Stalking across the ballroom, Michael spied an old friend. Cecilia Chenoweth was the daughter of the local rector back in Gloucestershire, and he had known her his whole life. She was of an age with Caro, and the two of them had always been thick as thieves. Michael and Ceci were both only children and had always joked that they were honorary Astley siblings, so much did they run with the Astley brood growing up.
Now there was someone with whom he would genuinely like to dance.
He crossed the room and bowed over her hand. “Miss Chenoweth, how wonderful to see you.”
Ceci smiled. “Lord Morsley, it has been far too long.”
“Indeed. Might you be free for the first—”
He was cut off by the sound of a woman clearing her throat. He turned and saw a dark-haired girl eyeing him up and down. She looked vaguely familiar, but Michael couldn’t place her. “Miss Chenoweth,” the girl said, her eyes fixed on Michael, “perhaps you might be so good as to introduce me to your friend.”
“I believe you are already acquainted,” Ceci said. “Lord Morsley, do you recall Miss Araminta Grenwood? She’s attended a number of Lady Cheltenham’s house parties over the years. Miss Grenwood, this is Lord Morsley.”
Araminta Grenwood. Michael hadn’t thought of her in years, but he remembered her well enough. He’d once asked her to dance at one of Lady Cheltenham’s gatherings, trying to be courteous to a young girl who knew few people in the room. He’d been about ten inches shorter at the time, and that was the year his face had tended toward spots. Although Miss Grenwood had danced with him, she had made it abundantly clear that she would prefer he not ask her again. She wanted to keep her dance card open so that the handsome Viscount Fauconbridge, whom the girls were already starting to call “Prince Charming,” could ask her instead.
“Lord Morsley, I cannot believe I have forgotten,” Miss Grenwood purred. “Were you planning on dancing this evening, my lord?”
Not with you. “I was just asking Miss Chenoweth if she would grant me the pleasure of a dance.”
“Of course I would,” Ceci replied.
“I would wager Miss Chenoweth has a number of dances free,” Miss Grenwood said. “I, on the other hand, am available for only the supper dance and the Sir Roger de Coverley.”
He turned to Ceci, ignoring Miss Grenwood’s rather pointed invitation. “Are you available for the first dance?”
“I am,” Ceci replied.
Michael extended his arm. “Excellent.”
Ceci’s grin was a bit wicked. “They’re still tuning up. There’s no need for us to depart quite so hastily.”
Michael cast her a glare. “Yes, but I find that I am parched. Perhaps you would be so good, Miss Chenoweth, as to accompany me to the refreshment table.” He grabbed Ceci’s hand, placed it on his arm, nodded to Miss Grenwood, and beat a hasty retreat.
He could hear Ceci chuckling beside him as they crossed the room.
“I suppose you think that was funny,” he said.
“Oh, I’m not laughing at you,” Ceci replied. “Well, perhaps a bit—I couldn’t resist teasing you. But mostly I’m laughing at Miss Grenwood.”
“Why is that?” He collected two cups of lemonade and handed one to Ceci.
“Because Araminta Grenwood has been absolutely horrible to me ever since the day I met her. And it might not be the most Christian sentiment, but I found it immensely satisfying to be asked to dance right in front of her by the most handsome man in the room.”
Michael had just taken a sip of his lemonade, and almost spit it right back out, just as he’d almost done yesterday. He glanced at Ceci in shock and found that she was laughing at him.
“Oh, Morsley, if you could see your face! Don’t panic, I promise I’m not setting my cap for you.” She arched an eyebrow. “After all, we both know you didn’t just cross an ocean for me.”
This sent Michael into a fresh fit of coughing. He eyed Ceci with resignation. “You too? I’m starting to think everyone knows.”
Ceci clucked sympathetically. “Not everyone. After all, your dear, sweet Anne has no idea. And if it makes you feel better, I don’t believe Freddie is aware.”
Freddie Astley was thirteen, so that came as little surprise. “I rather thought Lucy was in the dark, too,” Michael said. Lucy was one of Anne’s youngest sisters. She and her twin, Isabella, would have just turned eighteen.
“She was,” Ceci agreed, “but she figured it out quickly enough after you fled to Canada.”
Michael glowered, which sent her into a fresh fit of laughter. “Remind me again why we’re friends,” he muttered, offering her his arm so they could join the set. “First you jest about me being the most handsome man in the room—”
“I wasn’t jesting. Not one bit. Just look at you, Michael Cranfield—all grown up and every bit as handsome as Fauconbridge and Lord Graverley.” She pressed his arm. “It could not have happened to a nicer person.”
Michael ducked his head, and she laughed at his discomfiture.
“So,” she continued, “are you going to propose tonight?”
“I am. I’ve been trying to propose since the moment I got back. We keep getting interrupted.” He dropped his voice. “I just overheard Gladstone and Scudamore talking. They’re both planning to ask her tonight. And they’ve dances with her before I do.”
Ceci’s eyes widened with understanding. She squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry. You told precisely the right person. I’ll make sure nobody gets a chance before you do.”
“But”—Michael grimaced as, across the room, Anne’s partner kissed her hand again—“how can you be sure?”
Ceci’s eyes sparkled. “I have my ways.”
Anne curtsied to Mr. Fitzroy as their dance drew to a close. As they came out of the Allemande position, the back of his hand brushed against her breast. Again. Her smile felt brittle as she struggled to extricate herself without appearing obvious.
“Come with me to the gardens, Lady Wynters,” he said, seizing her hand and giving a suggestive flick of his eyebrow.
Gracious, if he was this forward with half of the ton looking on, Anne didn’t want to find out what he would try should she repair with him to the gardens. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about this evening! She still wasn’t sure what she was going to say when the time came for her to dance with Lord Gladstone. “Oh, um…”
“Lady Wynters!” Anne turned and was immensely relieved to see her friend Mrs. Wriothesley bearing down upon her. “Oh, Lady Wynters, you’ll never believe what has happened!” She turned to Mr. Fitzroy. “Terribly sorry to interrupt, but it’s an emergency.” She seized Anne’s arm and began dragging her across the room.
“Oh, dear.” Anne strove to make her face a picture of regret she did not feel. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Fitzroy,” she called over her shoulder.
To her friend, Anne whispered, “Thank you for rescuing me! That man is like an octopus—” She broke off, glancing around. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going right here,” Mrs. Wriothesley said, scurrying behind a potted palm. She ducked down so her head was all but concealed and gestured for Anne to do the same.
“Um.” Anne hesitated before copying her friend’s posture. “To be sure, Mr. Fitzroy is more tenacious than one would like. But I don’t think it’s necessary to hide in the shrubbery—”
“Hang Mr. Fitzroy,” Mrs. Wriothesley hissed, peering between the fronds. “Who cares about him? Why didn’t you tell me your ‘best friend’ looked like that?”
Anne felt her cheeks flush. She peeked out from behind the palm, and surely enough, there was Michael, chatting with Cecilia Chenoweth.
She cleared her throat. “Michael has grown up quite a bit since last I saw him. He’s been gone for four years.”
“Well,” Mrs. Wriothesley said, inspecting Michael as if he were on the auction block at Tattersall’s, “his timing could not be better.”
Anne blanched. “His timing? I… I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’ve just come out of mourning and are in search of a new husband, is what I mean.” Seeing Anne’s panicked expression, Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression softened. “Now, dear, you must grant me a mother’s indulgence. Sometimes the impulse to matchmake is impossible to suppress.”
“It’s not that. It’s just—”
“I was at the Falmouth ball, you know. I didn’t know who he was then, but I saw him scoop you into his arms when that man almost knocked you down.”
“He was merely looking out for me, as a friend.”
The snort Mrs. Wriothesley gave this pronouncement was something less than ladylike. “I saw the way he looked at you. Take it from someone who’s married off eight daughters—that is not how a man looks at his good friend.”
Anne swallowed. And that was the rub of it. Because a little nagging voice in the back of her head had been saying the same thing, ever since their incident on the Serpentine.
Anne still didn’t put much stock in his physical response. The hardness she’d felt pressing against her stomach was just an involuntary reaction, one that a man would have in close physical proximity with any woman.
But what happened next, she had no explanation for. Because he had reached out and framed her face, and his lips had been craning toward hers, and the look in his eyes…
Oh, God, she would never forget the look in his eyes.
How could she explain that? She couldn’t. It flew in the face of everything she had always known about Michael Cranfield, which was that he would never, not in a million years, want to kiss her. But what if…
What if everything she had always known was wrong? What if there was a chance that he… that he…
She reminded herself that she was specifically and demonstrably bad at determining whether Michael Cranfield was thinking about kissing her. That her attraction to him was clouding her judgment.
Because Anne could no longer deny that she was attracted to Michael, not after the way her body reacted when he took her into his arms in the boat. Although who could blame her? Just look at him!
Anne felt her shoulders sag as she did just that. She was being ridiculous. Just look at him, indeed. There was absolutely no chance that the majestic demigod Michael Cranfield had become would ever be interested in the likes of her.
Mrs. Wriothesley’s voice emerged as if through a fog. “Lady Wynters? Lady Wynters? Is everything well?”
“I’m so sorry.” Anne shook her head to clear it. “You caught me woolgathering.”
“From everything you’ve told me, he is a man of outstanding character.”
“Yes.” Anne swallowed. “He is the very finest man I know.”
Those were the words she had said to him after she found out that it had been Michael who had pressed his father to intervene on Bridget’s behalf. She knew she had embarrassed him when she said it; his ears had turned positively vermillion.
Well, it was still true, even after all these years. Just thinking about his recent words, about how she deserved a husband who would treat her like a queen, made tears spring to her eyes.
What a shame that husband wouldn’t be Michael.
Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression had turned peevish. “You cannot expect me to believe that you wouldn’t like to have ‘the very finest man you know,’ who also happens to look like that, for your husband.”
“Any woman,” Anne said carefully, “would be lucky to have Michael as her husband. But,” she held a hand up as her friend tried to interrupt, “it won’t be me.”
Mrs. Wriothesley seemed genuinely confused. “Why ever not?”
“Lord Morsley doesn’t feel anything for me beyond friendship.”
“But—”
Anne laid her hand upon her dear friend’s arm. “I know it for a certainty,” she said quietly. “It is so very kind of you to dream of such a fine match for me. But…” She had to look away. “I know it will never happen.”
She felt her friend place her hand over her own, and when Anne looked up, Mrs. Wriothesley’s expression was… a bit patronizing, truth be told. She patted Anne’s hand three times. “We’ll see now, won’t we?”
“Mrs. Wriothesley!” Anne protested.
“I would advise you not to bet against the woman who’s married off eight daugh—”
“Lady Wynters?”
The aroma of pickled cod announced Augustus Mapplethorpe, who either did not notice or preferred not to ask why Anne was hiding in a shrubbery. And so Anne excused herself and went off to fulfill her promised dances, feeling more confused than ever.