Violet scanned the crowded room. He was somewhere within this crush of bodies.
No matter, she was armed with her dance card and she was ready. She would solve the mystery of her secret admirer tonight. Without fail.
Her first potential secret admirer soon approached. Edward Reynolds, a thick-set solicitor of middling height, stood eye-to-eye with her. “May I take the first dance, Miss Hambleton?”
In looks he was middling also, dark-haired and bulbous-nosed. His shrewd eyes, as cold and grey as the Atlantic Ocean during a gale, sent shivers up her spine. He was the son and grandson of country solicitors. She suspected his only interest in her was her pedigree as a granddaughter of James Hambleton, Baronet, an association that would be good for his career.
Violet gritted her teeth and held out her wrist, from which the dance card dangled. “If you wouldn’t mind penciling your name, Mr Reynolds?”
The corners of his smug mouth lifted. “Are you expecting a surfeit of partners tonight?”
How rude! She swept her free hand in an encompassing arc of the room. “I have come prepared for that eventuality and the ball is already a crush. My card may become a lovely souvenir of an exciting evening if filled.”
His eyes narrowed before he signed his name. “I have taken the first dance and shall return for you shortly.”
Violet’s stomach lurched as though his words were a threat.
He dipped his chin and bestowed a smile on her that didn’t light his eyes.
Violet forced her lips to curve upwards. With trembling fingers, she opened her dance card to check whether the solicitor’s signature matched the writing of her secret admirer. Reynolds was written in precise and heavy pencil strokes. Apart from the weight of the writing, it did not appear to match her admirer’s. A relieved sigh escaped her lips.
Violet’s father returned with two cups of punch and she had time to take a few sips before the orchestra played the introduction to the first dance.
Edward Reynolds appeared from the crowd again. “Good evening, Reverend,” he addressed Violet’s father without acknowledging her. “I hope to talk with you at some length later tonight.” Reynolds smirked meaningfully at Violet.
She drew in a sharp breath and her father’s shrewd gaze shifted between their faces. Reynolds appeared his usual bluff and confident self. Warmth surged up Violet’s neck.
Her father merely inclined his head.
They lined up for the start of a country dance. At the top of the formation, Sebastian partnered the glamorous debutant whom the Countess had cut Violet to greet. He looked distant, while his partner gazed up at him with an enraptured look upon her flawless face with its perfect bone structure that age would never diminish, arched eyebrows, classical nose, limpid brown eyes, and its cupid’s-bow mouth formed into a beguiling smile.
The first steps of the dance brought Reynolds and Violet together. She straightened her spine readying herself to ask the question she had rehearsed. “Are you a fan of poetry, Mr Reynolds?”
He briefly met her gaze. “Not particularly. I prefer facts, Miss Hambleton. Plain facts and figures.”
She needed a more definite answer. “You have never dabbled in writing poetry then?”
“Never! I consider poetry a waste of time.”
Relief bloomed in her. Thank goodness! “Not even a ditty.... Roses are red, and so on?”
He barked a dismiss laugh. “That would be ridiculous. I’ve far more important things to do with my time.”
“That I can imagine. You seem like a sensible man.” And not her secret admirer. She sent a prayer of thanks skyward and the stiffness in her shoulders eased.
“I am that. Most sensible.”
The steps of the dance parted them for a few moments and Violet for the first time this evening enjoyed the thrill of being at a ball and not as a wallflower earning pity and approbation.
With a benign smile, Reynolds took her hands in his soft ones. “And now I have a question for you.”
She returned his smile, completely relaxed now she knew he was not her mystery poet.
“I believe we should marry,” he said in his decisive way and without an iota of warmth.
Violet’s stomach lurched and she stumbled instead of gracefully pirouetting under her partner’s arm. “Pardon?” she squeaked.
“We can have the banns called tomorrow and be married in three weeks’ time. What say you?”
