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“I can help you with that, you know,” he offered.
“You already are.”
When he turned to glance at her, she was watching him closely. He certainly regretted his place in life at that moment. She was stunning, and so, so strong-willed.
“I don’t think I’ll ever meet your like again, My Lady,” he said, watching her own desire for him, causing her eyes to take on a sultry tone.
In a moment, it was gone—she smiled at him. “Will you dance with me, Mr. Conolly? The next one is about to start, and I’ve got no one on my dance card for it.”
He couldn’t deny her anything, even if he’d wanted to. “Of course, My Lady. Though, I’m not very skilled at it.”
“It’s all right. This one is very easy,” she assured him. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of it. Charles allowed her to steer him toward the center of the dance floor.
They took their places, facing each other, approximately five feet apart. “You see? It’s much like fencing,” she said. Charles was often ill at ease on the dance floor. That comment alone made him suddenly more confident than he had ever felt before. The music began.
* * *
Arabella stepped forward, toward Charles as the dance began. She then stepped away, as the steps ordered. This was, somehow, different. She faced him, once more, raising her hand to his.
Where usually there was nothing, she felt drawn to him. When their hands touched, it was like there was some sort of fire. She raised her eyes to his and saw her own desire mirrored in his.
It was almost unbearable—the feeling of being overjoyed, yet unable to do anything about it. As they went through the dance steps, she became more aware of all of his charms—the way his dark hair fell over his forehead; the way that his blue eyes sparkled when he laughed; the way that his lips were pouty, but still masculine.
She knew that she was in grave danger of falling in love with him, even after knowing him for less than a day. Her father, who had always told her that she should fall in love, would support it. Of course, he would.
The touch of Mr. Conolly’s hand against hers felt like more than a touch. There was a bit of a shock, of his skin against the flat of her palm. When she turned away from him, it was like turning away from the sun.
When the dance ended, she curtsied to Mr. Conolly. As her knees un-bended, she raised her eyes to meet his. In that moment, looking into the impossible blue of them, it seemed like there was no one else in the world.
She opened her mouth to tell him—something, anything, when someone else cleared his throat, behind her. “My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.
She tore her gaze away from Mr. Conolly. “Yes, My Lord?” she asked. The Viscount looked deeply unhappy. She felt badly for him. With any other lady, he would have been more successful. He wasn’t a bad sort of gentleman—he was just infinitely unsuitable for Arabella.
“I was wondering if you’d care for a raspberry cordial after your…exertions on the dance floor?” His eyebrows were raised.
“No, thank you, My Lord.” She turned back toward Mr. Conolly, but found that he’d disappeared, into the crowd. She wondered at that. She hadn’t had the chance to thank him for the dance.
As much as I felt, he must have felt, too.
Hope soared within her. To think—no, to know that she had met someone who felt about her as much as she felt about him must be some sort of blessed miracle.
“My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.
“Yes, My Lord?” she answered as she turned toward him.
“Come. We can walk the room,” he said, offering her his arm. She accepted it, slipping her hand into the crook. “It’s quite the crowd that’s turned up.”
“Indeed, My Lord.”
“I would love to throw parties such as this, at Drysdale House,” he said. “But I find that without the assistance of a Lady to oversee it, I am wholly unable.”
“I’m sure that the Dowager Viscountess of Drysdale could do it just as well,” she replied.
“Mother! Oh, no. She no longer has any inclination for it,” he said. “She much prefers simple family dinners and sitting of an evening in the parlor.”
“I’m sure if you asked, she would be very happy.” Arabella knew that Lord Drysdale was attempting to push his suit further. When she glanced over at him, he was smiling, yet his eyes were not. There was a desperation there, which made her feel guilty.
“My Lady,” he began.
“My Lord, I’m feeling a bit overwarm.” She smiled at him. “Kindly excuse me, My Lord.” She curtseyed, and then walked out to the terrace, pretending that she was very warm. She stepped out, walking right up to the rail. She exhaled, letting the cool evening breeze wash over her.
