Chapter Four

“You must forgive my coming at such a time, Catherine, but I knew you would wish me to inform you at once: I have seen the Marquess of Edgecombe!” Sarah gushed in breathless apology as she entered Catherine’s dressing room without ceremony early one mid-August afternoon.

Catherine, who was in the process of dressing with her maid Flora’s help, turned abruptly to face her visitor, pulling the stay strings from the maid’s hands. “When? Where?” she demanded of her friend.

“In town late this morning, as I was coming out of the haberdashers. He was in company with Lord Ellsworth, who performed the introduction.”

“Tell me at once, Sarah,” Catherine commanded as her maid recaptured the stay strings and finished lacing the stays over Catherine’s pink chemise. “What is his appearance? His manner?”

“In appearance he is of a good height, as tall as Lord Woodforde I believe, and his eyes brown. I could not discern the color of his hair as it was powdered fairly heavily, but I would suspect dark. He was wearing a frock coat, plain waistcoat of the new style cut straight across at waist-length, and riding breeches; all as one might expect for the country, but very fine.”

“His manner?” Catherine pressed. “It is most important I know his manner.”

“Gentlemanly,” Sarah replied, “but although courteous, I found it a bit lacking in warmth. In truth, I had the feeling that had I been more than a mere squire’s wife it might have been warmer. But I may be misjudging him,” she allowed.

“Did you learn anything more? Anything of his likes and dislikes?” Catherine pressed her friend as Flora helped her into her bodice and skirt. “The information you heard before was useful, but gossip may be in error. Did he appear all he is rumoured to be?”

“It was only a chance meeting on the street,” Sarah protested, taking a chair while the maid finished dressing Catherine. “But I did learn he will be attending the ball at the assembly rooms in Moreton three days hence.”

“That is of all things wonderful!” Catherine responded. “I cannot fail to be presented to him there, and if my appearance is pleasing he may take notice of me, at least. How fortunate I ordered my new gowns in June when I first read of his intended visit!

“It is a pity the master of the Moreton assembly rooms continues the custom of requiring a person to retain the same partner for the whole evening,” Catherine continued, sighing, as the maid brushed her mistress’s hair. “For no doubt it will be Miss Louisa Ellsworth who will be his partner for the entire evening. I wish the master would allow changes of dance partner as is the new French custom.”

“Now that the marquess has arrived there will be many dinners and other entertainments where you may have the opportunity to be his partner, or at least to converse,” Sarah consoled her friend as the last touches were made to Catherine’s toilette. “You will be able to decide upon his character for yourself.”

“Yes, but the sooner I know his character the sooner I may know how to attach his interest,” Catherine pointed out as she rose and checked her reflection in the cheval glass. “You must stay to dinner, Sarah,” Catherine urged. “Papa is always pleased when you are able to dine with us.”

“Thank you, but I must hurry home,” Sarah refused, rising from her chair. “The squire is expecting me for dinner. I only came to tell you the news, as I knew you would be desirous of hearing it as soon as possible.”

“I was indeed,” Catherine said, embracing her friend. “Thank you for bringing me the news so quickly.”

“How is your hare?” Sarah asked as she and Catherine descended the stairs together.

“He has mended quite well. I am keeping him in the walled garden for now, although when it becomes cold I shall move him inside. Lord Woodforde is constructing a wooden dwelling for him.”

“Has he become tame?”

“Not entirely, but he comes up to take carrots and fruits from my hand. Woodforde sends fruit from his conservatory and the hare loves them so I am able to tempt him to approach me. He enjoys eating all the fruits I have offered, but peaches and grapes are his favourites.”

““That is kind of Lord Woodforde. I do believe your hare dines more sumptuously than Squire Turner and I,” Sarah laughed.

“Catherine,” she continued as the friends neared the front hall. “Do you not think that Lady Woodforde’s passing was long enough ago that Lord Woodforde might truly consider you as a possible wife? I know you believe his offers to be jests, but are you certain that they are? If you are indeed determined upon having your own establishment, it would be simpler, I would think, to accept a man you know well than to attempt to engage the interest of a man about whom you truly know nothing.”

“You and Lady Manning are of the same mind,” Catherine sighed, coming to a halt in the black and white tiled entrance hall. “I do sometimes feel that Woodforde might marry that his daughter need not be away at boarding school most of the year, but I would not wish to marry any man simply to be a mother to his daughter. And even should Woodforde’s offers be sincere, I should find it impossible to live up to Lady Woodforde’s memory. If you recall, even Mr. Ellsworth commented upon the marquess’ continuing devotion to her. She had so excellent a character and was far more accomplished than I.”

“Say rather she was accomplished in different things,” Sarah countered. “I asked because Lord Woodforde’s kindnesses to you—and even to your hare—are so very marked. And there has always been, well, a general expectation of you and Woodforde making a match of it someday, given the number of times he escorts you and Lady Manning to assemblies and other gatherings.”

“Sarah, you are making much out of nothing,” Catherine scolded her friend. “You know Woodforde has been our neighbor all our lives, as you have been. He is kind to us all, and escorts Lady Manning and myself because my father has so little interest in most social events. I hope there is not gossip of an attachment between us in Moreton. If you hear such talk please counter it; Lord Woodforde sees me as a sister, no more, and at times a rather plaguey one at that.”

 

The Moreton assembly rooms were especially crowded that Thursday night, for all the inhabitants in and around the town wished to meet Lord Edgecombe and pronounce their verdicts upon him. Lord Trevor, who preferred not to leave the comforts of his home unless it was unavoidable, was the exception, remaining at Rosemont and leaving Lady Manning and his daughter to the care and escort of Lord Woodforde.

Catherine had dressed with particular care for the assembly, knowing the first impression she made upon the marquess would be the most important and lasting. She had chosen one of her new gowns, a pale peach silk that billowed, shimmering, over several petticoats, for although the master of the rooms no longer required wearing hoops, he did require that skirts be exceedingly full and had been known to refuse admittance to those ladies whose skirts did not meet his approval. Fine ivory lace fell over Catherine’s hands from the three-quarter sleeves and more spilled over her light-fitting bodice. A light sprinkling of powder dusted her hair, and Catherine’s favorite fan hung at her wrist, completing the look of stylish elegance. Surely the marquess must take notice her, Catherine thought as they entered the assembly hall.

As Catherine and Lady Manning searched for three empty chairs, Catherine’s eyes scanned the crowded rooms for the Ellsworths, hoping she would be noticed and presented to the marquess before the dancing began. She did not see Lord and Lady Ellsworth, but as Catherine moved slowly through the crowded room toward the opposite wall, she spied young Mr. Ellsworth coming toward her party and gave an inward groan. Why did Mr. Ellsworth persist in his attentions to her when she gave him no encouragement? Being seen with a macaroni such as Mr. Ellsworth would not enhance her own reputation! As usual, the young gentleman was dressed in the exaggerated Italian fashion with rouged cheeks, ornate waistcoat, and brightly-colored silk coat and knee breeches. He sported an elaborately-tied cravat around his neck rather than the simpler stock favoured by most gentlemen, and carried a large ornately-decorated fan. Large bows topped with paste diamonds adorned his shoe buckles.

“Demme if it an’t Woodforde,” the exquisite gentleman drawled, coming up to Catherine’s party and making an elegant bow. “Lud! How is it you always have the luck of escorting the most attractive ladies, Woodforde? Lady Manning, Miss Trevor, I am enchanted to see you in such health and looks this evening.”

“You are most gracious, Mr. Ellsworth,” Lady Manning replied.

“You are looking especially fine this evening, Miss Trevor,” Lord Ellsworth added, giving Catherine a searching look that took in every detail of her dress.

“Thank you, Mr. Ellsworth,” Catherine replied, not certain if the compliment from the young macaroni boded well for her appearance or not. “You are in exceptional looks yourself this evening.”

The young man preened at her comment, taking it for admiration. “But come, you must meet our guest,” he added, taking Lady Manning’s arm and leading them through the crowd to where his father, sisters, and the marquess stood in the center of a large group of people.

“Lord Edgecombe, may I present our neighbors Lord Woodforde of Woodforde Park, and Lady Manning and Miss Trevor of Rosemont.”

Catherine made her most graceful curtsey. As the marquess spoke of his pleasure in the introductions, Catherine was relieved to see that Lord Edgecombe had observed the rules of precedence in his choice of partner for the evening; his companion was Lord Ellsworth’s eldest daughter, Miss Ellsworth, and not the younger Miss Louisa Ellsworth. Miss Ellsworth had long indicated that she had no desire to marry after the death of her betrothed in the fighting during the revolt, and Catherine did not fear her competition for the marquess’ favours as she did that of Miss Ellsworth’s younger sister, Louisa.

“Miss Trevor,” the marquess addressed Catherine after making his compliments to Lady Manning, “I see by your headdress you will be dancing the minuet. It is of all dances the most elegant. I am convinced you perform it with great finesse, and I shall look forward to observing you this evening.”

Catherine’s euphoria vanished. Although she was skilled in the country dances, her competence at the minuet was only tolerable, just enough to get her through the steps, and she certainly lacked the elegance and assurance of those who performed the minuet in the most admired style.

“Thank you Lord Edgecombe,” she replied, unwilling to confess her lack of skill to the marquess when he had just told her of his admiration for a well-danced minuet. “I had indeed intended to dance, but I had the misfortune to turn my ankle while alighting from our carriage and will be unable to this evening,” she finished mendaciously, knowing she was condemning both herself and Lord Woodforde—as her partner—to an evening on the sidelines.

“Ah, I am sorry to hear of your mishap, Miss Trevor,” the marquess said sympathetically as he took an elegant snuffbox from his pocket and flicked it open with one hand while he took a pinch with the other. “But you may still enjoy the card rooms. Card playing is second only to dancing as an evening’s amusement, do you not find it so, Miss Trevor? I am a devotee of whist myself. One has so many opportunities to apply scientific principles to one’s play.”

Catherine’s mind raced. In truth she was as lackluster a card player as she was a minuet performer. She had never had the patience to learn the niceties of whist such as when to lead with small cards or when to allow one’s partner the opportunity of taking the first trick. Her mind raced through the other card games, trying to think of one she could claim competence in with some measure of truth.

“I am a devotee of vingt-un myself, Lord Edgecombe,” she essayed, uncomfortably aware of the rise of Miss Ellsworth’s eyebrows as she made the claim, and Catherine doubted Miss Ellsworth had forgotten her protest at Lord Woodforde’s dinner only days ago that she knew no card games well. “I find the subtleties of such a deceptively simple game most intriguing.”

Lord Edgecombe’s brown eyes gleamed with interest. “I am in most hearty agreement, Miss Trevor. It is not every player who appreciates those subtleties. I shall look forward to an opportunity of pitting my skill against yours.”

Fortunately for Catherine’s composure, other guests waiting to be introduced to the marquess demanded Lord Ellsworth’s attention, and as Lord Edgecombe attended to an introduction, the two parties separated.

“I know you are anxious to play vingt-un, Miss Trevor, but please allow me to settle Lady Manning before we repair to the card room,” Lord Woodforde said in an undertone to Catherine as they made their way to the plain wooden chairs lining the walls of the assembly ballroom.

“That is not necessary,” Catherine replied. “I shall sit with my aunt and watch the others dance.”

“My apologies,” Woodforde replied, his countenance bland. “I had forgotten your ankle. Allow me to make haste and find you a seat as I am certain it is painful for you to stand. It has been most intrepid of you to make the effort to walk without a limp.”

“One must make sacrifices for one’s companions,” Catherine contented herself with responding as Lord Woodforde found empty chairs and settled his charges into them. “I would not draw attention to my discomfort.”

“Catherine!” Lady Manning admonished niece in low tones, “fibbing has not heretofore been one of your failings; I am ashamed of you!”

Catherine’s cheeks flushed delicately as Lord Woodforde added to the dressing-down.

“Your excuse was successful this evening, Miss Trevor, but what will you do the next assembly? You cannot claim a turned ankle at every ball for the next two or three months.”

“No. The next one I shall dance the minuet, and well,” Catherine responded as she settled onto the chair and gracefully spread her skirts. “You will teach me.”

“Catherine! Lord Woodforde is not a dancing master!” Lady Manning reproved her niece, her sharp hearing catching the words from her position on Catherine’s other side. She unfurled her fan to hide her frown at her niece from passers-by. “Do not impose so upon Lord Woodforde’s good nature and friendship.”

“You will instruct me, will you not, Lord Woodforde?” Catherine pleaded, disregarding her aunt’s chastisement. “You and Lady Woodforde were admired everywhere for the perfection of your minuet. You must teach me; for I must gain Lord Edgecombe’s interest and it is evident he admires the minuet. If only he were an admirer of country dances I might pass by my own skills, but I have never had the patience to learn the minuet well. You did promise to aid me in engaging Lord Edgecombe’s interest.”

Lord Woodforde looked at Catherine with an enigmatic expression. “I believe I engaged to pass along any information I heard about the marquess, not to act as your tutor and aid you in attaching Lord Edgecombe’s interest,” he corrected.

“But you will, nonetheless, will you not?” Catherine pleaded again. Lord Woodforde made no immediate response, and as the moments passed Catherine began to despair of his agreement.

“I suppose you also wish to learn the intricacies of vingt-un?” Woodforde enquired in resigned tones when Catherine’s suspense had reached an almost unbearable pitch.

Relief flooded through Catherine. “You do play, do you not?”

“Yes. Very well, I shall do as you wish. But only if you engage to meet my requirements,” Lord Woodforde qualified with a severe look.

“Of course I shall, what are they?” Catherine asked, ready to promise anything.

“The ball at Ellsworth Hall is only a sen’night away. You have one week in which to learn the niceties of a dance it usually takes six months to master. You will be at Woodforde Park every day for the next six days promptly at eleven, prepared for three hours instruction. Should you fail to attend to me properly, or fail to appear on even one of those days, I shall consider myself released from any obligation.”

“I accept,” Catherine agreed, her heart feeling light once again at the promise of Lord Woodforde’s tutelage in the minuet and vingt-un. With skill in a dance and a game Lord Edgecombe admired, she would soon be in a position to attract his notice!

Catherine arrived at Woodforde Park on her horse, Damask, a good half-hour early for her first lessons the next day, carrying her shoes in a cloth bag. A groom helped her down from her sidesaddle and Catherine ascended the wide steps leading to the entrance hall of Woodforde Park. A footman opened the doors and ushered her to the large drawing room where Lord Woodforde and his housekeeper, Mrs. Andrews, waited. The smaller drawing room carpet had already been rolled up and put to the side, and immediately upon Catherine’s entrance the housekeeper rose and walked to the harpsichord, seating herself before the keyboard of the instrument with assurance.

“Andrews has consented to be taken away from her usual duties and play for us during the lessons,” Woodforde elucidated.

Catherine nodded to the housekeeper. She had not thought of their need for music. “Thank you, Andrews,” she said aloud, wanting the housekeeper to know she appreciated that playing music was a favor outside her usual duties.

“First I shall wish to see you execute the basic steps,” Lord Woodforde said as Catherine sat down and exchanged her riding boots for her curved-heel evening slippers. “Andrews will play and you will go through the steps without a partner. We shall not concern ourselves with the beginning honours at this point.”

Woodforde nodded to Mrs. Andrews and she began playing a minuet by Handel. Nervously, Catherine pliéd on her left foot, rose to her toes on the right foot, then straightened both legs, heels together. She walked forward several steps, concentrating on taking two steps to each measure of the three-quarter time, sank into a plié again, and started the sequence over, trying to imagine a partner as she moved her hands and arms while executing the steps and turns. The skirts of her riding habit, although full, did not help her execution of the steps, and Catherine felt quite sure she would receive no compliments on her performance.

Woodforde stood at the side of the room, arms folded, frowning in concentration as he watched for several minutes. Finally he clapped. “Enough.” Andrews stopped playing and Catherine stood waiting for his verdict.

“It is as I recalled,” Woodforde stated. “You have an adequate knowledge of the steps themselves and their proper sequence, but you are not refined in their execution. Your heels are not close enough together, you do not glide on the balls of your feet, but step, and your arm movements are generally lacking in elegance and grace.

“Observe me and then repeat the steps as I do them,” he ordered, joining Catherine on the floor. “Andrews, commence playing and continue even should we stop dancing and speak, until I tell you to cease.”

Woodforde, who was wearing dress knee breeches and stockings, his feet in encased in black pumps, performed the steps and Catherine attempted to copy them. “Heels together, Miss Trevor! Together! Arms so,” he commanded, demon-strating the proper stance once again. “Do not allow your arms to sag from the shoulder. Hold your arm in a half-circle. You must control your movements, Miss Trevor. Control, that is the key to the minuet.”

Catherine essayed the steps once again, only to earn more criticism. Increasingly frustrated, Catherine repeated and repeated the steps and arm movements until her knees and toes ached and her arms began to shake from the effort of holding them up for such a sustained length of time.

“Lord Woodforde, might I not rest a moment?” she pleaded after an hour had passed. “In truth I believe I must rest a moment or I shall collapse upon your drawing room floor.”

Woodforde scrutinized Catherine and motioned for Andrews to stop playing.

“Faith! You are a hard taskmaster,” Catherine began to complain, but caught herself. “And that is just what I require for improvement,” she added, darting a quick look at the marquess, fearing to lose Woodforde’s instruction should she complain about the effort that was required.

“We shall take a half-hour for cards and then begin again,” Lord Woodforde informed his pupil. “Andrews, you may leave for the half-hour, and then return.”

Mrs. Andrews quit the room as Lord Woodforde pulled a Pembroke table from the wall, folding out the top, while Catherine rubbed her aching arms.

“Miss Trevor,” Woodforde said, moving a chair to the table and holding it out for her. Catherine sank into the chair with a sigh.

Pointedly ignoring her sigh, Lord Woodforde took a deck of cards from the table drawer. “As you know, the essentials of vingt-un are simple. I am quite certain that is why you chose the game,” he said with a sidelong glance at Catherine, “but we shall need to practice, nevertheless. I suspect Edgecombe plays high, and you should understand the odds of certain hands.”

After a half-hour of play in which Woodforde instructed Catherine in various strategies for increasing her chances of winning more hands than she lost, Mrs. Andrews returned to the drawing room. Woodforde replaced the cards in the drawer and rose. Stifling another sigh, Catherine stood and once again practiced the steps of the minuet as the marquess drilled Catherine in their proper execution. At last, when the mantel clock chimed two, he stopped. “That is enough for today, Miss Trevor. I am sure Lord Trevor will expect you home for dinner by three. Andrews, you may reassume your usual duties.”

Catherine slumped onto a chair in weariness, not certain she would be able to exert the physical effort necessary to ride home. She kicked off her slippers and rubbed her aching feet.

“Miss Trevor,” Woodforde said with his first smile of the day, “surely you cannot be tired? I had hoped you might exert yourself to accompany me to the conservatory before you departed. I should like to give you a peach or two to take home for your hare.”

“Thank you, Lord Woodforde, I believe I may be able to walk that far,” Catherine acknowledged as she exchanged her slippers for her riding boots.

The two friends walked slowly to the conservatory, Lord Woodforde no longer the stern taskmaster. Once inside, the marquess selected three peaches from a small container-grown tree, and presented Catherine with two to take home for her hare. As she placed them in the cloth bag with her shoes, Woodforde peeled the third peach of its thick fuzzy skin, and offered it to Catherine.

“This should refresh you after your exertions,” he said with a smile.

“Thank you, Lord Woodforde,” Catherine said, taking the peach and biting into the firm but juicy flesh, relishing its sweetness.

“Does the prize bid to be worth the trouble, Miss Trevor?” Woodforde asked with a quizzical expression as Catherine ate the juicy peach with relish, pulling the last bits of peach flesh from the pit with her teeth.

“That remains to be seen,” Catherine admitted, finishing the peach and licking the juice from her fingers. “You must confess that Lord Edgecombe is neither fat nor gross of manner. Nevertheless, I confess I might be inclined to answer ‘no’ after the rigour of your lessons today, Lord Woodforde, but I shall persevere all the same. You shall not frighten me off that easily. I expect a bit of rest and lavender water will help restore me once I return home. You will see me again on the morrow, never fear.”

“I expected no less of you,” Woodforde replied with an enigmatic expression on his countenance as he watched Catherine lick the last of the juice from her fingertips. “I have long observed of your character that you persevere in your goals.”

“Is that not generally considered a virtue?” Catherine asked as they walked slowly back toward the entrance hall, sensing disapproval in her friend’s mien and curious as to its source.

“It is if one’s goal is worthwhile, Miss Trevor. Have you read any of Sterne’s The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman?”

“Yes, I have,” Catherine replied, wondering at the apparent non sequitur. “Although the story was a bit difficult to follow at times, and I confess I did not enjoy the earlier volumes as much as I did the later ones. But I found Uncle Toby a most engaging character.”

“Then you might recall the words, ‘Tis known by the name of perseverance in a good cause—and of obstinacy in a bad one,’” Lord Woodforde quoted as they reached the entrance hall. “Until tomorrow, Miss Trevor,” he said as the footman opened the door for her departure.

 

“You are late rising,” Lady Manning commented to her niece the next morning when Catherine entered the small drawing room an hour later than her custom.

“You are fortunate to see me at all,” Catherine replied with a rueful look. “Woodforde seemed to delight in being as stern a taskmaster as he could yesterday. But I shall not allow that to prevent my tutelage.”

“I would not expect that it would, given your stubborn temperament,” Lady Manning responded rather tartly. “I take it you have looked after your hare already? How is he doing this morning?”

“Quite well,” Catherine reported. “I can see he enjoys dining upon the grasses and vegetable tops in the garden, but he still took a few oats and fruit from me this morning. He has become much friendlier since I moved him to the walled garden, although he still will not allow me to touch him.”

“Miss Louisa Ellsworth,” James announced, opening the drawing room doors.

Catherine smothered a sigh at footman’s announcement, but forced herself to rise and receive her visitor graciously.

Louisa, wearing a riding habit in the new style based on a man’s dress—bodice made in the fashion of a coat over a waistcoat, the skirt full but untrimmed—swept into room with her accustomed assurance.

“Are you ill, Miss Trevor?” Louisa asked after she had greeted Lady Manning. “You are looking very fagged this morning. Your ankle must still be paining you.”

“I am well enough, thank you for your concern. You are about early this morning,” Catherine commented, for Louisa rarely called before ten.

“Lord Edgecombe is out trying the hounds with my father and brother,” Louisa informed Catherine, “so I thought I would call on you. I wished to see if you had recovered from your turned ankle. They can be so painful. I do hope you will be able to dance by our ball this Friday. We shall be following the French fashion and allowing changes of partners. It is even possible,” she added, made generous by Catherine’s tired appearance, “that Lord Edgecombe might solicit your hand for a dance.”

“My ankle is much better, thank you Louisa, so I shall be able to attend,” Catherine assured her neighbor, glad Louisa’s desire to have her own opportunity to dance with the marquess instead of always giving way to her elder sister had impelled her to coax her father to allow the new French custom of changing partners.

“Do you still plan to hold a dinner here at Rosemont for the marquess?” Louisa asked as she took a chair.

“Yes, Papa has agreed,” Catherine assured her neighbor. “We thought perhaps the end of August or the first part of September would be best. Some of our roses should be in bloom then, although the best blooms will be past.”

“The end of August would be delightful,” Louisa answered. “Now I have some particular news to share with you and Lady Manning: we are planning to have a masquerade at Ellsworth Hall. You will recall I mentioned my hopes to you earlier, and I am pleased to inform you that Papa has agreed. It is to be set for mid-September. We wish to give those who plan to attend time to have costumes prepared.”

“That is indeed delightful news,” Catherine said honestly. “It has been two years since a masquerade has been held in the vicinity of Moreton; other than the Twelfth Night masques at the end of Christmas, that is, and they are not the same at all. I shall look forward to it.”

Louisa left soon after, leaving Catherine in high spirits. “Think of it, Aunt Manning, a masquerade! I must have many opportunities for promoting my interest with the marquess at a masquerade! ”

“No doubt,” Lady Manning commented, “since even the most prudent tend to leave their common sense at the door at a masquerade. The anonymity of the mask is perhaps too freeing. But do not imagine you shall be free of my chaperonage.”

“Of course not,” Catherine agreed, quietly imagining several ways in which she might escape her aunt’s scrutiny at a crowded masquerade.

The bracket clock chimed the half-hour and Catherine remembered she had yet to write two letters that morning and had barely a half-hour to compose them before she must leave for Woodforde Park. Fearing to be late, she hurried to her escritoire.

 

The remainder of that week Catherine never failed to be at Woodforde Park promptly at eleven for her instruction, remaining for the full three hours. Little by little, she felt she was finally improving in her performance of the minuet. On her last day Woodforde drilled Catherine in the honours of the dance, taking her through the bows, curtseys and stylized gestures that comprised the graceful sequence of movements that was completed before the dance itself actually began. “Perform the honours with graciousness and pride, Miss Trevor, as well as elegance and assurance,” Lord Woodforde exhorted Catherine.

When at last Lord Woodforde allowed Catherine to put everything together and go through an entire dance with him as her partner it was an awakening for Catherine. The minuet, which she had once viewed as tedious compared to the more lively country dances, she now discovered was exceedingly gracious. And with her new understanding of the finer points of the dance, she was fully able to appreciate the perfection of her partner’s steps and the elegant figure he made, so tall and erect, his well-formed legs outlined by close-fitting knee breeches and stockings, his movements controlled and graceful as they gave each other their hands; first the right, then the left, and finally both, keeping their hands together as they danced sideways and then opened out to their imaginary audience at the end.

Flushed and happy, Catherine smiled at her instructor. “How did I do, Lord Woodforde?”

“Tolerable, Miss Trevor, tolerable,” Woodforde replied with a smile that belied the faint praise. “Shall you dance the minuet at the Ellsworth’s ball tomorrow? Do you feel you are ready for a public performance?”

“Only if you partner me,” Catherine qualified her answer. “I am not certain how well I should fare with another partner. I would much prefer to dance with you and be admired at a distance by Lord Edgecombe than risk dancing with Lord Edgecombe himself and forget all my lessons in agitation at his closeness.”

“Does his close proximity create such agitation in your bosom?” Woodforde asked quietly.

“Yes,” Catherine admitted. “I have so very much at stake.”

“It shall be my honour to partner you for the minuet at Ellsworth Hall ,” Woodforde accepted with a graceful bow. “Until tomorrow evening.”