On the dance floor, the dancers in the previous measure were dispersing and the players nearby were checking the tuning of their instruments. Glancing over his shoulder, Ambrose glimpsed Miss Sinclair in her green silk, all too near again already. He must act now or risk an unpleasant scene where he must snub her publicly.
Striding up to the unknown lady with the pearls, he took her hand and bent his head over it respectfully.
“I think it is time for our dance,” he said very certainly and then looked up into very surprised and wary grey eyes.
“I do not think so,” she demurred, withdrawing her fingers. “Perhaps you are thinking of another lady.”
“I am the Duke of Westall, remember,” he said. “I dare say you are so in demand tonight that I have been easily forgotten. However, I have remembered you.”
“Sir, I mean, Your Grace, I have never seen you before…” the young woman began to protest, with startled expression.
Before Annabelle Sinclair could overhear and entangle him again, the duke took the unknown lady’s hand and drew her with him to the dance floor where the musicians now played the introduction to the next waltz. Cutting off any opportunity for real objection, he had whirled her into the dance and a wide-eyed gasp escaped her lips as she found herself in his arms.
“Forgive me,” Ambrose said then, glad that this dance allowed couples the closeness to speak privately. “I never reserved a dance with you, as you say. I do, however, beg your help to escape from a very persistent young lady.”
At first, the young woman in his arms looked stunned and more than a little frightened, which gave Ambrose a twinge of conscience. He ought not really to have sacrificed her comfort for his own but the urgency of his situation seemed to demand it and he hoped his partner would understand.
“I am not holding you too tightly, am I?” he asked. “Let me know how you prefer to dance and I will do as you wish. Gentlemen must lead the dance, but the lady sets the tone and rules.”
“Ah, no, you are… This is… just right,” she said, after a moment’s consideration, relaxing a little at Ambrose’s earnest explanation and gentle reassurance, although the grey-blue eyes still flashed brief annoyance at the situation in which she found herself.
“I’m afraid I took you rather by surprise,” Ambrose added. “I don’t make a habit of this, you know. I hope you won’t think too ill of me. Consider me as a drowning man, who sees a spar of wood in the ocean and seizes it so that he does’t go under.”
Amusement now finally swept away the remnants of both fear and anger in the young lady’s expression.
“What you did was very ill-mannered, Your Grace,” she told him directly, but with the beginnings of a smile. “I do understand, however. In fact, I only wish I could do the same to avoid unwanted attention. Sadly, ladies do not have the luxury of stealing dance partners to ward off too-persistent gentlemen.”
“Show me the gentleman in question and I shall ward him off for you,” the duke offered gallantly, spinning his partner across the dance floor and as far away from Annabelle Sinclair as possible. “Or is there more than one? In any case, I always repay my debts.”
“As a gentleman should,” she remarked and then gave a short laugh of resignation. “Sadly, my foe is not so easily vanquished. Old family acquaintance will only bring him back again next time.”
“Ah, yes, the misfortune of old family friends,” Ambrose sympathized, thinking of all the Clarke family connections his grandmother and aunts pushed him towards. “They are like the smell of damp in a rackety house. You can open the window and temporarily relieve your senses, but it will only return later.”
Now, the lady in his arms laughed properly, her cheeks dimpling and eyes shining. There was something of moonlight in her silvery eyes and pale wheaten sheen of her hair.
“It seems we have much in common, Your Grace.”
“I cannot judge so well as you. I do not even know your name.”
“Lady Frances Harcourt, daughter of Lord and Lady Scovell,” the young woman told him. “Determined avoider of suitors and aspiring spinster.”
Now it was Ambrose’s turn to laugh aloud and relax too. He had been lucky in his choice of stolen dance partner. Lady Frances appeared to be telling him that of all the young ladies here tonight, she was one of the few who had no aspirations to entangle him in marriage.
“How long does a lady have to aspire to spinsterhood before she achieves it?” he asked. “Forgive my curiosity, but I have never before met a young lady who wished to avoid marriage.”
“As long as it takes for my mother to give up her hopes and focus her ambitions on my younger sister,” replied Lady Frances with a sigh. “It has not happened yet. Tonight, my mother announced that she is bringing in a matchmaker for me.”
“A matchmaker? That does sound serious,” the Duke of Westall commiserated, having been threatened with similar measures by his formidable grandmother on more than one occasion.
“Yes, the Dowager Marchioness of Kempleforth. Apparently, she has never yet failed to make a successful match. My mother tells me that she has a whole private sitting room lined with the framed family trees of couples she has brought together. Sadly for Lady Kempleforth, I fear her run of success is about to end.”
“I do not know whether to wish you luck or not,” Ambrose admitted, smiling and shaking his head. “It is hard to know in such a situation whether luck will bring you the outcome you seek.”
“Best not, in that case,” said Lady Frances, stepping back and curtseying to him gracefully as the dance came to an end and the duke released her from his arms. “I would not want to give the fates any more ammunition against me than they already have.”
“Well, let me walk you back to your mother,” suggested the duke, offering his arm. “If you think that a show of interest of a gentleman might buy you a short reprieve from the matchmaker?”
“You are too kind, Your Grace,” Frances replied, smiling and taking his arm after a short hesitation. “As you say, it might help, and you can also then consider your debt to me repaid.”
