“It’s quite true. Good evening, my ladies,” the man said. Rosalind heard a sort of laugh in his tenor voice, and wondered if he’d also been mocking the dandies. “Jonathan Hynes, at your service.” He bowed first to Rosalind’s mother, but instantly turned his attention to Rosalind herself as the girls were named.
“I could not help noticing your angelic appearance, Miss Blake, and your affliction.”
He’s certainly flowery, she thought.
He went on, “Would it be presumptuous to ask if you dance?”
“I do dance, Mr. Hynes,” Rosalind returned before her mother could interject. Not that she was likely to forbid her daughter the chance to find a suitor.
“Then if you would do me the honor?” Rosalind felt him take her arm, rather suddenly. But she was weary of standing along the side of the room with all the forgotten and ignored flowers, so she welcomed the opportunity to join the other revelers.
“Take care of my stick, won’t you, Poppy?” she told her friend as she offered the walking stick to her. It would do no good for her during the dance.
Hynes took Rose to the floor, moving fairly carefully through the crowd, though he missed a few warnings that might have saved her toes from running into people. But once on the floor, Rosalind found her natural footing. Rather surprisingly to most people, she was a good dancer (learned from hours of partnering Poppy in the family parlor). She had a gift for memorization, useful for learning the layout of a house, the words of an aria, and the steps of a dance.
Hynes noticed her skill, and about midway through the dance he complimented her, his voice still holding a hint of laughter. “You are very graceful. A surprise from a blind girl.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rosalind returned, feeling a sudden shiver of apprehension, though she did not know why his words troubled her so much.
“I’ll wager that you wouldn’t need a partner at all, not the way you move.” Again, she caught something unpleasant in his voice.
“I don’t know what you mean,” she said. “Dancing is not a thing one can do by oneself.”
“Isn’t it? Let’s find out.” With those words, he released his hold on her and stepped away with a mocking laugh, leaving her alone.
Despite the stifling warmth of the ballroom, Rosalind felt the departure of Mr. Hynes like a sudden rush of cold air. Without a partner, she was lost in the din of the dancing, the shoes of dozens of partners clicking on the parquet floor, the music swirling around her ears.
A man bumped into her, nearly knocking her down. “Excuse me,” he muttered, managing to accuse her of clumsiness with his intonation, even while mouthing the polite phrase.
Recovering her footing, Rosalind wondered which way she ought to walk. She had no idea where her mother and Poppy were, or even which direction she was facing. Where was the musicians’ platform? Where were the great double doors?
Another couple brushed past, the woman muttering that some people ought to stay home if they couldn’t behave at a party.
Rose heard someone else charge by, and stepped to the side before she got trampled.
No one offered to help.
Time stretched on…possibly seconds, possibly minutes.
She stood stock-still, too confused to make a decision. She didn’t even know the fastest, safest way off the dance floor. The rush of air round her warned her that other couples were narrowly avoiding a collision. She began to feel the pricking sensation that she was being watched. A blind girl standing alone in the middle of a dance floor! Who wouldn’t be watching and laughing?
Then, without warning, she felt herself being swept up into the dance again, her hands caught in the firm grasp of a total stranger.
Chapter 2
Rose was overwhelmed by the sudden presence of a new body, protectively close to hers as he maneuvered her back into the steps of the dance. Though he said nothing for the moment, the chaos of the dance floor seemed to settle, and Rose was once again part of the pattern.
During a spin that brought the dance partners into each other’s arms for a brief moment, she allowed her free hand to float up and rest on the stranger’s shoulder, mostly to discover anything about him. He was taller than Hynes, and the lines of his body were more obvious. More muscular.
Still feeling extremely out of sorts, she could only state the obvious. “You’re not Mr. Hynes.”
“Definitely not. I’m very glad you noticed,” the man said, his baritone equal parts humor and anger, even as he moved her expertly around the floor.
“Are you one of his friends?” she asked sharply. “Is this some kind of game?”
“It may have been a game to Hynes, but it is not to me.” He squeezed her right hand lightly, as if to reassure her. “My name is Adrian Marsh. I regret that I don’t know yours.”
“Rosalind Blake,” she replied shortly, still not sure she could trust this man, though his name was vaguely familiar. “If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind telling me what is going on?”
