by Jen Turano
With that, Miss Griswold pushed herself to her feet, seemingly unconcerned with the notion that young ladies were expected to allow a gentleman—if one was available, which he certainly was—to assist them to their feet after they’d taken a nasty plummet to the ground.
Deciding Miss Griswold would most certainly not appreciate recommendations of the etiquette sort, especially from him, the gentleman who was responsible for her nasty plummet to the ground the second time, Asher began rising to his feet as well. A second later, he found himself taken aback when Miss Griswold thrust a dainty hand his way, seemingly unconcerned yet again with the idea that ladies never, as in ever, initiated an act that would consist of them hauling a gentleman to his feet.
Not wanting to offend her, and also not wanting to draw more attention than they were already drawing, Asher took the hand and soon found himself standing right beside her.
“Quite frankly . . .” she began when he found his feet, “now that I consider the matter, it is rather curious that I’m able to speak freely with you.” With that, along with a nod, she began dusting him off in a remarkably no-nonsense sort of manner.
The feel of her hands brushing, patting, and smoothing him out took him by such surprise that he found himself at a complete loss for words. He simply stood still as a statue while she continued her dusting, finally finishing her task when she plucked a few leaves from the billowing sleeves of his costume.
“There, you’re looking dashing again, which further establishes the idea you’re a most fashionable sort, especially considering . . .” She stepped back and gave him a quick once-over. “No one but a fashionable gentleman would dare step outside his house these days wearing . . .” She gestured to his costume, her gaze lingering on the purple frock coat that just happened to be trimmed with gold braiding. “Well, all that.”
His eyes narrowed as he tried to discern whether or not she’d just insulted him. “I’ve seen many a gentleman this evening dressed far more outlandishly than I’m dressed.”
“Indeed, as have I. But they, Mr. Rutherford, aren’t nearly as adept at pulling off the look—yet another clear indicator that you are, indeed, a staunch member of the fashionably elite.”
“I suppose this is where I’m expected to say thank you?”
Her brows drew together. “There’s certainly no need for that, since I was merely confirming what you along with everyone else in society knows. You’re a well-established member of the stylish set, which—” she blew out a breath—“truly does make it a bit of a puzzle that I’m able to speak so freely around you.”
“Do I remind you of someone you’re close to? Your father, perhaps?”
Taking a step away from him, Miss Griswold began looking him up and down before she, surprisingly enough, laughed.
It was not a delicate, tittering type of laugh, but a laugh that came from what seemed to be her toes and drew the notice of everyone standing in their vicinity.
“I think not, Mr. Rutherford, especially since my father started out in life as a mere miner, building his fortune through backbreaking work that involved a lot of dirt.” She shook her head. “He’s not one to wear anything other than the most boring of garments, no matter that my stepmother longs to see him dressed more stylishly.” She sent a pointed look to the thick stockings that covered his calves, an item that had been required in order to truly look the part of an aristocrat from the Regency period. “He’d never wear those, not even to a costume ball. Although . . . allow me to say that you do seem to have surprisingly well-turned-out legs.”
Asher swallowed a laugh. “Thank you, Miss Griswold. I’ve not had that particular compliment extended to me before, but . . . since we’ve ruled out some of the more logical explanations regarding why you’re not devoid of words in my presence, perhaps—since you’ve proclaimed an admiration for my, er, legs—your admiration extends to my entire person, and . . . you hold me in great affection.”
“No, that’s not it,” Miss Griswold said without the slightest hesitation.
Somehow that set Asher’s teeth to grinding, but before he could contemplate why her immediate denial of holding him in any affection set his teeth on edge, she blew out a breath. “I suppose a reasonable explanation will occur to me sometime in the wee hours of the night. But since I can’t puzzle out why I’m comfortable around you just yet, and I’m certain you’ve much better ways to spend your evening than standing around puzzling over my ability to speak to you, I do believe this is where we part ways.”
A wave of disappointment took him by surprise over the thought of parting company with her, until a solution to that disappointment suddenly sprang to mind.
“You haven’t allowed me the honor of filling in a spot on your dance card.”
Instead of sending him the expected response to that request, Miss Griswold took to hugging the fur muff attached by a string to her left arm as she began backing away from him.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Rutherford, but I assure you, there’s no need to dance with me.”
“There’s every need,” he countered, nodding to the muff. “May I assume you’ve stashed your dance card in there?”
“You should assume nothing of the sort.”
“Hand it over.”
For a second, what seemed to be clear panic flickered through her eyes, but then she shoved a hand in the muff, pulled out her dance card, looked it over, bit her lip, and then shoved the card back into the muff, pulling out another one a second later.
“How many cards to you have in there?” he asked when she apparently took issue with that card as well, tucking it securely away before pulling out yet another dance card.
“A few,” she mumbled as she glanced at the card in her hand, dropped it back into the muff, gave the muff a bit of a shake, and then froze on the spot as the shake sent several dance cards, all of them maroon in color, falling out of the muff and to the floor.
“Allow me.” Asher bent over and scooped up the cards. Straightening, he squinted at the handwriting scrawled all over them. “Why have you written what appears to be descriptions of what the guests are wearing, Miss Griswold?”
Miss Griswold held out her hand, and when he placed the cards into that hand, she took a moment to tuck the cards back into the muff, then sent him a rather strained sort of smile.
“I enjoy scribbling down little details at all the society events I attend, Mr. Rutherford. It makes for a pleasant way to pass the evening and will allow me to remember those evenings when I’m at my last prayers and perusing my old journals.” She inclined her head. “I do thank you for all of the assistance However, since I’ve just recalled an urgent matter that I simply must address, if you’ll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball.”
Before Asher could do more than gape at Miss Griswold, she lifted the hem of her delightful skirt ever so slightly and exposed a shoe that seemed to be made out of hundreds of glass beads, giving the shoe a frosty appearance. She then spun on that shoe and dashed straightaway into the crowd, not bothering to speak so much as another word to him.
We hope you’ve enjoyed this special sample of Behind the Scenes by Jen Turano. For more information on this book, please visit www.bethanyhouse.com or your favorite bookstore.
About the Author
Jen Turano, a USA Today bestselling author, is a graduate of the University of Akron with a degree in clothing and textiles. She is a member of ACFW and RWA. She lives in a suburb of Denver, Colorado. Visit her website at www.jenturano.com.
Books by Jen Turano
Gentleman of Her Dreams (e-novella)
A Change of Fortune
A Most Peculiar Circumstance
A Talent for Trouble
A Match of Wits
After a Fashion
In Good Company
Playing the Part
At Your Request (e-novella)
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