For all that I had insisted to Juliet that a dance would be just the thing for her and her fiancé to awaken the first flutterings of attraction, I had little hope for my own first dance. Hugh was confident in the ballroom, sliding me into place with the ease that came from years of tutelage. I had no such advantage, but nearly two decades bent over the keys of the pianoforte had imbued me with an impeccable sense of rhythm and I had impressed the tutor Aunt Prudence had hired.
The instructor hadn’t felt likethisthough, hard and warm and steady and smelling faintly of mint and vanilla. Given the height difference between my husband and I, my gaze met his clavicle more than his eyes, but he dipped his chin to meet my eyes. He had one of my gloved hands tucked in his, the other sat possessively low on my waist, bordering on inappropriately intimate.
Feeling bold, I commented, “I’ve not waltzed often, but I believe your hand is a bit familiar, my lord. You’ll scandalize our guests.”
His answering smirk was the kind of wicked I’d never seen before, certainly not on him, easy, crooked and devilishly familiar. Tonight, his eyes were more blue than gray, and dark in the candlelight, almost navy. In lieu of words, his hand slipped a fraction lower, scandalous. “Hugh!”
His response was low, and deep, and graveled in an entirely new way, “You are my wife, Katherine. Certainly, thetonwill forgive me this one indulgence.”
How he timed that comment to the first notes, I’ll never know. He guided me easily with his heavy, hot, hand on the small of my back, in spite of my stunned sluggishness.
It took several bars for me to regain coherent thought from that comment. “You know they will not.”
He turned his attention over to our joined hands, clenching, flexing, before slotting our fingers together. Incorrect. “With the way you look tonight, I cannot bring myself to care overmuch.” The hand claiming my waist pulled me in closer, dangerously close. His breath dusting over my neck with every exhale. In spite of months of marriage, in spite of our audience, it was somehow the most intimate position we’d been in. In a barely audible whisper, breathed more than spoken into my ear, he added, “you’re too stunning.”
It wasthat, that one word, that broke the spell he had cast on me, “too.” Ice washed through my veins, and I stiffened in his arms. He pulled back, trying to catch my gaze, to search for answers, but I knew, if my eyes left his cravat, the tears would be inevitable. “Katherine?”
“Yes?” The word sounded tinny and false, even he could hear it, if the tightening of his grasp on my waist was any indication. Before he could question me further, I rushed to provide an explanation—anything but the truth. “I just remembered I forgot to have Mrs. Hudson make a few sandwiches without cucumber. Aunt Prudence loathes cucumber.”
He made a sound low in his throat, an acknowledgment, an expression of disbelief but determination not to question further.
The song continued for several more minutes, but the intimacy was gone, shattered on the floor in the distance between us. When it finally ended, we broke for the requisite applause, strangers once more. Any hopes I had for the rest of the evening were dashed, disappearing with Tom in the study. Abandoning me to the beau monde, friends and enemies alike.
Tom was something of a disappointment in this. I had counted on him to do his duty. Ease ruffled feathers, perhaps dance with a wallflower or two. After all, they could have no serious designs on him, he was a second son and barely of age, but it would brighten their nights. And Michael had not seen fit to arrive at all.
Or so I thought. Several sets spent mingling later, the man himself slipped, awkward and disheveled, from behind the heavy velvet curtains lining the walls. He was probably trying to avoid drawing my notice to his late arrival.
Try as I might, I could not find it within me to be irritated. In all honesty, I did not put the odds of him attending very high. Now, I was somewhat disappointed with myself for that. In spite of the fairly massive inconvenience they must be causing, he had yet to miss a weekly dinner. Week after week he subjected himself to at least the possibility of Agatha’s venom. He had proved himself a fine ally.
Now though, he was late, dusty, and his eye was once again an unnatural purplish color. It was somewhat amusing, but I could allow him to think so.
“Hours late and eye blackened. I look forward to the explanation I shall receive tomorrow.”
“Would you believe I was attacked by a rabid swan?” He really needed to maintain a list.
“No. I expect you’ll be wanting something stronger than lemonade. Hugh and Tom are in the study with the good scotch.” He gave me a grateful nod and scurried off in that direction. Probably worried I would press him into service as a dance partner. I really did think he and Lady Rycliffe would find each other amusing though.
Noting the sandwich tray was running low, I spun to locate Anna only to come face-to-face with Lady James. In a deep red gown.
The irony was not lost on me, nor the rest of theton, I was sure. Still, the sight of elegantly draped red silk was hardly enough to wound me now. She was flanked by Mr. Parker, one of the many gentlemen who seemed to flock to her at these events. Her husband, however, was nowhere to be seen. “Lady Grayson, how lovely to see you. And looking so well. Married life seems to suit you. Perhaps not your husband though since you seem to have misplaced him.” She arched an elegant brow whilst sipping her lemonade with a pointed stare.
“Baroness,” I replied with a perfectly correct nod. Still, I allowed the word to hang between us, reminding us both of our respective stations. Channeling every bit of gumption I possessed, I continued, “I have not seen your husband tonight either? Is he unwell? It was so kind of him to send Mr. Parker to accompany you in his absence.” I could not raise a singular brow and I knew better than to attempt it.
She blinked once, twice, before determining that my statement was indeed intended as a slight. The contempt slid over her features, eyes darkening, lips pursing. Better still, now that the veil had been lifted, I caught the tell-tale feigned step, the exaggerated lean, the faked trip.
And I sidestepped.
Instead of her intended target, my bosom, her lemonade glass landed with a crash at our feet. The orchestra stopped abruptly, the entire assemblage spun toward us in absolute silence. There, for all and sundry to see was Lady James, frozen midtrip, broken glass at our feet. And Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Rosehill, in a feather-encrusted silvery gown, was soaked in lemonade. She was easily one of the highest-ranking peers in the room. And there was no mistaking it, no shifting blame. It was obvious to all that the drink had come from Lady James’s hand.
She came to the same conclusion, the horror shifting to her features in slow motion. Her eyes darted, desperate for a culprit to come forward, only to find none.
At last, taking pity on her, I broke the silence. “Oh dear, Your Grace, please come with me, let us see if we can repair the damage. Everyone, please do be careful just there until the staff has a moment to clean it. There’s broken glass.”
As if summoned, Timothy arrived with a dustpan, a bucket of water, and a rag for the glass and sticky mess.
Ladies Celine and Davina accompanied me to the retiring room in an effort to help. Her Grace was in remarkably good humor about the entire thing, at least, I think she was. She had a tendency to use five words when one would do and nearly all of them had three or more syllables. Still, there was nothing to be done about it, so their entire party left for the evening.
At some point, my husband and his wayward brother returned, but only the younger. Michael never made another appearance. Hugh was only in time to claim the last set. He spoke across the line from me, “Where is everyone?”
