There had never been such a lovely night, Hetty thought as she exited the Hartfield ballroom through the large open doors, breathless and laughing after a country reel, her seventh dance of the evening.
There were twelve on the dance card that hung from the end of Hetty’s fan—the Woodhouses knew how to host a country ball—and every dance was claimed by a young man from the village. Hetty, nineteen and in her second year out, was by all accounts a success.
She’d be married by summer, her mother had pronounced in triumph earlier that morning. And what a triumph it was, with Jane, the youngest Bates sister, out and only weeks from becoming Mrs. Captain John Fairfax. This was Hetty’s fifth proper dance of the season, and the fifth at which her card was entirely full—a gift horse Hetty knew she should not look in the mouth, but one that was quite tiring if she were being honest, for a full dance card made for very little fresh air.
And so, Hetty had finished her reel and weaved quickly through the throngs of revelers inside, begging Jane to play innocent about her sister’s whereabouts as Hetty made her way to the fresh air beyond the ballroom. Somehow, miraculously, the balcony was empty, and Hetty stepped to its edge, taking a deep breath and releasing it in a long sigh to the night.
“That sounded glorious.”
Hetty’s spine shot straight at the words, coming bold and deep from the darkness. She turned toward them, peering into the shadows, where she could barely make out the figure of a man.
She should turn away. Head back inside.
Runback inside.
But no one cared less aboutshouldthan a young woman heady with the power of a full dance card, which was the only explanation for her reply, decidedly un-vicar’s-daughter-like. She lifted her chin and, practicing her most flirtatious tone, said, “I beg your pardon. We have not been properly introduced.”
He stepped from the shadows at that, and Hetty immediately regretted the words. This man was not for practice. This man was for a proper hunt. He was tall and lean, clad in tight fawn breeches and a navy coat, his shirt bright white and his cravat perfectly, artfully tied. Hetty had never been to the coast, but she imagined his hair was the precise color of sand, falling in waves as though marked by the tide. And his face—there was a Roman statue in the fountain along the drive of the Knightley estate, and this man could have been cut from the same marble for the angle of his jaw and the line of his nose.
And perhaps Hetty could have resisted the sum of all these handsome parts, but to make it all worse—or better? She would need some time to consider which—he was smiling, youthful and perfect and disarming and winning and unexpected, and something flipped deep in her chest as he moved toward her, steps long and even and more confident than she’d ever been in her life.
“Edward Harris.” He dipped his chin, a tiny, proper bow, and Hetty bit back a laugh. “Godson to Mrs. Weston. Now we’ve been introduced.”
“On the contrary,” she said. “Now you’ve been impertinentenough to introduce yourself to me. We have not been introduced. We haven’t met.”
He grinned. “Yes, but you don’t require introduction, Miss Bates.”
“I beg your pardon—I absolutely require—” She blinked, surprise flooding her. “How is it that you know my name?”
“Not know the name of the prettiest girl in the room? What kind of gentleman do you think I am?”
She gave a little shocked laugh. “Not any kind of gentleman, if I’m being honest.”
He laughed as well, placing a hand on his chest and smiling broadly. “I aim to convince you otherwise, Miss Harriet Bates,” he said. “I know a great many things about you. You are eldest daughter of Silas Bates, Vicar of Highbury. Your sister, Jane, is one year younger and, in one month’s time, will be married to Captain John Fairfax. And your dance card is tragically full, which is why I had to steal time on the balcony instead of during a quadrille.” That chin dipped again. “Perhaps it’s not a great deal of things.”
Warmth flooded Hetty at the words, and she realized she much preferred meeting on the balcony than the to-and-fro and stolen seconds of conversation they would have had during the quadrille. “It is more than I know of you, Mr. Harris.” She tilted her head to study him. “How long are you with the Westons?”
He tilted a chin toward the ballroom. “Three weeks. They have been kind enough to host me until I leave.”
“Leave for where?”
He smiled. “I’ve a fortune to make, Miss Bates, if I’m to have a hope of winning a girl like you.”
She couldn’t help her laugh even as his bold words sent a blush over her cheeks. “With a tongue as silver as yours, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble winning a girl… like me or otherwise.”
“Is that a promise?”
Oh, he was dangerous, this man—too young to take seriously, and anyway, too handsome for a vicar’s daughter. This was the kind of man who would hie off to faraway lands and make himself a name before winning himself a wife worthy of it. The thought made Hetty strangely wistful, as though they’d already lived a life, and now it was gone, lost to a different future. A different woman.
It was an odd flight of fancy after a few stolen minutes on a balcony.
She smiled, and let the fancy continue. “It depends on how long you intend to take to make this fortune of yours and return.”
He nodded, sagely. “You cannot be expected to wait. There are any number of men who would happily take my place.” He reached for the dance card dangling from the end of her fan, glancing down at it. “Twelve, at least.”
Her breath went shallow at his nearness; he was warm and smelled lovely, like cedar and spice. When she replied, it was quiet, like a secret between them. “You should have introduced yourself earlier in the evening.”
His response was nearly a whisper. “And missed our moment on the balcony?”
