Page 11 of Marrying a Reluctant Lady
“Mm.”
He had managed to draw back, not persist in his babbling, and she gazed up at him, seeming confused, and he wondered again if he’d done the right thing, but she’d surely prefer mild disinterest to foolish driveling.
He drew a deep breath. His collar felt too tight, and he was sweating under his cravat. This was all too uncomfortable. He glanced around, wishing to escape. He had to dance with her. He’d said he would. And then he could run and hide in the drawing room upstairs for the rest of the evening. His aunt might spot that he wasn’t there, but she would have to accept it.
She knows how I felt about the ball.
He didn’t want to be here. He wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her insisting on it. He looked over to where Aunt was standing, but the crowd of people had become denser, and he could only spot her hair against the background of navy-blue and brown velvet coats and white and sapphire dresses.
He glanced down at Miss Worthington. She was a little shorter than him; short enough to have to tilt her head to look at him. She was looking at the crowd, her mouth turned down at the corner, and she looked sad.
She doesn’t want to be doing this either.
That was comforting. She was suffering, like he was. Perhaps she could forgive him for his foolery and just forget all the silly things he’d been saying for the minutes since he’d begun to talk with her.
“There are a lot of guests,” she murmured.
“Pardon?” he asked, surprised. He hadn’t expected her to speak. She didn’t seem to want to speak to him, after all. He’d been trying to make an effort but all he’d done was babble like a fool. “Oh. Guests. Yes. A lot.” He winced inwardly again. He was losing his words now. He straightened his back, standing stiffly. Being cross with himself didn’t make his temper any better.
A soft sound filtered across from the corner of the room, then it became louder and distinct. The musicians were tuning up again.
“The first dance.”
He said it instantly, without much thought, and she looked up at him, eyes big and scared. He felt his heart twist—he couldn’t blame her for being scared. He must seem like a surly, peculiar stranger. He stiffened, making his expression hard. She hadn’t liked him in the library, and she certainly hadn’t seemed to improve her opinion now. He might as well not pretend that she did or try to win her good opinion, since it was probably unachievable.
“Yes,” she murmured.
He said nothing. He walked with her to the spot where people had stepped back, clearing a dance floor in the center of the room. They stepped a few paces in, not too close to the edge. He heard the music start and he reached for her hand and felt his heart jump at the sudden contact. Her fingers were cool and felt very slim where he held them in his own. He looked down at her, but her face was blank, and he didn’t want to torture himself by trying to guess what she might be thinking. He put his other hand on her back just by the shoulder-blade. His heart thudded and he could barely breathe. It felt so wrong, so oddly intimate...she was a complete stranger.
Her body became utterly tense as he touched her shoulder. Her back stiffened and straightened; her spine rigid. The muslin of the gown she wore was cool under his touch, gauzy and cold. He felt tension spread through him. She clearly hated his touch, and he didn’t know what to do about it. He didn’t like the fact that they were being made to dance together, but it wasn’t his fault and, try as he had, he couldn’t make her like him.
He stepped forward, feet finding the steps as he heard the music settle into the pacing of the waltz. His memory took over and he no longer needed to think, just act. He’d learned to dance when he was eight, learning all the dances essential for a ball from a private tutor. The steps were written on his bones, it seemed, and he made them without effort.
She stepped with him, and it seemed she needed no more thinking than he did as they glided forward. It felt natural, and easy, to waltz together, and Owen let his body remember the steps without his guidance as they drifted around the floor, the music soft and lilting and gentle. His thoughts drifted, freed from their need to focus on what he was doing on the dance floor.
She’s just grand at this.
He had to appreciate her skill. She was graceful and had excellent timing. He stepped swiftly sideways to avoid colliding with another pair who were waltzing close to them, and then they were moving neatly onward again. She was graceful and elegant and perfectly in time with the music. She was at least as well-taught as he was, possibly better. He’d never seen someone as good.
The silence stretched. As they waltzed, they could hear people around them talking. Someone near them laughed, drifting past them.
“...And that was what I said to Mr. Hampstead when he read his sonnet at Lady Stowbridge’s salon.”
“Oh, how witty, Wallace. That was a fine reply,” the lady said admiringly.
Owen winced. There were amusing, clever things being discussed around them. He racked his brain, wishing he could think of something clever to say.
“Whoops!” Miss Worthington whispered, and he suddenly felt a stab of pain shoot up his leg. She’d stood on his toe. He flushed as a small sound of pain managed to escape. “Sorry! So sorry,” she murmured, her voice small and tight, aching with embarrassment.
“Nothing to apologise for,” he managed to say, though the sharp stab that had shot through his toe wasn’t abating. “It’s nothing. No need to mention it.”
They waltzed onward, but he could feel how tense she was, and he felt his own cheeks heat, both for having responded with a small yell when she stood on his foot and for the fact that he couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried, think of some clever comment to make.
They rounded the floor again, and the music was changing key, the rhythm slowing. He could sense a cadence coming and he felt her slow in the dance, too. Then the people aroundthem were clapping, applauding one another, and bowing and curtseying. Miss Worthington dropped a deep curtsey.
“Thank you, my lord,” she murmured.
“Thank you, Miss Worthington,” he said swiftly. He looked around awkwardly, but bowed low on reflex and she was smiling at him, a brittle smile with her eyes tense and almost frightened. He saw her glance sideways, wild-eyed with her need to run, and he wished again that he could think of something to say.
