"Thank you, Lord Deane. You're very kind."
"Not kind…merely honest." He straightened, still holding her hand. "I had hoped, that is, I wondered if you might do me the honour of dancing the first two sets with me?"
She should refuse. She should plead a full dance card, a lingering weakness in her ankle, a prior engagement. She should do something…anything to create distance between them before the situation became even more complicated than it already was.
"Of course," she heard herself say. "I would be delighted."
His smile widened. "Wonderful. Truly wonderful."
The orchestra struck up the opening notes of a country dance, and Lord Deane led her onto the floor. He was a competent partner his steps were accurate, his timing precise, but there was no spark in his touch, no thrill in his proximity. Dancing with him was like dancing with a piece of well-crafted furniture: functional, serviceable, entirely without excitement.
"I must tell you something," he said as the figures of the dance brought them together. "I hope you will not think me presumptuous."
"What is it?"
"I called on your father this afternoon."
Vanessa missed a step. Lord Deane caught her elbow, steadying her with a concerned frown.
"Are you well? Is your ankle troubling you?"
"No, I…" She forced herself to continue the dance, though her mind was reeling. "I am well. You simply surprised me."
"I apologise. I did not mean to spring it upon you in such a fashion." His expression was earnest, hopeful. "I simply wanted you to know that my intentions are sincere. I hold you in the highest regard, Lady Vanessa. The very highest."
The dance separated them before she could respond. Vanessa moved through the figures mechanically, her thoughts in chaos.
He had spoken to her father. That could mean only one thing: he intended to propose. Formally. Properly. With all the weight of social expectation behind him.
And her father would accept. Of course he would. Lord Deane was everything a parent could want for their daughter, wealthy, titled and respectable. He would make a perfectly adequate husband. He would provide a comfortable life, a secure future, children who would want for nothing.
It would be a good match. Everyone would say so.
So why did the prospect fill her with such suffocating dread?
The dance brought them together again. Lord Deane was watching her with barely concealed anxiety, clearly awaiting some response to his declaration.
"I appreciate your candour," Vanessa said. It was not an acceptance, but neither was it a refusal. It was nothing…a placeholder, a delay.
Lord Deane seemed to find it encouraging. "I do not expect an answer tonight. I simply wanted you to know where things stand. So that you might... consider."
"I will consider."
The dance ended. He bowed; she curtsied. And then, mercifully, he released her to seek refreshment, and she was free.
Helena materialised at her side. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"He spoke to my father."
"Deane?" Helena's eyes widened. "Oh no."
"Oh yes."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing. I said I would consider." Vanessa pressed a hand to her stomach, which was churning unpleasantly. "Helena, what am I going to do?"
"That depends entirely on what you want." Helena steered her toward a relatively quiet corner, away from the press of dancers. "Do you wish to enter into matrimony with Lord Deane?"
