Extending his arm, he said, “Please.”
The first strains of the waltz sounded in the air, and he swept her off to the dance floor, where she instantly curtsied, and he bowed. His hand settled at her waist; she felt her skin wash over with warmth at how he was looking at her.
He danced well, directing her around the floor with ease, and Ariadne wondered if he loved dancing or if he was a pugilist with how light he was on his feet. He certainly did not move like a man who only participated in leisure pursuits.
“Do I assume you are related to Duke Holloway?” she asked, knowing she was breaking rule two.
“Alas, yes,” he spun them. “I am the younger brother; he is the heir, and I am the spare.”
She frowned. “I’m…sorry?”
He laughed, “Why? God knows, I could never be my brother. He is so buttoned up, his cravat is a noose. The man has had a set menu for his meals since he was sixteen and has not strayed from it for nearly twenty years. I am so happy that I can be free to live my life as I see fit without the constraints of work and debating with other stodgy lords at Westminster.”
Ariadne laughed, “I have a feeling that you would be a great debater.”
“The teachers at Eton and Oxford would disagree with you,” he flashed white teeth.
“Is His Grace attending tonight?” she asked.
“Oh god no,” Leander shook his head. “Balls, parties, soirees, even a ten-minute drive through Hyde Park is unnecessary and unproductive for him. If he dares to break his routine, I am sure he will implode.”
Her brows lifted. “He sounds like a dedicated man.”
“He is a bore,” Leander snorted as the crescendo increased. He took them through a series of curtailed spins before the last note trembled in the air. After bowing, he said, “I would appreciate it if you forgot that incident with Lady Porter.”
“Of course,” Ariadne nodded, “She was incapacitated.”
“That she was,” he replied and extended his arm again. He led her off to the seating area and kissed her hand. “Please enjoy the rest of the night, my lady.”
“Thank you,” she replied.
As he went off, she turned to her expectant mother, who looked ready to burst at the seams. Before she spoke to her mother, she spotted Celestine across the room, surrounded by an almost impenetrable wall of males.
“Ariadne,” Ophelia dropped her tone to sotto. “Who is he?”
A rake, mother.
“Mr. Greymont,” she replied. “The duke’s brother. I failed to learn his title, but I suppose there is one.”
“Lud!” Her mother’s fan began to beat up a hurricane. “That is wonderful. Do you think he will dance with you again?”
No.
“I hope so, mother,” she replied.
As I suspected, no second dance.
And no one has looked at her twice.
Three hours—wasted.
While her mother was off to the side, keeping an eye on Isolde and lecturing Celestine on her over-the-top flirting, Ariadne did exactly what her mother had warned Marigold from doing, and escaped the ballroom.
It felt like a knife to the heart knowing that no one saw her as worthy, though it all she’d kept a brave face, never letting her smile slip even in the face of subtle—and not so subtle—snubs.
As she sought for a room to hide away, her brave face began to crumble, and tears leaked down her cheeks. Frustrated, she used the back of her hand to dash the tears away.
Stop being a ninny.
