Page 20 of Courting the Vicar’s Daughter

I needn’t think about marriage. Not yet. I have other plans, after all. She entered the upper rooms, music swelling as the current dance came to an end. And Mr. Haskett certainly doesn’t fit into any of those plans.

§

Harry spent the first quarter of an hour going about the hall introducing himself to the people he had not yet met. Gentlemen he’d politely presented their wives, daughters, and sisters, but rarely with enthusiasm. He bowed from one end of the room to the other, paying compliments as sincerely and efficiently as possible.

He finally found himself back at his sister’s side, where she remained on the arm of her husband.

“Hello again, Harry,” she said, smirking up at him. “Why aren’t you dancing yet? I think every young lady in the room is waiting for you to take the floor.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if wagers had been laid,” Thomas said, earning an amused glance from his wife.

“I find the whole thing terrifying,” Harry said at last, his voice lowered and his eyes sweeping the room. Several women were looking in his direction, but the one he searched for had yet to appear. “I cannot dance with anyone without giving insult to everyone else.”

“Only when it comes to the first.” Thomas remained cheerful as ever, pointing out the obvious. “And do not dance with anyone more than a set.”

“Christine, will you dance with me?” Harry asked, at a loss for what else to do. “No one can dislike me for dancing with my sister.”

She chuckled. “You wish to be universally liked? I never thought you cared much for popularity.”

He scowled. “I didn’t. But that was before it mattered so much.” And it did matter. When he’d been in London, in Bath visiting Julia, and in Italy, no one cared who he danced with because he wasn’t a permanent fixture. He came and went as he liked. But here, if he remained at Whitewood, he needed the good opinion of his neighbors. Giving offense with so simple a thing as standing up with the wrong girl wouldn’t be wise.

Of course, he hadn’t exactly decided to stay yet. But the option, and thus the concern, remained before him.

“Very well,” Christine said at last, releasing her husband’s arm to take her brother’s. “I will dance with you. But that will not entirely solve your problem.”

“Thank you.” He escorted her to the floor where the second dance in the set was forming. They stepped into position and Harry looked down the line, searching for a particular blonde head.

The music started and Harry entered into the steps with ease. Christine followed the figures well, and spoke more often to the other ladies near her than to him. Because he needn’t give his sister his full attention, Harry’s mind wandered.

Miss Ames wasn’t in attendance this evening. Not yet, anyway. Augusta Ames confused him. The day before, he’d bandaged her wound, guarded her reputation, seen her laugh, and then felt the sting of her censure. The only thing more confounding than her complexities was his inability to banish her from his thoughts.

The music concluded, and the next dance was called, another that required more energy than thought. Christine gave Harry a firm shake of the head, dashing his hopes she would continue with him for another moment. He took her hand and turned to escort her from the floor—

Miss Ames approached on the arm of the curate, drifting over the floor with ease in a gown of periwinkle blue. Harry nearly stopped to speak to her, but Christine gave his arm a fierce tug, pulling him out of the way.

The vicar’s daughter didn’t meet his gaze, but the way her lips tightened when she passed let him know she’d seen him. And chose not to look at him.

“You cannot ask her to dance when she is already on her way to the floor,” Christine whispered. “Where are your manners, Harry?”

Harry scoffed, albeit quietly. “I had no intention of asking her.” Not at the moment, anyway. But now that she had turned up, somehow prettier than she had been the day before, and obviously upset with him, he reconsidered.

Christine cut him a look of supreme skepticism, complete with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. “Did you plan to simply bar her way?”

“No.” Harry sped up their walk around the edges of the room in an attempt to outrun the tips of his ears turning red. Since they were attached to him, he failed. But at least Christine hadn’t seemed to notice. “I barely know Miss Ames. Why would I wish to dance with her?”

“I haven’t any idea.” Christine stopped, making it necessary for him to do the same. “Have we a goal with our quick-march, General, or is this merely a drill?” She adjusted her gloves as she spoke.

“I apologize, Chrissy.” Harry tucked his hands behind his back. In as nonchalant a manner as he could manage, he turned his head to look out over the room to the couples dancing. It took him a moment to find Miss Ames’s blonde coiffure, as she wasn’t of a great height. He found the tall, thin curate first and deduced her position from his.

“At least you have managed to skip this dance. Entering it now would be ridiculous.” She stood on her toes. “Do you see Thomas?”

Harry shook his head, still observing the progress of Miss Ames down the line of the dance. “I am certain he will find you. He always does.”

“Yes. Isn’t it marvelous?” she asked, happiness coloring her words.

Harry didn’t miss her tone, and when he glanced at her expression he saw softness rest upon her features. His vivacious and outspoken sister wore the mantel of wife and mother quite well. Gratitude eased his heart, not for the first time, in knowing that she’d found Thomas. Somehow, all three of his sisters had obtained happiness, despite his late father’s determination to put finances above family and lucre before love.

Christine caught him staring from the corner of her eye and raised her eyebrows. “What is it? Have I grown an extra nose?”