by Donna Hatch
After a glance, Genevieve gestured. “The silk ball gown, please. We’re dancing tonight.” Poor Matilda. She’d been so excited to dance with Christian Amesbury.
After a quick sponge bath, Genevieve dressed in a clean shift, slid on her silk stockings, tied them off above her knee, then stood while Hill tied her longs stays. Seated at a dressing table and wearing a dressing gown, she stared at her reflection without seeing it. Instead, she plotted how to survive the evening without allowing her discomfiting jealousy to affect her thoughts or behavior.
If Matilda were at a loss for company, Genevieve would sit with her. If Mr. Amesbury sat with Mattie, Genevieve would find an excuse to leave them alone. If he happened to speak with Genevieve, she’d only talk about Matilda. Matilda would attain her heart’s desire and Genevieve would be happy for her—even if it killed her. Which was silly, really, since she hardly knew Christian Amesbury.
No matter how often she reminded herself of that fact, it never offered comfort.
“Are you unwell, miss?” her maid, Hill, asked.
“Oh no—merely woolgathering.”
She should tell Hill to do her hair in a very simple chignon, something as plain as possible so as not to compete with Matilda. But she couldn’t make the words come out. Besides, her hair was almost finished now, and to ask for a different hairstyle would be unkind to the maid who’d already combed her hair into soft curls. After Hill dampened the fine hairs on either side of Genevieve’s face and curled them around her finger to make ringlets, she added a white ribbon as the finishing touch. It contrasted nicely against the color of her hair.
“Lovely, Hill,” Genevieve said. “Thank you.”
She stood and lifted her arms so Hill could lower the gown over her head. As the maid fastened the gown down the back, Genevieve eyed her reflection in the full-length mirror. Green ribbon threaded through the sleeves and around the bodice embroidered with tiny green leaves. The gown fit beautifully. Still, it was a pity she hadn’t been blessed with curves like Matilda’s, instead of the figure of a fourteen-year-old. Mama called her “elfin” but saw her through the eyes of a mother’s love. Removing her focus from her reflection, Genevieve stepped into her dancing slippers.
Mama tapped on the door and peeked in. “Are you ready? Oh!” She clasped her hands together. “You look lovely, my dear. Positively lovely.”
It was impossible to wallow in self-pity while her mother admired her with such enthusiasm.
As the final touch, Genevieve pulled on long gloves. “You do as well, Mama.”
And truly, she did. With auburn hair the color of Genevieve’s still untouched by gray, and a lovely face, her mother looked far younger than her age. Only the faintest lines around her eyes belied her departure from the first blush of youth.
Waiting for them in the corridor, Papa kissed her brow. “What a lucky man I am to escort two such lovely ladies.”
“You look dashing as always, Papa.” Genevieve kissed his cheek.
In the drawing room, half of the guests waited, sipping sherry and conversing. Matilda had yet to make an appearance, but Mr. Amesbury and his father had already arrived. Wearing a black tailcoat and a silver brocade waistcoat, Mr. Amesbury had an elegant sense of style. Next to him stood the cheerful, curly-haired Sir Reginald and the solemn Mr. Ashton, both sizing up Mr. Amesbury.
Did they view him as competition for Matilda? Did Matilda know she had so many admirers? If she knew, she might be less likely to set her sights on Christian Amesbury.
Genevieve squelched the traitorous thought. Matilda didn’t form an attachment for him out of a lack of prospects; her preference came as a natural result of his kindness and charm. Being handsome and the son of an earl only added to his suitability. For many reasons, he was a perfectly desirable match, and Matilda was smart enough to recognize it.
Genevieve murmured to Mama, “Matilda isn’t here yet. Should I look in on her?”
“Not necessary, surely. Do join the other girls,” Mama gave a gentle nudge.
Genevieve moved to a group of chairs drawn up to make a conversation area.
“…only my first Season, so Mama says not to become discouraged,” one of the young ladies said.
“That’s all well and good for you,” said another, “but next Season Mama is launching my younger sister. This house party is my last chance to receive an offer.” The plain girl in a simple white muslin gown gave them all a pained smile. “Otherwise, I’ll become a spinster—a burden to my parents. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in an old house on the moors caring for my oldest sister’s children.”
Genevieve sat in the empty spot next to her and gestured to the girl’s neck. “What a lovely pendant.”
The girl turned a startled glance at her and touched the necklace Genevieve indicated. “Thank you. It was my great aunt’s.”
Matilda arrived and all the girls turned their attention to her and her well-being. Moments later dinner was announced. Sadly, Genevieve sat nowhere near Mr. Amesbury and she must lean forward to even catch a glimpse of him. Instead, she sat between two older gentlemen and tried to be interested in their conversation. In addition, her place was as far from Matilda as possible.
Surely, the seating arrangements had been determined to give the guests a chance to converse with others, and not to deliberately separate Genevieve from both Matilda and Mr. Amesbury. Somehow, she couldn’t quite believe that.
After dinner, the guests filed into the drawing room that had been transformed into the ballroom, with flowers and hundreds of candles blazing in the chandeliers and tall, wrought-iron candelabras. Local musicians played their instruments in that odd discord of pre-performance tuning. While Matilda sat like a queen on her wheeled chair up front where she would command a view of the room, several girls clustered around her, leaving no room for Genevieve. However, most of Matilda’s current companions would be asked to dance shortly, which would leave her alone. When that happened, Genevieve would keep her company like a loyal friend.
The musicians struck up a quadrille. Heading up the set stood Christian Amesbury across from the girl in white muslin who’d expressed a fear of losing her only chance at marriage. Genevieve moved to join Matilda so she would not find herself alone, but before she had taken more than a few steps, a voice stopped her.
“May I have this first set?” Sir Reginald appeared at Genevieve’s side, his hand extended and his warm brown eyes merry.
Genevieve hesitated. “I had planned on keeping Matilda company.”
He glanced at Matilda. “Miss Widtsoe is surrounded by friends at present. Once the set ends, I plan to keep her company, but I feel I must first dance.”
She cocked her head to the side. “You surprise me, sir; I would have thought you’d take every chance to be at her side.”
He grinned. “I don’t wish to make a cake of myself by sitting at her seat like an overeager puppy.”
Genevieve gave in to the urge to tease him. “Are you using me to inspire a bit of jealousy in her?”
“Not entirely.” With a covert wink, Sir Reginald took her hand and led her to the dance floor. He lined up next to Christian Amesbury and grinned impishly at her.
Using every shred of self-control not to look at Mr. Amesbury, she fixed her focus on her partner. As the music started, they took hands and danced past each other to the other dancers in their square, which led her to Mr. Amesbury. He looked directly into her eyes and smiled, a slow, sensuous curving of his lips that quite possibly turned her bones to clotted cream.
Trying not to fall flat on her face, she danced past him to the next gentleman where they repeated the steps. After she made her way around the formation, she arrived back with Sir Reginald, did the required little skip-step, and took hands as they watched Mr. Amesbury and his partner, the girl in white muslin whose smile practically illuminated the room, dance within the square. How kind of him to invite the plainest girl in the room to the first dance. Genevieve would probably be weari
ng a similar smile if she were his partner, only hers would be dimmed by guilt.
Under his breath, Sir Reginald said, “You’re staring.”
Dragging her gaze off Mr. Amesbury, she snapped in a terse whisper, “I am not.”
His eyes twinkled. She lifted her chin, pointedly looking everywhere but at the dashing figure who commanded her thoughts far too often. Each time she found herself temporarily partnered with Christian Amesbury, he looked into her eyes as if he were trying to memorize her face.
Clearly, her imagination had gotten the better of her.
During the course of the dance, she managed not to collapse at his feet, and while she danced with the other gentlemen in the square, even kept her eyes off him —most of the time.
Upon completion of the set, Sir Reginald escorted her to her mother and bowed. “A delight, Miss Marshall.” He all but sashayed to Matilda’s side where he bowed over Matilda’s hand and promptly took a seat next to her.
Matilda smiled at him flirtatiously. “Reggie, how kind of you to join me.” She frowned briefly in Mr. Amesbury’s direction who was bowing in front of one of the other young ladies lamenting her lack of prospects. Matilda returned her attention to Sir Reginald and smiled.
Mr. Ashton stepped into Genevieve’s line of sight. “If I may have the honor?” he intoned blandly.
“Of course,” she replied.
During the course of the country dance, she again danced a few steps with Mr. Amesbury as they came together in the middle, so closely they nearly touched as they circled facing one another.
His gaze again darted over her, his lips curving in a way that seemed to beg her to ask what he thought. “Stand up with me the next set?” he murmured.
A warm rush ran over her skin. “As you wish.”
He smiled and she stumbled on stone feet. Must he be so handsome?
The steps took them apart on opposite sides of the line and brought her back to Mr. Ashton. He said nothing as they danced, but in his defense, the vigorous dance provided little opportunity to do so. Dancing always brought joy, and at the end of the first dance in the set, she stood laughing and trying to catch her breath. Her focus fell on Mr. Amesbury who watched her with such intensity that her heart fluttered. He inclined his head, smiling in a way that felt almost secretive. Only by sheer willpower did she manage a courteous smile rather than gaping at him. He turned his focus onto his partner, his expression smoothing over into polite interest.
“Today is the last full day of the house party. Everyone will leave tomorrow morning,” Mr. Ashton said, stealing her attention.
She glanced at him, ashamed she’d had the bad form to stare at another while on the dance floor with a partner. What on earth he meant by that comment she could not guess. “Yes, I believe so.”
He nodded. “Not much time, then.”
“Oh, I think it’s been a lovely few days. Of course, it’s always a little disappointing when a party ends, but that’s better than wishing for its end, don’t you agree?”
He gave her a curious look. “I’m sure you must be right.”
As she waited for the next dance in the set to begin, she allowed her gaze to roam the room. Lord Wickburgh stared at her. The lord stood still as a statue, gripping his walking stick with white knuckles. He, too, inclined his head in greeting as Mr. Amesbury had, but his gaze left her with an urge to duck behind a shield and a suit of armor.
As second dance began, she focused on remembering the steps and trying to not appear too breathless. Once again, she found herself partnered briefly with Christian. Every breath he took, even the smallest touch, the smolder in his eyes, sent her scenes spinning wildly out of control. At the conclusion, Mr. Ashton returned her to her mother. Genevieve fanned herself but failed to cool the burning in her skin.
Instantly, Mr. Amesbury appeared, his smile in place, his hand outstretched to her. “If you would be so kind.” Did she imagine a sultry quality in his tone?
The heat intensified. She laid her hand in his and walked—or did she float?—with him to the dance floor.
He stepped closer. “It’s the waltz.”
“How lovely,” she said, breathless. “I hope I remember how to do it. I’m not sure one brief lesson with a real partner is enough.” Oh dear. Matilda had hurt herself teaching Genevieve how to waltz, and now she, instead of Mattie, was waltzing with Mr. Amesbury. Guilt shadowed her joy but failed to cool her feverish heat.
The music began. He drew her into waltz position, smiling down at her. Every candle in the room shone brighter. His scent drifted to her, a clean, masculine blend of sunshine, bergamot, and a sensual quality she could not identify.
He parted his lips. “I am honored to be your first, Miss Marshall.”
Her first what? Kiss? Love? Her heart pounded at such thoughts.
“I hope to be a worthy waltz teacher,” he added.
Waltz.
Oh.
Oh! Of course. How ridiculous she was being!
His arms firm, Mr. Amesbury took a step forward on the downbeat and guided her back. After only a moment of dancing, she moved with him with little thought, following his skillful lead with the music. He did several basic steps, giving her a chance to become re-acquainted with the new waltz from Vienna and the music’s timing. A timelessness, a sensation of everything being right in the world while she danced in his arms, stole over her. A missing ingredient to the recipe of happiness had been added to her life.
But she had not known him long enough to know whether he were her perfect match. He might be a passing fascination. Perhaps, in a few days or weeks, she would meet some other dashing fellow and forget all about Christian Amesbury.
And perhaps she would discover that fairies truly did open flowers and cupid’s arrows were real—it seemed just as likely.
As they sailed across the floor, his smile faded to a solemn expression. “Miss Marshall, as a close friend of Miss Widtsoe’s, you are best qualified to advise me.”
Oh no. Her fever cooled. Here it came. He would ask her about Matilda’s favorite flower, or if Matilda would prefer a new wedding ring or one that had been in his family for generations…
“I believe I have unintentionally raised her expectations.”
Her thoughts stuttered to a halt.
At what must have been confusion in her expression, he rushed on, “I assure you it was purely accidental. In fact, aside from painting her portrait—well, and helping her when she twisted her ankle—I’ve made every attempt to appear uninterested while still being polite. Yet, she seems to think there is some sort of understanding between us.”
Everything inside her went still. “Then you have not formed an attachment for her?”
“None. I never meant to give her that impression. I cannot imagine how she got that idea.”
She didn’t know whether to jump for joy that his heart remained unclaimed or weep for what would be a stinging disappointment for Matilda.
She moistened her lips. “Then I advise you to be direct. Quietly take her to the side, perhaps near the end of the evening, and tell her.”
He winced. “I’m sure you’re right, but I cannot imagine how I’ll find the words to deliver such a cutting speech.”
“The longer you delay, the worse it will be.”
He nodded, his expression clouding. “She might accuse me of raising her expectations.”
“That is a concern. Have you spent any time in her company in public?”
“No, none at all. The most time I’ve spent with her was painting her portrait. And helping her when she injured herself.” He winced as if recalling a painful memory. Was he castigating himself for carrying Matilda and giving further fuel for her imagination? Or did he sympathize with her plight?
“That hardly signifies,” Genevieve said. “Have you ever danced with her more than one set in one evening?”
His earnest blue eyes fixed on her face. “I’ve only danced with her once ever, despite being at the same soirees many
times last Season.”
“Have you sat with her and spoken for any length of time?”
“Never, beyond her portrait sitting.”
“And I can assume, then, that you’ve never… kissed her?” Her cheeks warmed at the personal question. Or did they warm because she daydreamed of what it might be like to kiss him?
His blue eyes opened wide. “Heavens, no. I’m not such a cad.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “In that case, it sounds to me that if her expectations have been raised, they were from her own desires. No one in society would expect you to make an offer, unless they believe what she’s been saying about you.”
A crease formed between his brows. “What has she been saying?”
“That she believes you return her feelings and expects a proposal.”
He let out his breath in a long exhale. “I’d better speak to her before it gets out of hand.”
She nodded, too conflicted to speak. He could be hers. But Matilda would surely be crushed if Genevieve encouraged him. And one didn’t simply go about encouraging a gentleman for whom one’s friend had a ‘grand passion.’ Not even if he had spurned said friend. Such an act would destroy the friendship.
“Are you up for the challenge of going beyond basic steps, Miss Marshall?”
“Absolutely.”
He led her through several new steps. Following him came as naturally as if they’d danced together for years.
“You are an excellent student of the waltz,” he murmured.
She smiled. “If I am, it is because you’re an excellent teacher.”
He opened his mouth and inhaled as if to speak but pressed his lips together instead.
In a flash of un-lady-like boldness, she asked, “What were you about to say?”
He shook his head, but his blue eyes suggested he carried secrets.
Gently, she pressed, “You’ve already confided in me regarding Matilda. Surely you can tell me what you were thinking just now.”
His lips curved. “I never put much credence in the term love at first sight. But I am beginning to understand, at least in part, why people say that.”
Her heart filled with light and song. “What are you saying?”
