Hyacinth gulped, swallowing thickly, trying to give a smile in return, though she realized a moment later that the brightness of his smile might have been for Emma. Not her.
But then he closed the distance between them immediately and grinned down at her. Only her.
“Miss Bridewell, may I have the next dance?”
“Y-yes, of course.”
He lifted his bare hand, palm up, and she slid her gloved one into it. Something joyful bubbled inside her that swept away a bit of her nervousness.
She wanted this. Even if it was one dance and he would never speak to her after again. Even if he forgot her name or never glanced her way on any other night. She would always have this, and she intended to savor every moment of this single dance with him.
He led her farther into the ballroom, guiding her along the edge, since the room was filled with those dancing the current set. Hyacinth was intensely aware of how he held her, firmly, as if he didn’t want to lose her in the clutch of guests waiting to step onto the dance floor.
Hyacinth wasn’t certain of the order of the dances or what might come next.
“Who’s the one bothering you?” Sir Tristan asked, voice low, though he stood close enough for her to hear him perfectly. And for her to smell the warm spice and bergamot scent of his shaving soap.
When Hyacinth glanced up, he gave her a sympathetic look.
“The gentleman you’re seeking to avoid,” he clarified, brows arched.
Goodness, Emma had told him everything.
The music ended and dancers began leaving the floor to seek refreshment. Some remained to take up a new spot for the coming dance.
“Lord Litchfield,” Hyacinth confessed to him quietly.
He’d bent down to catch what she said, then looked at her with a knowing look.
“Ah, yes. He’s a bit of a cad.”
Hyacinth chuckled and then pressed her lips together. She wasn’t certain whether he was denouncing the man out of a sense of camaraderie or whether he truly knew something she didn’t about the nobleman.
Sir Tristan took the hand he still held and placed it on his arm. “Shall we find a spot?”
Hyacinth nodded and they swept onto the dance floor.
When the musicians struck up again, heat flared in her cheeks. It was a waltz. Relief welled up too. It was a simple dance. She would remember all the steps despite not having danced for most of the Season.
Anticipation made her breath tangle in her chest. And when Sir Tristan slipped a hand around her waist, she pressed her gloved hand to the broad, firm swell of his shoulder and became a bit dizzy at how perfect it felt to look up into his sea-blue eyes.
Each time she looked at him, he returned a kind smile, as if perhaps he truly was happy to be dancing with her.
Music rose to the ballroom’s gilded ceiling as they turned about the dance floor, and Hyacinth didn’t count the steps because Tristan led her so effortlessly.
“You’re quite good at this,” he said to her over the music.
And, of course, at that very moment she faltered, almost missing a step. He corrected them quickly and kept tight hold of her. Anyone watching might have missed it entirely.
“You spoke too soon,” she told him with chuckle.
He laughed too, and Hyacinth thought it was quite possibly the loveliest sound she’d ever heard. It sparked an answering tickle in the center of her own chest, as if a bit of his good humor had lodged deep inside. She’d treasure the memory of this moment.
“Emma would tell you that I’m far too reticent. That I ponder too long and guard my thoughts too fiercely.” He looked pensive for a moment. It was the first time during the waltz that he’dtaken his eyes off of hers. “Except when it comes to my work, of course,” he finally said, looking back again. His gaze glowed with warmth now, but of course it was passion for his work, not for her.
“Paleontology,” Hyacinth said and then felt like a fool. It was like pointing out that the sun hung in the morning sky. Of course, paleontology. It was the work that had earned him his knighthood.
But a moment later, she felt no embarrassment because he beamed down at her.
