Page 38 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
Out of the corner of her eye, though, she saw Mrs. Jarrow trying to elbow her way through the crowd gathered around them.
Others must have recognized Lady Chilcombe and made the leap to identify Graeme. He was quite the attraction.
The master of ceremonies announced a country dance to be followed by a waltz before the musicians broke for the supper on offer.
“Lady Chilcombe, may I have the honor?” Mr. Jarrow asked.
Though her heart sought out Graeme, she refrained from looking at him. He’d said he planned to dance with Miss Jarrow, and perhaps Mr. Jarrow would be the only gentleman here brave enough to dance with the scandalous countess. What harm could come from a country dance with the new local magistrate?
She looked to Hermione, who gave her blessing to being left alone, then bowed her head and said yes. Miss Jarrow very prettily accepted Graeme’s request to dance.
“Your waltz, however, Lady Chilcombe, is mine,” Graeme said, with that self-assured smile that had her heating inside from annoyance and… oh, she must admit it… desire.
Before they could step out, the crowd parted to allow in a gentleman, and Mr. Jarrow made introductions. The local curate, Mr. Tidwell, was a different one from the man who’d snubbed her and her charges.
“Go and dance, my dears,” Hermione said. “Perhaps Mr. Tidwell will introduce me to Mrs. Jarrow.” She leaned close and whispered. “Or I will introduce myself, bold chit that I am.”
Blythe laughed, and following Jarrow into the line, ruthlessly turned her mind to the dance at hand, ignoring the curious stares and whispers behind fans.
The same thing had happened in London and she had danced there, yes she had. Then, as now, the steps had come back to her, though she was so nervous she found she had to pay careful attention.
With the twin distractions of Mrs. Jarrow barreling down on Hermione, and Graeme flirting with Miss Jarrow, it wasn’t as easy here in Risley.
In the times they drew together in the country dance, Mr. Jarrow made polite conversation. Though they started with the weather and crops, he proceeded on to ask about her year of mourning, where she had stayed, and how she’d found London.
She answered his courteous interrogation as truthfully as possible without giving any real information. By the time the dance ended, her nerves were crackling and she was happy to be handed over to Graeme.
Across the dance floor, Hermione chatted, to all appearances amiably, with the curate and Mrs. Jarrow. Her face revealed nothing while Mrs. Jarrow’s bore a grim mask of disapproval. The curate was mopping his brow.
The Jarrows were an influential family in the parish with a family tie to the absent vicar who held the living.
Graeme took her hand and followed her line of sight. Hermione smiled their way and made a shooing noise as the quartet shuffled music and other couples paired up. Graeme faced her and continued to hold her hand.
“I never thought to ask it before,” he said. “Who is the patron for this parish?”
“You are,” Blythe said. “The Earl of Chilcombe.”
“And the vicar? Does he live in the parish?”
“He has several parishes. In the past, he would visit perhaps once a year. He’s had the living forever, or at least since the previous earl, Archie’s grandfather, appointed him. Your grandfather as well, I suppose.”
“No doubt the vicar is some elderly second or third son of one of Grandfather’s peers.”
Graeme’s and Archie’s grandfather had lived just long enough to see Archie’s birth and Archie’s father’s death. Archie, an earl by the age of ten, had been snatched up by his maternal grandparents and given such a strict Christian upbringing that, when he was free, he undertook to make up for lost time.
“The curate seems a decent sort,” Graeme said, interrupting her thoughts.
“He’s new. I don’t know him.”
The discussion ought to calm her nerves, but the memory of being shunned, and of Archie’s refusal to correct the vicar on her behalf, stirred an unsettling anger.
There was also the nearness of Graeme and his hand placed warmly at her waist. It was all she could do to not tremble or trip over her feet.
Graeme saw the way Blythe flinched the moment he set his hand to her waist and he wondered if his touch was welcome. And if it was, how far she would let him go?
Unworthy thoughts. He tried to push them aside and asked her if she was well.
She glanced up quickly, and he saw the same heat in her eyes that was tormenting him. Without thinking, he swept her into a turn and drew her a bit closer. Only an inch or two closer, but he heard her slight gasp and watched as she struggled to school her face into a bored look.
