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Chapter Eleven
Was her smile natural? Were her hands sweating?
And where was Mr. Wagner? She tried not to let her guard down, but it was hard when she found Mr. Alcott so very distracting.
Connie hoped her anxious thoughts were concealed behind her practiced social façade. Dancing with Florent Alcott was unlike any other partner. It was unsettling. Her heart fluttered most unnaturally. And she could barely stand being away from him.
It was ridiculous, is what it was.
She had never experienced such a breathless state while dancing. As she had told him, women of the ton were practiced dancers. It was not strenuous in the least. And they were not trussed up in cravats and coats like the gentlemen were. There was absolutely no reason to be short of breath. This particular country dance wasn’t even vigorous, in her opinion.
And yet, she was breathless and tingly, and all sorts of unusual sensations flooded her. Perhaps the meat had been off.
But it didn’t feel like a sickness. At least not an unpleasant one. The tingles and flutters she was experiencing, while new and unique, were pleasing and quite welcome.
Except that Florent Alcott lived on a country estate that he never, ever left. And he would be a viscount one day and probably be even less inclined to leave, except if he were to take his Seat in the House. How could she possibly be experiencing any sort of warm feelings for a man who seemed to be her exact opposite in every way possible?
It struck her as the oddest conundrum. But she couldn’t argue with the feelings that flooded her as he directed their steps in such an adept way that when the notes of the song wound to a close, they were near enough the tall windows that they were able to slip out onto the terrace without causing any lifted eyebrows.
He danced her over to the edge without benefit of music, but she didn’t pull away from his arms. It seemed she was attached to him, held by invisible threads that couldn’t be broken, even if she had a mind to do so. Which she didn’t.
Constance grinned up into her partner’s face.
“You seem most skilled at that, Mr. Alcott. How many other ladies have you slipped onto the terrace with?”
Even in the moonlight she could see that he blushed over her teasing.
“Surely you must know I have no experience in such matters. You yourself were twitting me about my lack of practice at dancing.”
“And yet you do it so well, despite that lack of practice.”
Again, he appeared bashful over her words.
“It would seem the skilled partner makes all the difference.”
“Do not sell yourself short, sir. From what I’ve seen of you, you are exceptionally good at whatever you do.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
Constance grinned at the tone of his voice – a combination of doubt and hope that went straight to her heart.
“As you said, I have investigative skills,” she explained with a laugh. “I’ve heard about your horses. And I experienced your dancing. I also overheard you explaining your cotton ventures. It seems to me you do not fail when you attempt something.”
“That is quite the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
Connie flushed but still couldn’t step away from him. She couldn’t explain why she was so very drawn to the man. He was solid and safe. Things a younger Constance Moreland would never have considered attractive qualities but that she thought the most appealing now. Never mind that with his slightly tousled brown hair looking soft and thick and his earnest hazel eyes staring at her from a slender face that was just starting to show that he had left the care of his valet some time ago, he was one of the most handsome men she’d yet to clap eyes upon.
But she had met many handsome gentlemen in the time since she’d first entered Society. Connie was quite certain there was something particular about this specific man. It was unsettling and very unusual for her. It made her uncertain about where to put her hands and arms and what to say. She didn’t know how to stand. Was she too close to him? Not close enough? Did she want to be closer or further? She didn’t actually want the man to be courting her, did she?
Ever since her first unsuccessful Season in London, Constance had never actively wished to be courted by a man. Rather the opposite – she had often discouraged any gentleman who had seemed inclined to do so. And actively repulsing anyone who tried to force it upon her. Yet here she found herself wishing for Florent to do something. What that something was remained a bit of a mystery to Constance, although she somewhat suspected it might involve a kiss. Despite her years and her many attempted suitors, Connie had never been kissed. She had used to compliment herself on that status as it was one sure way to ensure her reputation was intact and she wasn’t forced into marriage.
But for the first time she rather suspected she hoped a gentleman would try to kiss her.
The flutters in her midsection and the continued dampness in her palms wouldn’t have sounded pleasant if someone had tried to describe the sensations to her. It would instead quite sound like the onset of an unpleasant illness. But in that moment, experiencing the sensations, Connie thought it quite enjoyable despite the uncertainty that fluttered through her.
Constance Moreland had never been uncertain about anything in her adult life. But now she was. That wasn’t the pleasant part. But the warm, fluttery sensation as Florent gazed at her in the moonlight, she would happily experience for hours or days even.
“Are you enjoying the evening?” he whispered.
