“Good evening, Mr Hickham. How kind.”
Cherry took a breath and steeled herself for an uncomfortable half-hour, during which she would invent a few steps of her own in order to avoid her partner’s well-known inability to avoid treading on his partner’s feet.
More than a few gowns had required restoration after a trip around the floor with Mr Hickham, and Cherry could almost hear the murmuring sound of the ladies sitting in the gallery as they dug out their pin cushions in readiness. He was, in truth, a lovely man, kind and generous, with a ready smile and a helping hand for everyone.
A widower, and content to stay that way, all his attentions were focussed on his fine collection of miniatures. Cherry had seen them at least eight times. But he was popular, nonetheless, which was probably why he was always welcomed to events like these, even though he did enough damage to keep the village seamstresses busy for a month.
If she could have avoided it, she would have, but—caught off guard at the sight of Garrett smiling down at Alberta Grandison—she made a snap decision, and now prayed she wouldn’t regret it.
“Lovely evening,” he began, managing the first circuit without incident. “Such flowers, and perfect weather, too.”
“Indeed.” She focussed on her steps, narrowly avoiding the large feet across from her. It was not an easy challenge, but she prided herself on her ability to avoid most problems, and was almost at the end of the dance when disaster struck.
“Whoops,” he chuckled. “Glad you’re such an agile dancer, Miss Trease.”
The words “so am I” trembled on her lips, but Cherry managed to hold them back, and merely smiled, her attention snagged by Garrett who, at that moment, looked as if he was mildly amused. His partner, however, looked somewhat miffed, she thought, resisting the urge to grin.
The sound of lace ripping brought her back with a thud. “Uhhh,” she glanced down.
“Oh dear. I do apologise, Miss Cherry,” said the distraught Mr Hickham. “I seem to have a problem keeping the steps in mind. Especially when I’m dancing with the prettiest girl in the room…”
Drat. The man was so sweet, even when surveying the damage he’d just wrought on a rather fine piece of Valenciennes lace trim.
“It’s nothing serious, sir. That’s what pins are for, and I believe this is the final figure…” Actually, that was more of a prayer than a passing comment, but she was correct and within a few moments she was able to drop into a curtsey as the dance concluded.
“A delightful way to begin the evening, Miss Cherry, and my apologies again for my clumsiness.” Mr Hickham looked down at her hem with a worried frown.
Knowing he would be just as concerned were she an eighty-year-old dowager, Cherry merely smiled. “No harm done, sir, I assure you. My Mama is prepared for just such an occurrence. I’ll wager she has her pins in her hand as we speak.”
He smiled, bowed, and thanked her for the honour she’d done him, all with such genuine pleasure shining from his eyes, she forgave him for his little accident.
Then she turned to find her mother, and forgot about him completely as Garrett was heading her way.
Uncertain whether to go in a different direction or let him come to her, she just stood, her skirt pulled up slightly to avoid trailing lace on the floor.
“The first casualty of the evening, I see,” he said quietly, bowing and keeping their exchange quite impersonal.
“It was to be expected,” she replied. “Did you enjoy Miss Grandison?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Allow me to escort you to the gallery, Miss Trease. I see our mothers and I’m sure they’ll be ready to help with your lace.”
All said in a normal voice, so that any nearby listeners would think nothing other than he was being gentlemanly.
“And if you foist me off on another husband-hunting miss, I’ll be having a few very strong words with you later.”
That comment was a low hiss, and Cherry had to fight to suppress the chuckle of laughter bubbling in her throat. “I must make some more introductions, then.”
A strong hand gripped her elbow. And squeezed. “Do not try me.”
She glanced at him, realising he was serious. “All right. I will have to introduce you now and then, though. It has to be done, and you know it. But I’ll keep it to those who are at least able to hold a normal conversation.”
“Where is she?”
“Hah.”
“Hmph.”
As good as her word, Cherry managed to find one or two suitable acquaintances, and made Garrett known to Mrs Frances Wildwood, a widow who had sought respite from the madness of London and bought a small house for herself in Lesser Banthorpe. A pleasant conversationalist, Cherry was happy to observe Garrett looking interested as they engaged in conversation, and also inviting her onto the floor for another dance before the end of the evening.
