Mary Balogh - The Secret Mistress

It was the signal for other couples to come and join them, to form the long lines of dancers for the first set, the ladies on one side, the gentlemen on the other.

Angeline gazed across at Lord Heyward, and he looked steadily back.

He was neatly, fashionably dressed. But there was no excess—no high shirt points threatening to pierce his eyeballs, no creaking corsets, no profusion of fobs and chains, no elaborately embroidered waistcoat, no haircut with its own name, like a Brutus, for example.

And no smile.

Meeting her, dancing with her, was serious business to him, then.

He was not a frivolous man.

He was probably the polar opposite of Tresham. And of Ferdinand. And her father. All of whom she loved, or had loved, to distraction. But none of them would ever be her husband. Neither would any man remotely like them. She had some sense of self-preservation.

She was going to marry someone like the Earl of Heyward.

No, correction.

She was going to marry the Earl of Heyward.

He might not know it yet, but he would.

They were a little too far apart to converse comfortably. And she did not wish to shout inanities across at him, though several couples beyond them were doing just that.

He held his peace too.

And then the orchestra played a decisive chord and the chatter died. The butterflies in her stomach did not, but fluttered to renewed life. She curtsied in the line of ladies. He bowed in the line of gentlemen. And the music began and they were off, performing the intricate steps of a lively country dance. Before she knew it, Angeline found that it was their turn—they were the lead couple, after all—to twirl down the set between the lines of clapping dancers.

The butterflies had disappeared without a trace.

She was so happy she thought she might well burst.

But awareness returned soon enough. And with it came a realization that first amazed her and then touched her.

Lord Heyward danced with careful precision and rather wooden grace. Actually, the grace was quite minimal. Even nonexistent. His timing was a little off, as though he waited to see what everyone else was doing before he did it himself. And occasionally there was a definite hesitation.

The poor man could not dance. Or rather, he could, but dancing was not something that came naturally to him or gave him any enjoyment whatsoever. His face was blank of expression, but there was a certain tension behind the blankness, and Angeline guessed that he was concentrating hard upon not disgracing himself.

And yet as the lead couple they were the ones most on display to the many guests who were not themselves dancing but were only watching—and storing tidbits of gossip to share in tomorrow’s drawing rooms.

Oh, poor Lord Heyward. He was not enjoying himself at all.

This was not the way to begin their … Their what? Relationship? Courtship? Happily-ever-after?

It was not the way to begin it, anyway, whatever it was.

The first dance of the set came to an end, and there was a brief pause before the second began. As soon as it did, Angeline realized that the rhythm was even faster than it had been before. Lord Heyward looked like a man who had been climbing the steps to the gallows until now but had suddenly emerged onto the flat platform and the trapdoor and noose itself.

There was really nothing else she could do, Angeline decided, except what she proceeded to do.

She turned her ankle and stumbled awkwardly.

ANGELINE HAD ALWAYS been impulsive. She had always had a tendency to act before she thought, usually with less than desirable results. Her governesses had habitually, and unsuccessfully, attempted to teach her the wisdom of a lady’s always pausing to consider what she was about to say or do before actually saying or doing whatever it was.

She had done it again. Acted, that was, before thinking of the consequences of what she was about to do.

Her ankle was not damaged. It was a little sore, perhaps, but only with the sort of pain that diminished to nothing at all within minutes and was really not worth the bother of fussing over. But …

Well, this was her come-out ball. Worse, this was the opening set of her come-out ball. All eyes were upon her. That seemed to include even the eyes of her fellow dancers. And of the orchestra members. She had turned her ankle, though not the ankle belonging to the leg she had broken last year, and she had stumbled awkwardly, and she had gasped with pain, and …

Well, and the world gasped with her and converged upon her from all corners of the globe. The music stopped abruptly, and dancers and spectators came dashing, all presumably in the hope of catching her before she hit the floor.

The Earl of Heyward reached her first and wrapped an arm about her waist and held her firmly upright so that she could not possibly tumble to the floor even if that had been her intention, which it had not.

It was a distracting moment, or fraction of a moment. For he was all firm, muscled masculinity, and Angeline would have liked nothing better than to revel for at least a short while in the unfamiliar delight of being held in a man’s arms—well, almost in his arms, anyway. And not just any man’s arms. And what was that absolutely wonderful cologne that clung about his person?

But voices all about her were raised in alarm or concern or puzzlement.

“Lady Angeline!”

“You have hurt yourself.”

“She has hurt herself.”

“Set her down on the floor. Don’t try moving her.”

“Carry her over to the French windows for some air.”

“What happened?”

“Hand me my vinaigrette.”

“Send a servant to fetch a physician.”

“Did she faint?”

“The music was too fast. I said it was, did I not?”

“The floor is too highly polished.”

“Have you sprained your ankle?”

“Has she broken her ankle?”

“How dreadfully unfortunate.”

“Oh, the poor dear.”

“What happened?”

“Trip over your own toes, did you, Angie?” This last in the cheerful voice of Ferdinand.

And those were only a sampling of the myriad exclamations and comments Angeline heard. This, she thought, had not been one of the best ideas she had ever conceived.

“Oh, dear,” she said, feeling the heat of a very genuine blush rise in her cheeks, “how very clumsy of me.”

“Not at all. Are you hurt?” Lord Heyward asked her with flattering concern.

“Hardly at all,” she said, laughing lightly.

But that was no answer, especially for a large audience, all of whose members were now hushed in an attempt to hear what she had to say. She winced as she set her foot back on the floor, and the guests winced with her.

“Well, perhaps just a little,” she said. “We had better sit out what remains of this set so that I will be able to dance for the rest of the evening. I am so sorry for causing such a fuss. Please ignore me.”

She smiled about at the gathered masses and rather wished it were possible to be sucked at will into a great hole.

“Thank you, Heyward. I shall take Angeline to a withdrawing room to rest for a while. The dancing may resume.”

It was Tresham, cool and black-eyed. In control. Taking charge.

Lord Heyward’s arm loosened about her waist but did not entirely drop away.

“Lady Angeline is my partner,” he said, sounding as cool as Tresham. “I shall help her to that love seat over there and sit with her, as is her wish. She may then decide if she is fit to dance the next set or if she would prefer to withdraw for a spell.”

It was an exchange that did not even nearly qualify as a confrontation, Angeline thought, looking with interest from her brother’s face to Lord Heyward’s. And yet … And yet there was something there, some ever so minor clash of wills. And, just as he had at the Rose and Crown, the earl won the day with quiet courtesy. Tresham stared back at him for a fraction of a second longer than was strictly necessary, raised his eyebrows, and turned to nod at the leader of the orchestra.

The whole incident had lasted for a maximum of two minutes, probably less. The earl offered his arm this time rather than just the back of his hand, Angeline linked hers through it and leaned upon him with just enough of her weight to look convincing, and he led her to the love seat he had indicated, which was wedged in next to the orchestra dais and was therefore somewhat isolated from the other seats in the ballroom.

The orchestra struck up its lively tune again and the dancers danced. Angeline glanced at them a little wistfully while Lord Heyward rescued a brocaded stool from half under the dais and set it before her to support her injured foot. She rested it on the stool and sighed.

“Ah,” she said, “that is better. Thank you, my lord.”

He inclined his head to her and seated himself beside her. Close beside her since the seat was narrow. Even so, he kept a very correct sliver of air between their two bodies.

“I adore dancing,” she said as she opened her fan and plied it slowly before her face. “I daresay you do too. I do apologize for depriving you of the pleasure of participating any further until the next set.”

“Not at all,” he said. “Besides, I do not enjoy dancing.”

She could feel the heat from his body and smell that very enticing cologne again. She would not mind at all, she thought quite scandalously, if he accidentally touched her arm or kissed her hand. Or her lips, for that matter. She had never been kissed. She had wanted to be for some time now. And who better …

The ballroom was surely exceedingly warm.

“I suppose,” she said because she did not want him to suspect that she had guessed the truth, poor man, “you have been dancing for so many years that you have become quite jaded.”

“Not at all,” he said again. “I have always been clumsy at it. I have been able to avoid dancing until this year. I was insignificantly positioned as the younger brother of an earl who was married and beginning to set up his nursery. When he died last year, my life changed.”

Ah, an honest man. One who was willing to admit that he was a clumsy dancer. There were not many honest people in this world, Angeline suspected, especially on the subject of their own defects.

“And now you are expected to dance all the time,” she said, smiling at him. “You were forced to dance with me.”

“I was not forced, Lady Angeline.” His eyebrows rose, and she noticed that they arched very nicely indeed above his eyes without unduly creasing his brow. “It was my pleasure.”

Ah, not always honest. Her smile deepened.

“You were in mourning all last year, then, were you?” she asked him. “I have been in mourning too, though not last year. It was the year before. For my mother. I ought to have made my come-out last year. Is that not strange? If I had, I would not have encountered you at that inn outside Reading or in Hyde Park this morning. And I would have had a different partner with whom to dance the opening set of my come-out ball. You would have been away somewhere mourning for your brother. How random a thing fate is.”

Perhaps he did not see their meetings as fate. Or not as a happy one, anyway. If he did, he had nothing to say on the subject. And when she glanced at him, she could see that his lips were rather tightly set.

It really was a fast and vigorous dance, she thought as her eyes strayed beyond his shoulder. Tresham was dancing with the widowed Countess of Heyward and Ferdinand with the small, blond-haired, very pretty Lady Martha Hamelin, with whom Angeline had chatted at great length at St. James’s Palace this morning. Trust Ferdie to single out the loveliest girl in the room.

She really hoped Lady Martha would be one of those close friends she craved.

“I ought to have made my come-out last year,” she said again, resuming her story, “but I broke my leg.”

She glanced down at it. Her foot was reclining on the brocaded stool. Her left foot. It was the right foot she had turned on the dance floor a short while ago. Oh, dear. It was too late now, though, to make the correction. He would surely notice. So, perhaps, would half of those gathered in the ballroom. She was not unaware of the fact that many eyes were turned their way.