At last, the dance had reached them. Mr. Cole rose up on his toes. He was naturally elegant, and his dancing no less so. Verity scrambled to get her thoughts shuffled back in order. What were the steps again? She moved forward hastily to meet him in the space between the lines, almost stumbling as she returned to her original position.
“To the right,” Mr. Cole called, just loud enough for her to hear. She circled the gentleman diagonally to her right, the one who had heard her earlier cry of dismay and tried politely to hide having heard it. Verity blushed as they capered around each other, but the lanky gentleman merely completed the figure and returned to his place. Back she went to Mr. Cole, hands united briefly, then pulling apart again.
Verity couldn’t help but regard these motions as an echo of her relationship with Mr. Cole, such as it was. Together, apart, together, apart. And all of it a formal display. Nothing was real. If it had been real, she would be holding a net instead of a fan. Her feet would be wet and bare. And Mr. Cole would be holding the reins of his horse, telling her of his dream of being an officer. There would be no pretty steps upon a ballroom floor, hoping—in one or two dances at a time—to discover the partner with whom you would spend the rest of your life.
What if she had found that partner already, only to have him believe that her previous disinterest was permanent?
Down the line, they skipped. Down and down, until they drew to a halt and faced each other once again, cheeks flushed with exertion.
More couples pranced past them. The line shifted. Together. Apart. Circle the gentleman to the right. Together. Apart.
And when Verity thought she could bear the dance no longer, for the echo of loss would break her heart, the dance ended. And she could touch Mr. Cole’s hand no more.
