He frowned. “I have a busy afternoon ahead, Gwen. That is why I asked you to come. Work awaits me at my desk.”
“Surely you can spare an hour or two, Nicholas.”
He sighed, aware he sounded unreasonable. “What do you have in mind?”
“Ask Carrie to dance. I shall play a Polonaise. We have four to form a set for a quadrille. We are two people short, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
When he approached Carrie, her dark eyes met his, reflecting glimmers of light from the long windows, her expression hard to read.
He bowed. “Will you grant me the pleasure of this dance, Miss Leeming?”
“I should be delighted, my lord.” She rose solemnly and took his arm.
With a giggle, Bella curtsied to Miss Scotsdale.
“La Pantalon.” Gwen announced the first movement and began to play.
Carrie’s eyes widened when he took her soft, slender hand in his. Really, Gwen might have warned him. He would have worn gloves.
They moved through a truncated version of the first eight bars, then faced each other. She looked at her feet instead of him. Nicholas noted the tension in her body beneath the white gown embroidered with green ferns, the high, green sash lifting with each anxious breath, her cheeks flushed. When she finally raised her gaze to his, she appeared as uncomfortable as he felt. And worse, faintly disapproving. While questioning what he had done to upset her, he led her through to the end of the dance.
“Well done,” Gwen said, clapping her hands.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me…” Nicholas began.
“But Nicholas, you can’t leave yet. You must dance the waltz with Carrie. That is most important.”
Oh no, he wouldn’t.Nicholas shook his head. “I’m afraid it will have to wait for another time. I’d forgotten Mr. Crumpton.”
Gwen had the audacity to cast him a suspicious look. “Who is Mr. Crumpton?”
Nicholas lifted his eyebrows. “A tenant who needs a new roof.” He took out his pocket watch. It was ten to three, and Crumpton was to call at four.
“I am in danger of being late,” he said, shamelessly stretching the truth. With a bow, he headed for the door. “Ladies, please excuse me.”
“As Nicholas has another matter to see to, which apparently can’t wait,” his sister said before he reached it, giving up less than graciously, “I shall discuss the etiquette required of a young lady at a ball.”
Gwen’s voice followed him as he strode away down the corridor as if the hounds of hell were after him. “Ladies who dance a country dance shall not quit their places until the set is finished. Otherwise, they cannot dance again that evening.”
What had he done now? From the looks she gave him, he feared Carrie had again taken him in dislike. He was not used to having quite that effect on a young woman. In fact, it had never happened to him before. Reaching the sanctuary of his library, he dealt with his correspondence until Crumpton arrived. When the grateful fellow left with the promise of a re-thatching of his roof, Nicholas sat and ate a feather-light, fresh-baked scone, warm from Mrs. Crumpton’s oven. After which, he drank a glass of the newly acquired cognac from France, savoring the superior blend of spicy, sweet, and bitter flavors. To make up for the hours lost after his ride and the infernal dance his sister had thrust on him unawares, he attempted to read a new and likely interesting account of the Battle of Waterloo, but oddly unsettled, couldn’t concentrate and gave up, putting the book down.
What had he said or done to make Carrie disapprove of him? He could think of nothing. He had been dismayed to be in charge of two young people and an advisor to Carrie but took pains not to reveal it. Hadn’t he made a point of warmly welcoming them? It shouldn’t matter what she thought of him, for she would be married before the year was out. But somehow, it mattered. He couldn’t dismiss it from his mind, and it annoyed him excessively.
He almost welcomed an interruption to his thoughts when the door opened, and Gwen peeked in. “Ah, I see you aren’t busy,” she said, slipping in uninvited. There was a look of purpose in her eyes. He sighed. Had he forgotten how his sister could be relied upon to stir things up? It was good of her and Winston, he reminded himself, to agree to her chaperoning Carrie, for which Nicholas’s gratitude knew no bounds, but still!
He smiled and rose from the chair. “Sherry?”
“Thank you.”
He went to the drinks tray and, after pouring a glass of the deep red-gold wine, returned to her. “I trust you’re not still determined to have me waltz with Carrie.”
She took the glass and thanked him from where she curled up on a leather armchair at one side of the fireplace. The day was cool, and a small fire burned in the grate, sending darts of golden light over the rug. “You have decided to remain a confirmed bachelor then, Nick.”
He had just sat down and raised his head to stare at her, alarmed at the childhood shortening of his name. It rang a warning bell. Another unsettling debate on the advantages of marriage would follow. He wasn’t about to make any emphatic statements about his future married state. It would put the cat among the pigeons, and he didn’t feel up to a fiery discussion right now. “I have not met a lady I wish to wed.”
She put her glass on an occasional table at her elbow. “I can’t imagine why not when all the unmarried ladies at London balls throw themselves at you? And some married ones,” she added with a wry smile.
He cocked an eyebrow at that. “Surely you exaggerate.”
