by Mary Balogh
Sir Edwin soon had an explanation for Viscountess Ainsleigh’s unmannerly cutting of their acquaintance. He observed with a knowing smirk that his host led out the Honorable Miss Juliana Wishart into the opening set.
“It is as I suspected as soon as we were presented to Lord and Lady Hockingsford and the Honorable Miss Wishart, my dear Miss Hayes,” he said. “A match is being arranged between Miss Wishart and the Earl of Haverford—mark my words. An eminently eligible match, if I may make so bold as to say so—and I shall say so to his lordship in the capacity of a neighbor and friend as soon as I have the opportunity to do so in confidence. Lady Ainsleigh’s preference for the young lady is perfectly well explained now that I have realized that they are to be closely related. You would do well to cultivate Miss Wishart’s acquaintance too, Miss Hayes, since it seems very likely that you will be neighbors. It is desirable that you be friends too. As Mama always says, when two families are neighbors, it is strongly to be desired that they be friends also. And you are very nearly of an equality in rank with Miss Wishart, though marriage to his lordship will elevate her, of course. As marriage with me will elevate you.”
Yes, Miss Wishart surely would suit him admirably, Moira thought. She was very young and wide-eyed and innocent. Doubtless she would be easily dominated. The top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder.
He was looking quite intimidatingly handsome and elegant this evening. He wore a black tailed coat and knee breeches with a silver embroidered waistcoat and white linen and lace. All her neighbors had exclaimed with mingled admiration and surprise at the somberness of the colors, but Sir Edwin had assured them all that his lordship was dressed in the very height of fashion. Any other gentleman might have looked dull in such clothes, Moira thought, but the Earl of Haverford, with his superior height, his splendid physique, and his very blond hair, looked nothing short of stunning.
It disturbed Moira to have to admit as much. But he always had been handsome. It would be childish to deny the truth, to try to find fault with his appearance. There was no fault there.
She wished she had not agreed to waltz with him. If she had not done so, she could somehow have kept Sir Edwin within the sphere of her neighbors and friends and she might have ignored the nasty embarrassment of the evening’s beginning. But she had agreed, and he had reminded her of the promised waltz on her arrival. And when the time came, he was at her side before anyone else had gone out onto the floor and was bowing over her hand. Harriet Lincoln and Mrs. Meeson gazed at her in some shock and some envy, and every eye in the ballroom, it seemed, gazed on her when he led her out to the middle of the empty floor. It was the first waltz. There was more hesitation about performing it than there had been to participate in the country dance, the quadrille, and the minuet that had preceded it.
“I trust, Miss Hayes,” he said before the music began, “that you are enjoying yourself.”
“Thank you, yes, my lord,” she said. He was the first partner of hers tonight, she thought, at whom she had had to look up. She wondered if Helen had realized how much her remark to Miss Wishart about height had hurt.
And then all observations and all stiff and meaningless attempts at polite conversation vanished as the orchestra began to play and he took her hand in one of his and rested his other firmly at the back of her waist. She touched his shoulder and was aware, for all the lightness of her touch, of its hard-muscled breadth. She was aware of him: of his height, of his body heat, of his cologne, of his eyes on hers. Her abdominal muscles clenched involuntarily and all memory of the steps of the waltz vanished. She almost stumbled over the first of them.
“The steps are easy,” he said. “You merely have to relax and follow my lead.”
It was a veiled and well-bred reproof for her clumsiness. She looked coolly into his eyes. “I shall not disgrace you, my lord,” she said. “I shall not tread all over your feet or—worse for your self-esteem—contrive to get my feet beneath yours.”
“I believe,” he said, “I have a little too much skill than to allow that to happen.”
She had remembered the steps and picked up the rhythm of the music and felt the guidance of his lead. They twirled about the dance floor and she lost her awareness of everything but the exhilaration and the wonder of the dance. And of the man, tall and solid and graceful, who danced it with her. It was sheer magic as she had always known it would be, she thought, though the thought was not fully conscious. It was a time for feeling more than for thought. She abandoned herself to feeling.
It was a long time before she came back to herself and was once more aware that she was in the ballroom at Dunbarton, waltzing with the Earl of Haverford. Smiling with sheer pleasure into his unsmiling eyes. She sobered and saw people and red bows and mirrors and candles—and him. How naive he must think her, to be transported to another world by a mere dance.
“Moira,” he said, his voice sounding strained, almost harsh, “you cannot possibly wish to marry him, surely?”
“Sir Edwin?” she said, her eyes widening.
“He is a pompous bore,” he said. “He will drive you insane within a month.”
The spell had been utterly shattered. “I believe, my lord,” she said, “that my betrothal and my future marriage are my concern. As well as my feelings for Sir Edwin Baillie.”
“You have accepted his offer because you feel you have no alternative?” he asked. “Would you be quite destitute if you declined? Would he turn you and your mother out?”
“Perhaps you should ask him that final question,” she said. “He is, after all, your neighbor and friend, is he not? I am neither, even if by some unhappy chance I happen to live three miles from here. Your questions are impertinent, my lord.”
“The waltz is ending,” he said after gazing at her quite expressionlessly for several moments. He took a step back from her and then bowed to her and offered her his arm. “And your temper is frayed. Allow me to escort you to the refreshment room, where you may recover it in some privacy.”
She wondered if it was the waltz that had prompted him to speak so rashly. But then, he had asked her on the beach why she walked alone. Perhaps he felt that his position as Earl of Haverford gave him the right to probe into the lives of his inferior neighbors. How dared he! But her nerves were jangling and she dreaded returning to Sir Edwin just to hear yet again what an honor had been accorded both her and himself during the past half hour. She took the offered arm.
“You waltz gracefully,” the earl said, leading her to the anteroom where drinks and other refreshments had been set out for those who could not wait until suppertime. “It is a novel and rather pleasing experience to dance it with someone who is at least close to my own height.”
Yes, she thought unwillingly. Oh, yes, it had felt very good indeed to dance with a man taller than herself. Why had he had to spoil it? It had been one of those magical experiences of her life, one she would long remember.
Having caught herself in that thought, she assured herself that it was as well he had spoiled it. Magical memories involving Kenneth, of all people, were not what she wished to take forward into the marriage she would soon contract.
* * *
HE had been very indiscreet. He was host of this ball and was very aware of the fact that much attention had been focused upon him all evening. It was understandable, of course. He was newly returned from the wars against Napoleon Bonaparte, newly returned to Dunbarton Hall. Although his father had been dead for seven years and he had borne the title since then, even it was in a sense new, at least for the relatives who were guests in his home and for the people who lived close to Dunbarton. Of course he was the focus of attention.
If one added to those facts the interest that had been aroused over the presence of Juliana Wishart in his home and the attention he had somehow been forced into paying her, then one must expect even more that eyes would follow him about. And when he had claimed his w
altz with Moira Hayes, then a different form of curiosity drew attention on him. For he and Moira Hayes, to the knowledge of anyone present except perhaps his mother and Helen, had never had any dealings with each other until very recently, although they had lived only three miles apart during their growing years.
It had been a time to be very careful indeed. He was a man dancing with a neighbor from whose family his own had been estranged for several generations. Their families had been newly reconciled by the efforts of its new head, her betrothed. It was a set the Earl of Haverford should have danced with careful attention to what would appear correct.
What had he done instead? He appeared to have lost twenty minutes or so of his life. It was rather a ridiculous notion. He had not lost those minutes. But he had been caught up in a magic, an exhilaration, a romance that had seemed alarmingly beyond his control. After the first stumbling steps, she had proved herself to be an accomplished and graceful partner, one who fit into his hold as if she had been made to fit there.
If he had thought at all during those twenty minutes, it had been to remember her as a girl—as a young woman, after he had become aware of her. It had been her delight to escape from chaperones and maids set to watching after her safety. And when she had escaped, the resulting freedom had been total. Shoes and stockings had frequently gone flying; hairpins had been stuffed into a pocket and hair shaken loose. Ah, that hair: thick and shining and almost as black as coal. She had run and twirled and climbed and laughed, and more than once she had allowed him to kiss her.
She had become that girl again—that girl who had dazzled and enslaved him—as they danced. He was alarmed at how totally he had lost touch with reality during those twenty minutes. And even when he pulled himself back to reality, he had ended up offending her by being unpardonably impertinent. She had been quite right to use that word.
“May I fill a plate for you?” he asked as he led her through to the anteroom, which was fortunately not overcrowded with people.
“No, thank you.” She removed her arm from his. “A drink will be sufficient.” She went to stand near a closed side door while he crossed to one of the punch bowls and filled two glasses without waiting for a footman to serve him.
He must converse with her on some trivial topic for a few minutes, he thought as he made his way back toward her, and then return her to Baillie and her own group of friends. He would then forget her presence at his ball. But one of his young cousins, who with a group of other young people was talking rather too loudly and laughing rather too heartily, chose that particular moment to call across the room to him.
“I say, Haverford,” he called, “have you seen where she is standing?”
There were a few feminine giggles, some hearty male laughter.
“Of course he has seen,” another distant cousin said just as loudly. “Why do you think he is hurrying?”
“To it, man,” a third voice said and the laughter resumed.
Moira looked with raised eyebrows at the group while Kenneth’s eyes looked up and found the inevitable sprig of mistletoe in the middle of the doorframe, directly above her head. Alerted, she also looked up and saw it—and blushed hotly and would have moved away if he had not been standing directly in her path, his arms open to either side, a glass in each hand.
Since he had kissed every female in the house during the past two days, it would appear strange indeed to his delighted young relatives and a few older ones who were also in the room if he did not do the gallant thing on this occasion too. He leaned forward, lowering his head only a little, and touched her lips with his. Hers were trembling uncontrollably. By sheer instinct he parted his own over them to steady them. He lifted his head after enough time had elapsed that he would not be accused of trying to escape with a mere peck but before he could be accused of taking liberties that even mistletoe would not excuse.
“The conventions must be observed,” he said, looking into Moira Hayes’s wide, shocked eyes, shielding them with his body from the view of their cheering, applauding audience. “If you must stand there, ma’am, then you must suffer the consequences.”
He handed her one of the glasses. But her hand, when she reached for it, was trembling. She returned it to her side and looked up at him.
“I am not thirsty after all,” she said.
“Steady, Moira,” he said. “It is Christmas, and I have some relatives who derive enormous amusement from other people’s embarrassment. I have spent two whole days doing nothing but kiss aunts and cousins and any other lady who is unfortunate enough to alight under one of these abominations when I am within striking distance. The relatives laugh and cheer and applaud every time. One wonders what they will do for entertainment once the holiday is over and the mistletoe comes down. Doubtless something will crop up. They seem almost alarmingly easy to please. One is left questioning the state of their intellect.”
He talked until the startled look went from her eyes. She recovered herself rather quickly and took the glass from his hand when he offered it again. She drank determinedly from it.
“I came tonight because Sir Edwin was set on it,” she said. “But he is planning to return home tomorrow and to stay there until he comes back for our wedding in the spring. I hope that between now and then you will not feel obliged to continue the connection with Penwith.”
“I imagine,” he said, “that my great-grandfather sentenced yours because he did not wish to have his own connection with the trade exposed. I imagine that guilt and the contempt of those in the know was almost as great a punishment to him as transportation was to his victim. Is my family still to feel the guilt and yours to feel the shame?”
“You know very well,” she said scornfully, “that what is between your family and mine now, my lord, has nothing whatsoever to do with that old feud. Perhaps an eight-year absence has helped you to trivialize and even forget what—”
But she broke off abruptly, smiled brightly, and sipped from her glass again. Kenneth looked over his shoulder to find Sir Edwin Baillie approaching.
“I cannot find words to describe the full extent of my gratification at such a marked degree of civility, my lord,” he said. “To single out my affianced bride by leading her into a set at the Dunbarton ball when there are so many other distinguished ladies who might be so honored is a gesture of true neighborliness. To lead her to the refreshment table afterward is a mark, if I may make so bold as to suggest it, of sincere friendship. This is a felicitous start to the new amity between Dunbarton Hall and Penwith Manor.”
And doubtless, Kenneth thought, the man would have gone into raptures and counted it as a compliment to himself if he had seen the Earl of Haverford kiss his betrothed beneath the mistletoe. He inclined his head.
But having delivered himself of this speech, Sir Edwin proceeded to look decidedly anxious. “Word has it,” he said, “that it is beginning to snow outside, my lord. Your servants have confirmed the fact though they assure me that the fall is light.”
“And we are safe and warm inside, sir,” Kenneth said with a smile. “But I should be seeing to my guests in the ballroom. Please do join Miss Hayes with a glass of punch.”
Sir Edwin felt obliged to express effusive thanks, but he was not prepared to drop the matter of the snow. It appeared that he was fearful it would fall thickly enough during the night to prevent his leaving for home on the morrow. And with his mother dangerously ill—Miss Hayes, he added, might object that his sister’s letter, which had arrived just this morning, had made no such assertion, but his lordship must pardon him for having sufficient knowledge of his sisters, especially of Christobel, the eldest, to be able to read between the lines of a letter as well as on them. Had his mother not been quite seriously indisposed, then Christobel would not have mentioned her health at all. Had his mother not been dangerously ill, then she would have written herself to assure her son that he might enjoy the felicity of his betrothed�
�s company—he bowed to Moira—without having to spare any anxious thoughts for her or for his sisters.
“And yet, sir,” Kenneth said soothingly, “your mother and your sister surely understand your concerns and would have summoned you if matters were so serious.”
But Sir Edwin, though profuse in his thanks for his lordship’s concern, was not to be consoled. There was a certain intuition about the heart, it seemed, when the health of loved ones was in peril. His lordship had a mother and a sister and even the special felicity of a nephew and niece and must know of what Sir Edwin spoke. He had a favor to ask of his lordship and was emboldened to request it only because his lordship had already shown that he was a true neighbor and friend.
Kenneth raised his eyebrows and wondered if he would be able to bear to live only three miles from this man for the rest of his life.
“I must return home without delay,” Sir Edwin said. “I would consider it an unpardonable dereliction of my duty as a son if I delayed one moment longer. It matters little that I do not have either my valet or my bags with me. It matters only that I return to the bosom of my family before it is too late to clasp my mother in my arms once more. I would ask, my lord, that you provide a carriage and the escort of a maid to convey my betrothed, Miss Hayes, home to Penwith Manor at the end of the evening.”
Moira Hayes rushed into speech. “I shall return home with you now, Sir Edwin,” she said. “I am sure that under the circumstances, the Earl of Haverford will excuse us for leaving early.”
“It would distress me to leave you here without my escort, Miss Hayes, were it not for the fact that you are in the home of a neighbor and friend,” he said, “and surrounded by other neighbors and friends. I would not delay my journey even by the time it would take my carriage to travel to Penwith Manor. I am afraid in my heart that the snow will impede travel before many more hours have passed.”