Page 31 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
“I will,” he answered her. “I sincerely hope one young lady is willing.”
Mary rolled her eyes to the ceiling.
“She but needs encouragement, dear sir. And if you will excuse me, I have much to do to see that you dance quite often.”
“By all means,” He swept aside to allow her to pass. As he came back to face Mary, he spoke in that subdued tone rough as gravel. “You are stunning in that gown.”
She let out a laugh. “Am I blushing?”
“Burning, I would say.”
She put one hand to her cheek. “You’re right. I don’t know what one does to stop it.”
“One dances,” he crooned.
“And laughs.”
“And plays duets.”
“And hopes for many more of the same.” She put a hand to her cheek. “Oh, I am forward.”
“Be forward with me always.”
The orchestra struck forth. A tune of simple but dramatic chords meant for the opening of a grand ball. The music lifted her from her ordinary self and buoyed her up on wings of hope and sweet desire for him.
“I never thought I’d ever laugh with you again.” She couldn’t help herself. She cupped his cheek. “Let alone dance.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Dance with me now.”
In one sharp move, he put her from him. He stared at her, a new man, controlled but ardent. “Take my arm.” He jutted it out.
“At the moment, I don’t think it wise to touch you.”
He hooted in laughter and curled her arm in his, then steered her toward the center of the chalked floor. “Tonight we will do this.”
“If I embarrass you, we stop.”
“My darling girl, if one can scale walls one hundred feet high, if one can claim fortresses one hundred years old, or fell emperors upstart and new, then you can dance, and do it with me. One for the past. A second for tonight. And afterward, you will tell me if you will dance with me for all our tomorrows.”
Chapter 9
He’d not intended to declare himself so quickly to Mary. He was running ahead, thinking with his errant body not his head. All afternoon, he’d mulled his conversation with Millicent Weaver who blamed herself for the split between herself and his friend, Langdon. Millicent regretted she’d asked Mary to interfere. More importantly, she cared for Langdon. She’d tried to contact him, perhaps even to make amends, but he had refused her. If there was hope they might resume their relationship, he’d learn. He’d visit Langdon as soon as his business in London concluded and explore his friend’s feelings for the young woman.
Millicent’s acceptance did not absolve what Mary had done to drive them apart. Though Mary considered herself a reliable friend, one anyone could count on for help in any crisis, this kind of action had destroyed a relationship. As for Mary, he could not imagine she did not know the disastrous effect of her actions. Surely she no longer engaged in this kind of mischief. He’d known her to be creative, helpful, never deceitful.
With hope in his heart for a resolution, he led her to the floor.
* * *
She knew the steps. She always had. Studied them at every ball she’d attended, envied all who ventured upon the boards and seemed to float in time, in place, in a grace she could not achieve. Oh, yes, she had danced at home in her bedroom or in her own parlor, usually alone or in front of her mother who nagged at her to “Try, my angel. Try.”
She took Blake’s hand, vowing to try for him…and for herself. Why be coy about it, eh? She’d always wanted to be that young girl others praised for her style, her execution. Tonight, she thanked heaven above the piece that opened the ball was a simple one, a few repeated steps for four that then broke into a line of two partners who then peeled off and returned to the end of that line. She could hobble quickly behind everyone and take up her spot once more in front of Blake to bow and do a few pretties, then end the entire caper.
He beamed at her with pride. “You see. You can do very well.”
“You are very kind but I must sit now.” She would have stepped away.
But he caught her elbow. “No. I mean to dance with you again.”
