10

I’m very glad you put me down for a waltz,” Rhys said as he took Margaret’s gloved hand in his own, placing his other hand on her waist. “Other dances you have to move apart and come back together—it’s very difficult to hold a conversation. I’d much prefer to talk with you.”

The feel of her hand in his was very different on a ballroom floor than it was the night before in Ned’s study. Previously, where they had found their hands clasped out of solace, now they were clasped in anticipation of a three-count musical rhythm and being jostled by a crowd. One could almost call it ordinary.

But that same zing of feeling spread from where they touched across his skin, making him far too aware for a friendly dance. Thank God the music started as soon as they took their positions, nudging his mind away from his hands and toward his feet.

“Oh,” Margaret replied, her expression blank. “That’s not why I chose this dance.”

“Then why?” he asked, his brow coming down.

“Because I’ll be hanged if I can remember the steps to the quadrille.”

Rhys threw his head back in laughter.

“You are the third person I’ve made laugh today,” she said, her eyes shining with mirth. “I must be quite amusing.”

“You are—I don’t mean that in a cruel way. I don’t laugh at you.”

“I know you don’t,” she replied.

“Did someone else?” he asked. His hand tightened involuntarily against the small of her back.

“No,” she replied. “But I am forever expecting them to.”

He considered that. He knew the way she felt, could see the way her eyes darted back and forth across the crowd, looking at no one and everyone. It was the way she had looked when he’d come across her slipping back into the ballroom from the refreshment tables. She’d seemed so skittish, so unsure, and then she saw him.

“I was looking for you,” she had said, a transformative smile spreading across her face.

She had been utterly relieved to see him. And somehow, that feeling transferred to his chest, and he was relieved too.

“I was looking for you as well. Are you ready to dance?”

And so they were.

He felt his muscles relax, just being able to finally have five minutes without having to worry about his family, Miss Morton, or indeed anything else. He felt for the first time that evening his mind engaging, knowing he was about to have a really good conversation. Even before she said a single word.

How very strange.

“I would rather have you defying those expectations, Miss Babcock,” he said, taking her through a turn.

She shook her head. “I will do my best.”

“Come now, the party isn’t so bad,” he said, trying to cajole her into smiling again. “Mrs. Davenport certainly pulls out all the stops.”

“I suppose so,” she replied. Her brow furrowed.

“What is it?”

“It’s strange,” she said, smiling. “I feel like this is something I would describe in one of my letters to you. Telling it to you in person feels very odd.”

“On the contrary—it makes perfect sense. Seeing your face is different from seeing your handwriting. We cannot think out what we are going to say and perfect it. We have to take each other at face value . . . mistakes and misused words and all.” He watched her closely. “What would you say, if you were writing me a letter?”

She cocked her head to one side. “I suppose I would say . . . Dear Rhys. Thank you for your last letter. I am very gratified to know that Sir Kingsley at the Horticultural Society is willing to view my roses. I am eager to discover what day precisely we will meet.”

“My apologies,” he interrupted. “I have traded messages with Sir Kingsley. I’m certain I will know by tomorrow the day.”

“Excuse me,” she said, a mocking look on her face. “But I’m in the middle of a letter.”

“I apologize again,” he said. “Please, proceed.”

She cleared her throat. “In the meantime, I have seen Vauxhall, and was particularly impressed with their dark walks”—he managed to smother his smile at that—“and have attended my very first London ball. Which was . . . perfectly fine.”

“Only ‘fine’?” he asked. “And before you chide me for interrupting, if I were to reply to your letter, I would ask for further explanation.”

“If you must know . . . I find it rather hot. And noisy.”

“God, yes, it is,” he agreed. “How do people think in all this cacophony?”

“I’m convinced they don’t,” she replied. “And I managed to embarrass myself with the hostess, by pointing out the drooping peonies.”

He held back a chuckle. “She’s likely forgotten it by now, if it’s any consolation.”

“That’s what Phoebe promised me.” She sighed. “But other than that . . . it’s exactly what I pictured a London ball to be, and therefore it’s fairly uninteresting.”

“That is an interesting observation. What do you mean by it?”

“Just that . . . there’s music and dancing and food and people, and all of it seems terribly rote. Not a surprise to be had.”

“And since it matches your imagination, that makes it ordinary?”

She nodded.

“And does ordinary equate with unpleasant?” he asked.

“No, of course not. At least, dancing with you is not unpleasant. Although for all my missteps, I doubt you could say the same.”

But he could. For whole minutes he’d forgotten about the rest of the world, which let him see the ball through Margaret’s eyes—or rather, through her letter. And they were dancing quite well, come to think of it. She fit in his arms like she was made to, and every one of their steps was in sync. Her stride matched his, he didn’t have to shorten or mince his steps or be afraid that she was going to be lifted off her feet by his pace. He didn’t even have to worry about dancing badly, because he knew he was with a partner who would forgive him for it.

There was no difficulty being with Margaret. No pressure. It was just . . . exactly where he wanted to be.

And it was that stunning realization that made him trip over his feet.

“Are you all right?” she asked as he recovered his steps and found the rhythm of the music again. Luckily, the music was in its final strains, and he managed to hide his faux pas.

“Yes, my apologies,” he murmured, blushing as they came to a stop. “I seem to be doing that a lot tonight.”

“Tripping? Not so I’d notice.”

“No—apologizing.”

She smirked as she took his proffered arm. “Luckily you can just blame it on me; no one will know the difference.”

He slowed, growing serious. “You have to stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” she asked.

“Deprecating yourself. You’ve danced sublimely. You look beautiful tonight, and there is no one I’d rather be with. I refuse to let you pretend otherwise.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes, darkened in the candlelight. “Well,” she said softly. “I guess there is something at this ball that is out of the ordinary.”

It absolutely took his breath away.

And . . . that was not something he could allow himself.

“Yes . . .” he said, putting another inch or two of space between them. Cold, unwanted space. “Let’s see . . . what else is out of the ordinary at the ball, do you think?”

She looked around the room, searching for something exemplary. Finally she looked up and smiled.

“The chandelier,” she said definitively. He looked up—the large circular chandelier shone with hundreds of candles, crystal sparkling and polished brass shining.

“I have never seen a chandelier of that size,” she said. “And how do they keep the wax from dripping on all of us?”

“It’s a scientific mystery,” he replied, following her gaze. “What else?”

She reflected. “I saw a man wearing purple satin knee breeches while I was getting my lemon tart.”

“I didn’t even know they still made purple satin knee breeches.”

“He—and they—looked quite old.”

“Perhaps he’s trying to bring them back into fashion,” Rhys replied. “And how were the lemon tarts?”

She grew serious. “They were . . . educational,” she replied softly.

The feeling of ease he’d been enjoying slid away. Replaced by the cool recollection of what had brought him to the Davenport ballroom in the first place. He moved them off to the side of the room, found a close corner where they could whisper in confidence.

“I assume you have an opinion of Miss Morton too?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light. “Everyone else does.”

“I do.” She nodded once.

“Well?” he asked. “Don’t keep me in suspense, I beg you.”

“I think that you’re not the only one stuck in an awkward situation.”

Shame. Complete and utter shame wracked his body. Usually, he was the one to listen and carefully consider as many sides of the story as possible—after all, that was the only way to get a correct diagnosis. But when he had been faced with his own difficult situation, he couldn’t see beyond his own nose.

He’d never considered Miss Morton’s feelings on the matter. That she might be having as hard a time adjusting as he. Instead, he’d assumed she’d been as happy with the arrangement as their families seemed to be. And it was only with Margaret’s wide eyes watching him, and her wise words penetrating his brain, that he’d seen it.

“I’ve been a horse’s ass, haven’t I?” he murmured.

“Not at all,” she replied. “You’ve just been a little blindsided.”

Blindsided. Yes. But now he felt like he was having his eyes opened to many things.

Like how their waltz, and the silliness of her “letter,” had been the only time that Rhys had felt like himself. Not just himself, but his best self.

Like how he had just noticed that Margaret had the most perfectly formed lips of any human he had ever seen. Symmetrical, with a full lower lip and a pillow upper, that dipped sharply in the middle, a divot shaped exactly for the soft trace of a lover’s fingertip.

Like how this was the world’s most inopportune time to be thinking this way.

Hell, wasn’t it only last night that he’d told her that she should not have any expectations of him during her visit? And she absolutely shouldn’t.

If only he could remember that.

“Margaret,” he began, struggling to keep from drowning in those eyes. “I . . . I want you to know that—”

“Rhys, my love! Thank goodness! There you are!”

The bubble around them broke, and his mother stomped on the shards as she pounced on them.

“I need your help! It’s an absolute emergency.”

“What is it? What is wrong?” he said immediately.

“I . . . oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” his mother said breathlessly as her eyes fell on Margaret.

“Mother, my friend Miss Babcock. Margaret, this is Lady Gray.” Rhys was quick about the introductions because for once, his mother did not seem as if she were being dramatic. Well, she was always dramatic, but this time, it seemed like she had come by it honestly.

“Miss Babcock? Oh, well—I’m very pleased to meet you; my son has spoken of you highly,” she said, her manners at war with her mannerisms. She eyed her son carefully.

“Mother . . .” Rhys said.

“It’s your brother. Daniel,” she said, snapping back to what had sent her running their way in the first place. “He’s gone!”

“Gone?” Rhys asked. “You mean he’s left the party?”

“Yes,” his mother sobbed.

“Why is that cause for such alarm?” Rhys asked. After all, Daniel was a young man who’d been given free rein most of his life, and he had no pressing reason to stay. “Did he take the carriage?”

“No—he left with Haverford!” she wailed, bringing the attention of others nearby.

Rhys glanced to Margaret, who shook her head briefly in equal confusion.

“What does that signify?” Rhys asked. “Haverford is Daniel’s friend. They’ve been in each other’s pockets all week.”

“Well, isn’t that perfect?” His mother laughed hysterically. “My poor baby might as well be headed for the gallows!”

She was so distraught, and sobbing so loudly, that everyone around them stopped what they were doing. Rhys was flummoxed, when Margaret took control of the situation.

“Lady Gray, come sit down,” she said. Her plain, firm tone and her general towering over his mother made her someone who could not be contradicted.

She wept into her handkerchief, but let herself be led to the chairs by the wall. Luckily, Margaret knew where she was going, and headed directly for a pair of open chairs right where Phoebe was sitting with Ned, who was watching them approach with concern.

“Rhys?” he asked. “Lady Gray? What is wrong?”

“Daniel’s gone missing,” Rhys said through gritted teeth.

“He ran off with Haverford!” his mother managed through sobs.

“Haverford?” Ned said, then sucked in his breath.

“Who is this Haverford?” Margaret asked.

“He’s Daniel’s friend from school.” Rhys blinked in surprise.

“He’s also completely ransacked,” Ned replied.

“It’s been all over the society pages,” Phoebe supplied. “The Haverfords lost their fortune in a land swindle, and the youngest son is suspected of trying to pay his bills by imposing on his friends.”

Rhys’s pulse went up. “Let me guess . . . by getting said friends drunk and then playing faro?”

Ned nodded. “Lord knows how he even got into the Davenport Ball—someone probably snuck him in.”

Rhys’s vision darkened. He wouldn’t be surprised if that someone was Daniel.

“We’ll find him, Mother,” Rhys said, meeting Ned’s eye, who nodded. “Do not worry. We’ll start at the regular clubs and go on from there.”

He turned to Margaret. “We’ll be fine,” she assured before he could open his mouth to say . . . something.

“Yes,” Phoebe replied. “You take the carriage. I’m sure Lady Gray can accommodate us.”

Rhys glanced at his mother. She had overcome her hysterics enough to transfer her weight from Margaret’s arm to Phoebe’s. Even in times of crisis, the woman always knew how to play it to best advantage. “Yes, of . . . of course, Lady Ashby,” she said, dabbing at her drying eyes. “Oh, but you must bid farewell to the Mortons! It would not do to just have you leaving and asking questions.”

“Mother, time is of the essence—”

“I’ll do it,” Margaret piped up. Every eye turned to her. “I can make your good-byes to Miss Morton. I assume we all will be leaving the ball shortly, in any case.”

Phoebe nodded. Rhys felt a pang of regret at taking Margaret away from her first London party, but it was obvious that even though the festivities would go on long into the night, there was little chance they would be able to enjoy them any longer.

“Thank you.” He took a risk and reached out and squeezed Margaret’s hand. He held it, and her gaze, for as long as he dared.

Why didn’t you kiss her?

Then he let go.

“Come on, Ned,” he said, marching toward the door, “let’s go find my idiot of a brother.”

IT ONLY TOOK a few minutes for Margaret to find Sylvia in the crowd. She was standing with her father, who beamed heartily and reached out to shake Margaret’s hand the moment he saw her.

“Wonderful! Wonderful!” he said, pumping her arm as if it were a well. “I understand that you and my Sylvie are becoming good friends! A better partnership I cannot think of! A good strong mind like you can only keep her out of trouble, eh?”

“Father,” Sylvia chided with a laugh. “Give us a moment, would you? We have ‘good friend’ things to discuss.”

She pulled Margaret away into the crowd. “I’m so glad you’re back! Do you remember those two gentlemen we eyed? The ones in that corner over there?”

“Yes,” Margaret replied, her stomach dropping to her knees. “You didn’t talk to them, did you?”

“No, of course not!” she cried. “We have not been introduced, so I very well could not speak with them—at least not without an excuse, which I couldn’t think of. But I did stand very near them, and I know that they noticed me.”

“Oh,” Margaret said, more than a little confused. “That’s . . . good?”

“Yes,” Sylvia said. “So, my idea is that if you and I both stand right here, they will notice both of us. Come, let us laugh as if we just heard the funniest joke.” When Margaret did nothing, Sylvia’s face fell. “It’s just for fun. There’s no harm in a little conversation, and really, we’re doing this for you, not me.” She leaned in close and waggled her eyebrow. “The one on the left is the absolute perfect height for you.”

Margaret shook her head, not entirely sure where to start. But before she got drawn into laughing at some unheard joke, she remembered her purpose and guided Sylvia behind a potted palm. “Actually, I’m terribly sorry, but I am here to bid you good night.”

“Good night?” Sylvia repeated. “You’re leaving already?”

“I’m afraid so. And I have been asked to convey Dr. Gray’s regrets—he’s had a family matter arise and—”

As Sylvia’s face fell into a little pout, she reached out to take Margaret’s arm. And Margaret was certain the perfect expression of lost opportunity was about to come out of the girl’s mouth . . . if only they hadn’t been positioned close to a certain corner, where two young gentlemen were conversing, while they were concealed behind a particularly leafy palm.

“. . . where’d that girl go? The little minx who was eyeing us over her fan?” one said in a bored drawl.

“I saw her talking with that beanstalk we saw her with earlier, then they disappeared,” the other answered. “Don’t bother with that one,” he continued. “She might be lovely, but her father’s a merchant.”

Margaret glanced down at Sylvia. Her lips were pursed, but other than that, she seemed bored by what they were hearing. As if it could not faze her.

The other gentleman paused to consider. “There’s money in the merchant class.”

“I also hear she’s spoken for.”

“Ah . . .” Then, “What about the beanstalk?”

“Lord—now there’s a mess.” The gentleman chuckled, although his gentlemanly nature was being called into question by the second. “She’s a nobody from nowhere, with no polish—I had it from Mrs. Davenport herself that when she went through the receiving line she decided to pull the flowers out of a vase and claim them as her bouquet.”

“What an oddity,” was the reply. And Margaret felt her face flame. Everything around them had grown so silent. The only thing in the world was the conversation taking place on the other side of the palm, and their ears straining to hear it—however much Margaret might not wish to.

“That’s being kind. She’s with Lord Ashby—friends of friends or some such thing.”

“Ashby—is he the one who married the governess?”

“Hmm . . . and now he’s saddled with another mediocrity.”

“What’s her name? The mediocrity.”

“Ah . . . Babcock, I believe.”

“There’s a Sir Bartholomew Babcock, from the north, if I remember Debrett’s. Very large estate. One daughter.”

“You’re such a woman, memorizing Debrett’s. And if he only has one daughter, the estate is entailed away. She’s likely as much a pauper as she is a mediocrity.”

Margaret caught Sylvia’s eye again. Now, instead of looking bored, she looked utterly livid. The angry pink on her cheeks highlighted the dark flashing in her eyes. And the way her breast rose and fell with sharp breaths, she obviously could no longer keep their positions a secret.

“Now see here!” she said, storming around the palm fronds to confront their detractors. “How dare you say such horrendous things about my friend! I might be from merchant stock, but you are rude, and . . . and . . .”

“And wrong,” Margaret added.

“That’s right, Margaret.” Sylvia nodded hotly. “You are in no way a mediocrity!”

“Certainly not in size,” one of the gentlemen snickered.

“I meant about Mrs. Davenport’s flowers,” Margaret replied. “I did not go near them, simply mentioned they were overwatered. Also, you’re wrong about the entail.”

“The . . . entail?” the taller of the two gentlemen asked, the smirk of self-satisfaction falling from his face.

“Yes, my father’s estate is not entailed to the male line, but instead to any heir. Which, in this case, is me.” She cocked her head to one side, thinking. “So one day I’ll be the largest landowner in Lincolnshire, I suppose.”

Three sets of eyes blinked at her, the faces still with shock.

“Really, if you’re going to gossip about people”—she shrugged—“you should at least have all the facts.”

It was as if the entire room froze—or at least, a circle of five feet, with Margaret at its center. Then, one perfect peal of laughter broke through it all.

Sylvia was the one laughing. And she was laughing at the flustered looks of shock still covering the two men’s faces.

“For heaven’s sake,” Margaret muttered. “What did I say now?”