She gave him a pained smilemore of a wince. “Being one of the smartest men in the entire kingdom can be a lonely affair. One can imagine when you’re constantly surrounded by dimwits, dullards andworsethose whothinkthey’re clever.”
“Am I the only one not given to bullbaiting and cockfighting?”
She pealed out her laughter and everyone looked. He widened his smile, thoroughly enjoying himself, a feat up until now, he’d thought impossible.
Three young gentlemen stopped in front of Rachel, heels together and bending at the waist. “May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Thorne?” The gentleman to the left elbowed in front of the others, yet shied from Anthony’s glare. Rachel smothered a giggle.
“Of course, she will,” Aunt Margaret intervened. “But one at a time.”
“Sir Jenkins, I would be honored to have this dance.” Rachel extended her hand to the handsome young man with the trim build, and then gave Anthony a look of laughing exasperation.I can’t help it.She swirled to the music. Honey scent drifted through the air, the room ablaze with hundreds of beeswax candles in a row of chandeliers that fired hundreds of crystal pendants in a sparkling prismatic display.
She enjoyed a good laugh as much as anyone, and made an effort to bring laughter to others. She could be outspoken, but she also had a teasing nature and a gift for lightening someone’s mood, no matter how sour their character.
Sir Davies, her next partner possessed such a disposition. The imperturbability of excess and vanity hung on him like melted wax. Similar to other male acquaintances in England, they lacked goals in life to make a difference in the world and floundered in a sea of indolence.
So unlike Jacob, Ethan and…Anthony Rutland.
Sir Davies smacked his lips. “I have a secret passion, Miss Thorne.”
“Passion?”
“May I escort you to a tea with my mother and my aunts’ tomorrow? There will be a stimulating discourse on…samplers…my secret passion. Did you know that the tent stitch and cross stitch are the predominant choice in embroidery?”
Sir Davies embroidered? “I-I had no idea.” Her skills with the needle were making canvas sails when General Washington needed ships straightaway. Never did she hold the patience for the fine embroidery other women performed and never had she known a man who employed the pastime.
Rachel sighed. Abby had hoped she would find a husband in England. But the men were…not men. If anyone of them had any conflict or confronted any terror, they would run to their snuffboxes or their mamas in outpourings of hysteria.
Viscount Randall took her hand before Sir Davies had released her. Dressed impeccably, he had a magnificent bleached wig, and charming face decorated with an extraordinary powdered white beard, reminiscent of an ancient sea god. He was not very firm on his legs, his dancing had a shambling, wandering quality and he stepped on her toes more than once.
From over Randall’s shoulder, Anthony lounged cynically against the wall, scorn for the couple dancing together. As her new partner turned her, Anthony caught her eye, and she saw his amusement at her discomposure. His eyes flicked from her to Randall and he raised his glass in a mocking toast, as if to wish her well on her husband hunt.
Earlier in the day, she had been disappointed when Anthony had refused to accompany her to the social this evening. But, oh, so joyful when she clapped eyes on him, and for one second, she imagined he came because of her. Remembering his reaction to her new emerald gown, hot torrid heat curled inside her.
Why her dress practically melted off her under his gaze. How he made her feel like a woman, vanishing the girl.
Did Sir Randall say something to her?
“I just came back from Bath. The cure waters are wonderful for consumption,” said Randall.
The wasting disease? She widened her eyes in horror.
Davies corrected himself. “I meant to ward off consumption, in case…one was exposed to the lung ailment. Do you do jigsaw puzzles?” He referred to the new pastime of aristocrats putting together cut map pictures of the earth. “I know all about the world.”
“Your scholarship astounds me, Sir Randall.”
He beamed like an idiot and shook his head as if it were no great feat, and then coughed. Did he have consumption? The powder from his wig fell in an asphyxiating cloud about his face. How she disliked the fashion. Might he die from inhalation of Cyprus powder?
“I would like to call on you in the near future, Miss Thorne.”
“Of course,” she said, desiring to get away so she could breathe again. The crush was intolerable. So many people in this strange new world, like swimming in a pond and not being able to put your feet down on a stable bottom and getting caught in the muck.
At the end of the waltz, Rachel curtsied. Viscount Randall refused to let her go. She opened her mouth to complain. Many guests watched and she blushed at Randall’s offense.
Anthony drew abreast, his face of such dark menace that she shuddered. He jerked his elbow up, grazing Randall’s bearded chin and offered his arm. Rachel tugged her fingers away, scathing Randall with an angry glare.
Anthony guided her to the center of the floor for the next dance. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so charming.”
She stiffened. “I was not flirtatious.”
