Page 36 of A Secret Correspondence
During the walk back up the High Street to the chandler, then to her own shop, Marguerite had a decided lightness in her step. Darkness lurked on the edges, crowded in uncertainty, but she no longer felt so alone.
The timing of Armand’s visit was too perfect not to at leastquestion him. If he was the man leaving her these notes, the one who had lurked outside of her window, and he had something planned for tonight, then she at least had a few friends aware that she was concerned.
Now she needed only to decide how to do her hair.
Chapter Thirteen
Samuel could not have been more grateful for the way Miss Farrow responded to him. He twirled her about the ballroom for the second time that evening, catching sight of his mother’s overjoyed expression in the crowd as they passed down the line of dancers.
“You are very graceful on your feet, Miss Farrow.”
“Thank you,” she said, dipping her chin modestly. Thus far, Lady Faversham’s ball had been a triumph. Samuel and Miss Farrow’s relationship was progressing at an entirely natural and rapid rate.
Three evenings prior, they had spent the entirety of the card night together, chatting on the sofa or partnering in whist. They had been drawn into a game of speculation, but he didn’t recall who won, for he had been busy trying to find a way to mention the letters. The conversation never seemed to bend that direction. Instead, Samuel continued to write to her throughout the week, leaving his notes in the kissing gate wall. To his delight, she continued to write back.
Now, she smiled at him with joy. Her deep burgundy satin was ruched at the hem, swinging prettily when she moved, andcomplimented her dark hair well. The instruments came to a stop as the song drew to a close. They bowed to one another and everyone turned toward the orchestra to applaud.
“I am parched,” Miss Farrow said, shifting so her shoulder brushed him.
“Shall I fetch you a glass of ratafia?”
“That would be splendid.”
Samuel offered his elbow, and she placed her white-gloved fingers gently around his arm, hardly touching him as he led her toward her mother. Once she was deposited with her chaperone, he left to retrieve the drinks. Halfway to the table of refreshments, Samuel stopped in his tracks.
Marguerite was here.
In a ballgown.
She stole his breath. She wore a simple pale blue dress that complemented her fair blonde hair. It was the exact shade of her icy blue eyes, and together they were striking. Her skin was clear and smooth, her lips and cheeks a pleasant hue of pink, her hair styled upon the crown of her head with curls left bouncing at her temples.
She smiled at something Ruth said, and her face lit up, glowing with humor.
Samuel had to catch his breath. Marguerite was stunning. The woman was incredibly beautiful, but in this setting, with the candles glowing on each wall and the chandeliers above them, she was radiant.
One of the Frenchmen who made up Lady Faversham’s visiting party approached Marguerite and handed her a cup, which she took graciously and brought to her lips. Samuel’s stomach tightened with…no, surely that was not jealousy.
Marguerite glanced over the rim of her cup. Her pale blue eyes landed on Samuel as though she had felt the weight of his gaze.
He formed a smile on his face. There was nothing for it now but to greet her.
“This is quite the party,” he said, sliding into the group between his cousin Ruth and Marguerite, dipping a bow to them all. “I vow I have not seen so great a crush in Hampshire in an age.”
“Good evening, Mr. Harding,” Marguerite said. “Have you had the pleasure of making Mr. Leclair’s acquaintance?”
“Briefly,” Samuel said, tipping his head. “You bring a good deal of excitement with you to our country.”
The Frenchman nodded in like. “My friends have brought the excitement. I fear I am along for the journey.”
“That is the position I would choose to be in,” Ruth said.
Oliver slid his arm around his wife’s waist. “I believe you promised me this dance.”
“So I did.” She smiled up at him, the stars in her eyes enough to make Samuel’s chest contract with envy. It was a good thing he loved them both so dearly. He shoved the image of his own wedding from his mind. Perhaps it would be sooner than he had believed possible.
Marguerite sipped her drink and looked away, her eyes skirting over the gathered crowd.
“May I have this dance, Madame Perreau?” Samuel couldn’t help himself.
