“Come now,” she mimicked unkindly, which did nothing to wipe the smile from his face. “At least find us some champagne,” she hissed, wishing she could go into the garden behind the townhouse and scream to the heavens.
She scanned the dancers for Charlotte and found her, looking happy and stepping merrily. The knot in her stomach eased. Even if Beatrice had ruined her own chances for finding a match at this pleasant ball, it seemed her sister had not been tarnished. People hadn’t booted her off the floor as being related to the ridiculous toffee heiress.
“What are you thinking?” Mr. Carson asked when he returned and sat beside her. “Your usually lovely face looks like a thundercloud.” He handed her a glass.
“Thank you for your kind words. How much better I feel knowing I look like a bit of bad weather. What a thing to say!”
He was completely unfazed by her shrewish tongue, which made her want to lambast him further.
“At least you are good for fetching a drink,” Beatrice added tartly, taking a hasty sip. At once, she began to cough violently. Mr. Carson arose again and, after a brief hesitation, began to thump upon her back, making it nearly impossible to catch her breath.
Finally, she lifted a hand, and he stopped.
“What in blue blazes are you doing?” she demanded, hoping he hadn’t torn the back of her gown or left her with bruises.
“Assisting you,” Mr. Carson said uncertainly.
“Take your seat at once.” Beatrice was about to say something more when Lord Melton from the Clarendon House ball approached.Had he seen either her disastrous first dance or how she could hardly sip champagne without nearly choking herself?
By the knowing look in his eyes, he had. However, with utmost propriety, he remained at a proper distance, bowed slightly, made some formal flourish with his right hand that had her momentarily captivated, and then finally spoke.
“If you wish, Miss Rare-Foure, may I have the honor of dancing with you when the next dance begins?”
He remained slightly bowed until she responded. She knew she was supposed to say something flowery about how pleased she was.
“Yes,” she blurted at once, trying to keep from glancing at Mr. Carson. It would be a good idea to get away from the man who affected her so much, both for good and for bad. “With pleasure,” she added.
Unlike previous balls, after securing her agreement, Lord Melton did not immediately leave. He just stood there amiably. She knew it was up to her as the female to start a light and pleasant conversation, another tip from Charlotte’s book.
“You did not dance the opening quadrille?” Beatrice turned it into a question and then hoped it was not inappropriate to ask.What if he’d been unable to secure a partner?In which case, her question might be unforgivably rude.
The viscount shook his head. “I arrived a little too late.”
But not so late as to have missed her humiliation. She smiled at him, sipped her champagne more slowly, and felt as if she wanted the floor to swallow her.What did one say to a man one hardly knew?She glanced at Mr. Carson wondering if he might help to strike up a conversation. He raised a sardonic eyebrow.
“Now that you have an escort, Miss Rare-Foure, I will take my leave to find my next partner.” Mr. Carson rose to his feet. “Thank you for the ...,” he stopped abruptly, unable to thank her for the dance that had been so terribly abandoned.
His gaze caught hers with some unspoken message, perhaps an apology.
She pursed her lips at his making mention of their dance at all and looked away.
“Thank you,” he repeated, bowed slightly, and walked away.
“Americans,” quipped Lord Melton. “One never knows where one is with them.”
On the contrary, Beatrice thought. Mr. Carson’s frankness was unusually refreshing, especially in this upper-class arena of overwrought civility, controlled by so many restrictions and rules. Any event involving the nobility proved far more complicated than what she would have to deal with at a dinner dance thrown by her parents for their middle-class friends.
However, the American’s ability to irk her, and the way he incited her emotions to the surface in full view of everyone when she was better served if they remained buried, those were traits she could do without — particularly at a dowager duchess’s ball. She sighed.
“May I sit?” he asked.
“Please, do,” she responded, and yet, when he took the chair on the other side of her, it felt odd indeed to have a strange man so close his sleeve was brushing her shoulder.
It never felt odd with Mr. Carson, and she immediately felt the loss of him. Beatrice had to stop herself from craning her neck to see which way he had gone and to discover with whom he was speaking. Instead, smiling politely at the viscount, she wracked her brain for some of the inane conversation in which she knew she was supposed to engage.
“A fine evening, isn’t it?” she asked. As there had been no rain, that seemed the perfect topic
“You look very pretty,” he said, surprising her since that did not seem in keeping with the light, banal discourse she had come to expect.
