What if he had no wish to do either? What a dreadfully lowering thought! It would not normally have entered Rachel's head. She had grown to assume that most gentlemen sought out her company with some eagerness. But Mr. Gower was not most gentlemen. She rather suspected that he was quite different, in fact. And so she felt distinctly uneasy about the approach of the waltz.

He had not even glanced at her since greeting her at the end of the first set. She could swear it because, annoyingly, she had glanced at him a great many times. He had remained in the ballroom, unlike Algie and many of the other gentlemen, who disappeared quite frequently, probably into the card room, she suspected. And he had danced each set. He had talked almost constantly with Celia during the waltz. She had wondered what they had found to talk about. It was true that she had prattled almost nonstop to Algie, but then she always talked, while Celia rarely did.

And Mr. Gower had danced with several of those giggly girls who usually huddled together in groups. They must have been pleased. Several of them hardly ever danced. That was probably the reason they stayed so close to one another, and was also perhaps the reason Mr. Gower asked them, Rachel thought with a pang of guilt for the scorn she had often felt for those girls. Was the man teaching her a lesson in compassion?

But not a single glance at her. She did not know why she should feel chagrin at the fact. Plenty of other men had paid a great deal of attention to her. She was still feeling a glow of triumph at having danced with the Marquess of Stanford. And he was indeed charming. And attractive. He was possibly too thin, his face too angular to be called handsome. But definitely attractive. And he had looked at her appreciatively all the time they danced. He had made her feel as if she were the only lady worth looking at in the whole room.

Mr. Gower had looked at her in no such way. After making that one joke at Algie's expense, he had turned to Celia and focused entirely on a conversation with her. And Rachel had not failed to notice that he had given Celia quite as much of his attention as the marquess had given her.

She really did not want more for herself, did she? He just happened to be a very attractive man whom she had been unwise enough to admire before learning who he was. And even if she had not known this evening that he was a country vicar, she would surely have noticed that he was not the sort of man in whom it was wise to become interested. His evening clothes were not shabby by any means, but they were quite noticeably not new. And they were quite unadorned by fobs or chains or jewels. In fact, he looked plainly dressed in comparison with Algie.

And yet, she admitted to herself, it was understandable that she had become so easily infatuated that morning. He had a physique that made one scarcely notice his attire, and a face that could make one ignore both. It was his face that kept drawing her eyes against her will. He smiled constantly, yet not in that bright, artificial way of most people on such occasions. There seemed to be an enormous kindliness behind his smile. A great happiness even. But why should he not be happy? He was in London, in attendance at a grand ton ball.

Rachel frowned at the complexity of her own thoughts. It was not that kind of happiness, though. There was something about Mr. Gower that drew her, yet she really could not explain to herself what it was. All she did know was that she felt uncomfortable as gentlemen began to take their partners for the waltz. For once she did not know quite how she was to behave, what she was to say. Pointless to tell herself to behave naturally. Once one became aware of oneself, it was impossible to behave as one normally would.

She smiled gaily as she placed a hand in his and followed him onto the floor. "Are you not enjoying yourself immensely?" she asked, placing one hand on his broad shoulder and feeling the warmth of his hand against her waist. "I think there is no pleasure so exquisite as dancing. I always wish a ball would never come to an end."

"That would be all sugar with no bread and vegetables," he said with that smile that barely moved the muscles of his face. It was there behind his eyes and lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Do you not think that you would become weary after two or three days and nights of continuous dancing?"

She giggled. "I did not intend to be taken quite so literally, sir," she said. "Yes, I doubtless would be feeling rather footsore by perhaps the middle of August."

"But your sentiment was quite right," he said. "This is a lovely ball. The music is irresistible." And Rachel lost her breath for a moment as he twirled her unexpectedly in the middle of the floor.

"You are not a Puritan then?" she asked. "You do not frown upon such trivial pleasures?"

"I am here, am I not?" he said. "And dancing. It is not obligatory for a clergyman to walk around with a sober frown, you know. Indeed, if you know the Bible at all well, Lady Rachel, you will know that dancing has always been man's way of expressing exuberant spirits, even the spirit of praise and worship. Do you know the Psalms?"

Rachel grimaced. "Indeed, yes," she said. "The Bible is Papa's favorite book, and he tries constantly to make it everyone else's in his family."

He grinned. "Without much success?" he asked.

"Oh, I do think I would enjoy dancing before the Lord," she said. "I have always fancied that idea. Unfortunately, it is not Papa's way of appreciating the Bible. We more commonly sit soberly in the drawing room passing the book from hand to hand so that all may read a passage aloud for the edification of the others."

She giggled, and he smiled down at her.

"But what a very strange topic of conversation for a ball," she said.

"I find that people invariably feel obliged to introduce some pious topic into the conversation as soon as they know I am a clergyman," David said, a twinkle in his eye. "It seems we are seen as something of a race apart."

Rachel was disconcerted. She had no wish to give an impression of herself as a pious hypocrite. She smiled gaily again and set herself to chatter about trivialities for the remainder of the set. But why was it that she felt she had lost his attention? She had not. He looked at her and at no one else all the time they danced, and participated in each topic of conversation she introduced. His manner did not become either cold or distant. His eyes continued to smile.

But she knew that he had gone from her. For the first time she was conscious of her bright and artificial manner, of the essential emptiness of her conversation. Usually she talked and talked and never paused to wonder if she had anything of consequence to say. And gracious, she thought, that was the only way to be. One would trail through life in silence if one waited for something of moment to say.

What was it about David Gower? she wondered, puzzled, even as she continued to chatter with growing animation. And then she realized with something of a shock that what made him different from almost every other gentleman of her acquaintance was that he did not worship her. He was perfectly correct and courteous toward her. But there was nothing either flirtatious or openly admiring in his manner. To him she was just another dancing partner, even perhaps a rather tedious and silly one. It was a thoroughly lowering thought.

Rachel chattered on.

Chapter 3

During the following week David cautiously enjoyed his temporary return to society. Over the previous five years his life had been one of somewhat intense study. At least, he amended for the sake of strict accuracy, the last two years had been intense. For the three years before that, he supposed he had studied and thought about as much as the average university student. Which was not saying a great deal.

Indeed he had always faced his future with some bitterness, though he had not known against whom he should direct that bitterness. He had always known that he could not expect to live a life of idleness. Though his father was a landed aristocrat and a viscount, he had never been a wealthy man. And almost all that he owned was to pass to his elder son, Rufus. David had always known that. It mattered not at all that Rufus had seemed far more suited to the studious life than he, or that he himself had wanted nothing but a life of idle pleasure.

His father had not wanted David to enter the army, and his own inclinations did not pull him in that direction either. There had been only one other choice for him. From an early age he had been destined for the church. But it had been a cynical, uncommitted young man who had entered Oxford. He had hoped that somehow he would advance in the church until finally he found a post to his liking. He had dreaded the thought of perhaps having to eke out a living somewhere in the country.

He had led a life of near-dissipation during his first years at Oxford. He had not been a virgin when he went there. But he quickly gained vastly more experience when he found just how many tavern maids and chambermaids were eager to oblige students. And it had taken very little money to satisfy them. He had also spent time playing cards, until he realized that his pockets just would not support the extravagance. He had drunk even when he did not have the money to finance his pleasure. It was very possible to live on credit, he had discovered.

And finally, despite himself, he had begun to learn, to read and study for pleasure, to realize that perhaps the life of the mind was not as deadly dull as he had always assumed. And then had come his meeting with Jonathan Forbes, a fellow student who had been much influenced by the Methodist preachers. Drinking, partying, womanizing had all been gradually and unconsciously neglected as he spent more and more time discussing and arguing with his new friend and a few other acquaintances.

And the end of it all was that he had found himself a changed man. Not a Methodist. He believed strongly in the established church, did not believe that fragmenting it could ever achieve any good. But he had found that his religion had come alive for him and that his desire to be a clergyman was no longer a matter of necessity, but one of deep personal commitment.

Since then David had no longer been bitter about his lot. Indeed he blessed the fate that had made it necessary for him to think beyond the next day's entertainment. No longer was he ambitious for the most glamorous job the church could offer. He wanted only to serve as a man of God was meant to serve, working mainly with the poorest of the poor. He was no longer interested in the acquisition of money or position or possessions. It was not that he gave them up in a spirit of painful self-denial. He just lost interest in them.

And he was happy. He had spent two years of utter contentment at Oxford. If there was one fact to disturb that mood, it was only his impatience to have a living of his own so that he could begin his life of service. And now he had that living. He had been extremely fortunate to find himself qualified at almost the same moment that the vicar in Algie's parish was retiring. He had not expected something so satisfactory quite so soon. He had accepted the offer with alacrity.

And now he was to have a holiday, back in his old life for a few weeks before leaving for his new parish with Algie. And it felt strange to be back. His old self seemed like someone from another life, and yet places and even many people looked familiar. He renewed several old acquaintances and watched with some ruefulness and some amusement as old friends became more aloof after a few days, puzzled at the change in him. He was no longer the riotous David Gower they had known.

Whereas several years before, he would have been eagerly seeking out some female or females of easy virtue with whom to amuse himself, now he looked around him at a different class of young woman. Not too high, of course. No lady of highest ton would be flattered by the attentions of a penniless clergyman. But nevertheless he thought it possible that he might meet someone of somewhat lower status who would be willing to share his life. It would not be an easy lot for any lady. He had almost nothing to offer. He had no money to start with, and he had no intention of even trying to build a comfortable fortune.

But David wanted to marry. Partly he felt it an obligation to do so. His father had always been loudly critical of the parson at home, arguing that as the man was a bachelor, he had no right to offer his advice on marriage and family life. No one should criticize the life of another until he had experienced that life or its kind for himself, the late Viscount Cardwell had said many times. And David agreed with him.