Mr. Hartley chuckled. “I prefer yours flowing free as you wore it when I first spied you on your balcony. Like Juliet in Shakespeare’s play, I was tempted to play Romeo and climb up to you.”
“A good thing you didn’t, Mr. Hartley, for I would have thrown a pitcher of water over you.”
The neighboring man’s cough turned into a guffaw which made his partner frown and inquire what ailed him.
“I wonder if you would have,” he said, raising a dark eyebrow.
“You doubt me? We country girls learn to deal with many bothersome situations, Mr. Hartley.”
How maddening that the dance ended just when she was getting into her stride. Mr. Hartley paused at the edge of the dance floor. “Why someone has trodden on your shoe, Lady Henrietta. I trust it wasn’t me.” He bent at her feet to dust her shoe with his handkerchief. People stared, including her aunt. Henrietta’s cheeks grew hot as she stared down at his dark head. He was deliberately disconcerting her, she was sure. And he had succeeded for her fingers itched to touch his unpowdered black locks. When he stood, she averted her gaze.
“I believe it was you, Mr. Hartley,” she said to control her disturbing urges. “But please don’t concern yourself about a little mark. It was that final turn when you stumbled.”
“I stumbled? How extraordinarily clumsy of me.” His lips twitched. “Then I apologize profusely.” He returned his handkerchief to his pocket, his eyes brimming with laughter. “It’s been my pleasure, Lady Henrietta.”
Henrietta swept him a deep curtsy. “And mine, Mr. Hartley.”
“I trust we will meet again.” He offered her his arm and escorted her back to where her aunt sat among the dowagers watching them.
“London is a big town. I doubt that’s likely.” Annoyingly, Henrietta’s heart fluttered in the hope of meeting him again.
“Oh, we will, for thetontends to flock together, in ballrooms, drawing rooms or on horseback.”
Henrietta watched him walk away. What was his given name? His handkerchief bore the monogram ‘C. H.’. Cornelius? Christopher? Charles? Cuthbert? She giggled behind her fan. She dared not ask her aunt, for that lady was far too observant.
Hours later, everyone began to depart, retrieving coats, cloaks, reticules, and shawls.
Her father placed her cape around her shoulders. “Did you enjoy your first dance, Hetta?”
“It was lovely, especially the play.” She turned and gazed up at him. “Did you enjoy it too?” Ordinarily, his thoughts would be on his cattle, and he would have suffered through this for her, but now she doubted it. He looked far too pleased to be here.
“I found the play most entertaining.”
Aunt Gabrielle had come to join them. “I am gratified that you weren’t horribly bored tonight, Anthony. When you came under sufferance.”
“I suspect Papa intends to remain in London after my presentation,” Henrietta said.
“I shall like that above all things,” her aunt said. “But I wonder what attraction has made you so enamored of London society when it has failed to tempt you before.”
Henrietta studied him. “Yes, Papa, do tell.”
He laughed and guided them toward the door. “One might ask you, Hetta, how much you enjoyed that last dance with Christian Hartley.”
Henrietta’s cheeks grew warm. So, his name was Christian. She repeated it under her breath as her aunt cast her a sidelong glance.
