Still, it was shocking when she’d wandered off into the corner to greet her friend Helen, another wallflower, and turned around to see none other than Hart standing before her. Her mouth went dry, and she might have made something akin to a squeaking noise. She wasn’t entirely certain.
Seeing him made her gasp and her gasp resulted in a hideously timed bout of hiccups. So it was when Hart Highgate, the man she’d dreamed about for years, finally asked her to dance at atonball, Meg grasped at the unfamiliar rubies at her neck and replied with a stilted, “Oh… I… Yes… Hic. I should like that very… hic… much.”
Hart wore black breeches, a startlingly white superfine shirtfront, and an expertly tied white cravat with an emerald-green waistcoat and black evening coat. He looked—as he always did—as if he’d stepped out of a fashionable men’s periodical. While she knew he was only standing in front of her because Sarah had somehow convinced him to ask her to dance, Meg reminded herself that when one’s dreams came to life, one shouldn’t question the means by which they were delivered. She did, however, glance behind her to ensure he was talking toherand not, say, the wall.
Once it was firmly established that he had indeed askedherto dance, Hart bowed to Meg and led her to the dance floor. That was the moment when she became overwhelmed by the irrational fear that she had completely forgotten how to dance. She hadn’t done it inyears, after all, being a first-order wallflower. That atop the ridiculous hiccups and this was certain to end in disaster. Had Shakespeare ever included hiccups in his tragedies? Juliet with a bout of the hiccups, for instance, may well have made the whole tale slightly less awful.
“I apologize in advance,” Meg said, “if I—hic—step upon your feet—hic—fall, or—hic—trip you.”
She expected him to be horrified by her candor and by her hiccups but instead he… laughed. “Not one for dancing?” he asked, his voice smooth and deep. He smelled like a mixture of starch and some sort of spicy, clean cologne. The same scent his coat had held when she’d worn it in the park last year. She’d never forget it. She wanted to breathe him in forever.
“I quite enjoy—hic—dancing,” she clarified. “I’m just not entirely certain I—hic—recall how to properly do so given my—hic—immortal status as a—hic—wallflower.”
He smiled at that, and she could tell by the way the sides of his mouth curled up that he was trying to keep from laughing more at her hiccups. Oh, perfect. She was ridiculous to him. Perhaps this was more like Shakespeare’sComedy of Errors. Tripping him would decide it for certain.
“I believe it’s like riding a horse,” he said. “One never forgets. You see, you’re dancing quite well.”
She glanced down at her own feet, amazed that he was right. She was indeed dancing as if she knew precisely what she was about. “How do you like that? Hic.” She looked back up at him with wide eyes and smiled. “I am. Hic.”
“I don’t mean to be impolite,” he said, leaning down and whispering to her in a conspiratorial voice. Thebrush of his breath against her ear sent gooseflesh skittering down her neck. She immediately decided to fake being hard of hearing in order to get him to whisper everything he said into her ear. “But are you, by chance, suffering from a bout of the hiccups?”
Her face was no doubt bright pink when she replied, “Yes. Yes, in fact, I am.” Honesty was always the best policy, was it not? Besides, there was not much use in denying it. Hiccups were hardly hidable.
Another smothered laugh from him, during which he pressed his firm lips together. His green eyes twinkled. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
She sighed. “Yes, well, it only—hic—makes the ignominy of the fact that—hic—my first dance in years is with a gentleman whose sister—hic—had to convince him to ask me, all the more—hic—excruciatingly embarrassing. Hic. But I still hold out hope that I won’t also trip.”
Hart’s brow furrowed. “What’s that?”
“I only mean that the glamorous—hic—beautiful ladies you would normally ask to dance of your own—hic—volition would no doubt never do anything as common as—hic—be overcome with a bout of hiccups.”
This time he laughed and shook his head, watching her as if she were a marvel or some inexplicable being like a mermaid or a unicorn. “First,” he replied, “my sister may have suggested it, but in all my years she has never been able to convince me to do anything I did not choose to do, and second, you happen to be the most beautiful lady here tonight.”
“Pardon?” She blinked and glanced behind herself for the second time. This time she wascertainhe wastalking about someone else. Surely, he couldn’t mean…her.
“It’s true,” he replied. “Why do you seem surprised?”
He had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if she were the only woman in the room. “You know I’m Meg Timmons, don’t you?”
His tongue flicked out to lick his lips, and he pressed them together, obviously to keep from laughing. “I know who you are, Meg.”
She narrowed her eyes on him. “Were you—hic—quite serious? When you said I’m the most—hic—beautiful lady here, I mean? Hic.” She glanced around. “Did Lucy Hunt put you up to—” She snapped her mouth shut. Stupid, naive Meg. Of course he was saying flattering things. That’s what men did at balls while dancing with young ladies. They flirted and bestowed compliments and said things they did not mean. She simply had no experience with such flirtations. She was horribly green. She blushed. She must say something equally nonchalant and airy.
“I thank you, my lord, for taking pity—hic—on a flower of the wall variety such as myself. I daresay dancing is quite—hic—as much fun—hic—as I remember it.”
“Is it?” His lips twitched.
“I think so. I cannot be certain as in the past I mostly danced—hic—with my tutor. It is infinitely more diverting with a—hic—gentleman at a ball. My tutor was elderly and had trouble with his hip. He also—hic—tired easily and danced with a cane.” No doubt he was the least expensive tutor to be had.
“Your dancing tutor danced with a cane?” Hart pressed his lips together.
“I’m afraid so. He also seemed to be inebriated mostof the time.” Meg sighed. Poor Mr. Barton. She wasn’t entirely certain her mother hadn’t paid him in brandy.
“Sounds a bit like my valet,” Hart replied. “But I’m glad to hear you prefer dancing with me. I’d hate to be less diverting than a drunken old tutor who uses a cane.”
“Oh no. I only meant… Hic.” Lovely, now she’d gone and insulted him. She really should speak less. It would help with the hiccuping problem, too.
“It’s all right. I understand.”
