to the bar or to a table or toward a group of ladies who’d waved at her but straight into the dance floor as a waltz began to play.
Regan’s eyes slightly widened as they took their first steps together. Arthur hadn’t waltzed since his sister’s wedding, but he’d had to practice so much when Lia was younger than he could have done it in his sleep. He could still hear her muttering instructions in his ear—slow, quick, quick, slow, quick, quick, right foot forward, left foot side, right foot closed.The music was unfamiliar but pretty, played by a small yet loud orchestra.
“You’re very good at this,” she said, her hand clinging to his shoulder.
He felt the heat of her body all the way through her gown and his uniform. “Learning to waltz with your sister is a rite of passage.”
“For you toffs, maybe,” she said. “Not for us poor unwashed commoners.”
“Right,LadyFerry. Of course,LadyFerry.”
“I was born in the stable, married into the castle. And they’ve never let me forget where I came from.” She glanced around the room at the other toffs.
“You’re good enough for me,” he said. “I’m one-half American, remember? That’s as common as it comes.”
“Ugh. Forgot that. Excuse me.”
She tried to turn away from him, but he grabbed her and pulled her back to him, laughing.
“Snob,” he said.
“Brat,” she said.
And on and on they waltzed until the dance ended. Arthur escorted Regan to the bar where they ordered cocktails. A man approached, older, about seventy. Florid face, bristle brush mustache, and a barrel chest stuffed into a white waistcoat about to burst and send the buttons flying into the crowd like a hail of bullets.
“Reggie,” the man said and mashed his mustache against Regan’s cheek. “Good to see you out and about, old girl.”
“Nigel,” she said with a tight smile. “Nice to be out.”
“Who’s this lad now? Godwick? Must be Spencer’s boy, yes?”
“You know my father, sir?” Arthur asked, his tone neutral.
