"He is my brother's closest friend. We have known each other for many years."
"Yes. I had heard as much." Lord Deane's expression was troubled. "I confess, I had not realised quite how... close... your acquaintance was."
"I'm not certain I take your meaning."
"Only that he seems very... attentive. This evening." Lord Deane's voice was careful, measured. "More attentive than one might expect from a mere family friend."
Vanessa did not know what to say. She could deny it, but that would be a lie, and Lord Deane deserved better than lies. She could confirm it, but that would be premature, nothing had been declared, nothing had been settled. She was operating on hints and implications and the weight of Martin's gaze.
"Lord Montehood is attentive to many people," she said finally. "It is part of his nature."
"Perhaps." Lord Deane did not sound convinced. "But he does not look at other people the way he looks at you."
The dance separated them before she could respond. When they came together again, Lord Deane's expression had shifted, still troubled, but with a new resolve beneath it.
"I want you to know," he said quietly, "that whatever you decide, I will accept it. I have spoken to your father, yes. My intentions are sincere. But I would never wish you to feel... trapped."
"Lord Deane…"
“Please, allow me to finish,” He took a breath, and she saw the effort it cost him to maintain his composure. "I have admired you for some time now. I believe we could be happytogether,truly happy. But happiness cannot be forced. If your heart lies elsewhere, I would rather know it now than discover it after we are bound together."
The music swelled, the dance turned, and Vanessa found herself unexpectedly moved by his honesty. Lord Deane was not an exciting man. He was not a passionate man. But he was a decent one, and he deserved a wife who could return his feelings with equal measure.
She could not be that wife. She knew it now with absolute certainty.
"You are very kind," she said when the dance brought them together again.
"I am practical. There is a difference." He smiled a small, rueful expression that made him look suddenly older, more weary. "I am not blind, Lady Vanessa. I see what is happening here tonight. I simply wanted you to know that you have choices. Whatever those choices may be."
The dance ended. He bowed over her hand, pressed a brief kiss to her gloved fingers, and withdrew with quiet dignity.
Vanessa watched him go, guilt and relief warring in her chest. He was a good man. He would make someone an excellent husband.
But not her. Never her.
***
Finally, the orchestra struck up the opening notes of the supper waltz.
Vanessa's heart leaped into her throat. She turned and found Martin already there, appearing at her side as though conjured from thin air.
"My dance, I believe."
He offered his hand. She took it.
The floor was crowded with couples, but Vanessa was aware only of Martin…the pressure of his fingers around hers, the warmth of his palm at her waist, the intensity of his gaze as he looked down at her.
They began to move.
The waltz was a scandal when it first arrived from the Continent, with all the abundance of touching, and closeness, the impropriety of a gentleman placing his hand on a lady's waist. Society had accepted it eventually, but there was still something inherently intimate about the dance. Something that set it apart from the country dances and quadrilles with their frequent exchanges of partners.
In the waltz, you belonged to one person alone.
"You've been observing me all evening," Martin said as he turned her through the first figure.
“As you have been to myself.”
"I have." No denial, no deflection. His honesty was startling, almost disorienting. "I find I cannot seem to stop."
