Page 50 of Unending Joy
Freddy returned the compliment, enquired after Lady Partridge’s health, then turned to the eldest daughter. Letty, adorable in rose satin, bestowed a glance brimming with expectation.
Freddy’s heart sank.
“Miss Partridge, may I beg the honour of the next dance?”
A flutter of lashes signified assent. “It will be my pleasure, sir.”
Having satisfied propriety, Freddy excused himself to the gentlemen’s knot near the card room—Rotham, Montford, and Westwood—only to discover his eyes drifting at once across the floor. The orchestra had begun the set, and St. John, resplendent in red uniform with gold trim, held Joy in the curve of his arm. Her water-blue gown lifted and fell like sunlight on a wave, and the pearls at her waist flashed each time she turned beneath the chandeliers. The pair moved in perfect time, yet Freddy’s gaze fixed not on the Colonel’s polished elegance but on the glow of delight animating Joy’s face. Only yesterday he had swornto guard her from that very gentleman. Now he found himself standing immobilized, admiration and apprehension wrestling at the pit of his stomach.
Rotham nudged him. “Careful, Cunningham—were jealousy charged by the inch, you would be in debt by dawn.”
Freddy disguised a start with a laugh. “Jealous? Only of St. John’s ability to pivot without treading upon silk.”
“Come, you watch her as a hawk eyes its prey.” Rotham’s grin took the edge off the jibe. “Dash it, man, why settle on the Partridge chit if Joy sets your pulse dancing?”
“That,” Freddy answered, “is a question better unanswered.” But the sting of truth lodged in his gullet nevertheless.
The waltz ended. Joy and St. John exchanged the customary quick bow and curtsy, then he led her towards Lady Westwood. Freddy, seized by a sudden resolve, stepped forward—only to be intercepted by Lady Partridge, who delivered Letty for the promised dance. Resignation settled like damp wool. He led her onto the floor and, at the first notes of a country dance, set to the accustomed pattern.
Conversation, however, proceeded with less rhythm.
“What a charming espousal,” Letty remarked, referring to the newly publicized match of Maeve and Thornhill. “I do love a courtship that ends well—and the Dowager Duchess appears, so obligingly, to have approved.” She giggled behind her fan. “Although I own the bride’s friend—Miss Whitford—might have employed her talents more profitably in the drawing room than in the stables.”
Freddy blinked. “Miss Whitford’s talents are wide, and she is one of my dearest friends, Miss Partridge.”
“Oh, certainly, and yet it does seem a pity—such beauty, but she so often behaves like a boy. One would not suppose she had any interest in gowns, were tonight’s not exceptional.” The remark, delivered in tones of innocent observation, struckFreddy with the force of revelation. It was the most original thought he had ever heard from Letty Partridge—if indeed it had originated with her and not with her mother’s constant criticisms.
He executed the chassé, and guided her through a turn, but his focus slipped back to Joy, now standing near the orchestra. Was her beauty wasted? A foolish judgement. He saw now what he had contrived not to see as surely as if a bolt of lightning had struck him: the curve of Joy’s cheek, the brightness of her eyes, the grace with which she danced now that she could see again. Blue silk did not transform her; it merely unveiled what friendship’s familiarity had veiled.
When the dance released him he escorted Letty to her mama, mumbled something about attending Montford, and retreated to the whist table, where he lost three tricks in swift succession. Rotham laughed while Westwood raked in a modest harvest of counters. All the while Freddy’s gaze returned to where Joy now conversed with Grace beneath a spray of moon daisies.
The orchestra announced the next waltz set—his waltz with Joy. Cards abandoned, he crossed the marble like a man seeing clearly after a long mist. Joy greeted him with the warmth of long companionship and placed her gloved hand in his without hesitation.
“It is a relief,” he said as they took position, “to claim you after the fencing match of conversation with Miss Partridge.”
Joy’s eyes sparked. “Fencing? Indeed, I cannot picture Miss Partridge performing a leap of thought.”
He chuckled. “She managed a parry—she judged your beauty wasted on a lady who would rather be a boy.”
Joy’s laugh, bright as chimes, caught several neighbouring couples’ attention. “It is not news that I prefer a stable to a drawing room,” she said, unoffended.
Music gathered them into motion. Freddy, leading her through the circle, lowered his voice. “Joy—may I confess something without earning your disdain?”
“That depends entirely on the confession.”
“I dread offering for her—Letty Partridge, I mean. I cannot bring myself to the sticking point.” He managed a half-smile. “I have not called upon her since we returned from Ascot, and the weight of half the Season’s wasted effort sits on my shoulders. To start afresh feels impossible, but to proceed feels intolerable.”
Joy tilted her head, curls brushing her shoulders. “I am sure Miss Partridge would be delighted to hear your musings. You know I have always thought she would bore you.”
“That is precisely why I am in the devil of a fix.” He steered them through an elegant turn. “I fear I have raised expectations and cannot honourably back away.”
“Perhaps you could consult with your mama? I would never see you in an unhappy marriage, Freddy!”
“Will you be happy with St. John, Joy?”
“I-I…do not know. He is all that is amiable and handsome…”
They both looked miserable as the realization of their predicament came over them.
