“I wasn’t counting on your appearance, of course,” she said with a little laugh that was just false enough to betray the fact that she had been counting on it. David was flattered despite the fact that she was still too young for him to take her seriously. He would need to be careful about showing too much attention, so as to not give the wrong impression. It would be an easier goal if he did not feel drawn toward her—this young woman he barely knew. “What did you fill your time with, then?” she asked.
“Well, let’s see.” He paused and closed one eye in what he hoped was an expression indicative of deep thought as they moved past a few other couples on the floor. “My father and I have been helping coordinate some improvements to my grandfather’s estate—new tenant houses and an improved well. I also purchased a stallion that has sired his first foal, due next month, and my sister had her second child, a boy they named after me, if you can believe it.”
“A baby D’Artagnan?” she said with a grin.
“Exactly,” he said with good humor and a slight thrill that she did still think of him as the dashing hero.
“How lovely. Does he take after you, then?”
“Dark hair and an ill disposition? Yes, I suppose he does.”
She laughed out loud, and he spun them into a turn, feeling light on his feet and in his heart.
“What of your marital pursuits?” Miss Connell asked once they had settled back into a more conversational tempo. “You are on the marrying side of twenty-five now, I think.”
“Actually, I have found a young woman who draws my attention.” Did he puff out his chest a bit as he said it? Why did he feel the need to impress her or show himself to be as desirable a man as she’d proven herself a woman through the attention of others?
“Do tell,” she said with wide eyes and a smile.
“Miss Cassandra Beeton is the niece of a landholder in my parish, Mr. Temple. Our family has dined with the Temples for—well, for as long as I can remember—and I met Miss Beeton when she was visiting with her mother. She stayed nearly the whole summer, and we have corresponded since her return to Yorkshire. She’ll be returning to her uncle’s estate in a few months, and I hope that we shall pick up the same accord we shared when she was here before.”
“That is perfectly lovely,” Marta said. “What is she like? Tell me everything so that I might understand what kind of woman draws the attention of a man like yourself.”
He hesitated a moment, surely reading too much into what she’d said—that she wanted the attention of a man like him. He proceeded to list Miss Beeton’s finest attributes. Well educated, steady character, a fine sense of humor, and very good at croquet.
“Oh, well, the ability to play croquet is very important indeed,” Marta said with feigned sincerity. “Without it, whatever would one do on long summer days with young men at one’s uncle’s estate?”
“Precisely,” David said with a crisp nod. “One must make the most of all social opportunities, after all. With a mallet, if that is the tool on hand.”
Through his school years, society and interaction had been an ordinary aspect of his life that he had taken for granted would always be there in eager wait of his participation. Now, as a man at the helm of his life and work, interactions with other people of his class—women especially—took effort to create and maintain. Life had been settling into routine in these last few years, which had found him spending weeks at a time without any society at all.
It did not help that Father traveled as much as possible to avoid having time with Grandfather, who then managed to monopolize David’s time while spurning social visits he’d had his fill of decades ago. His father and grandfather did not get on, which is why Father chose to live in the dowager cottage a few miles from Grandfather’s estate house. Between running interference between the two of them without choosing sides and helping the estate where he could, there was little time to carve out a social life of his own making. Excepting, that is, for the occasional dinner party that needed an extra man who would attend without a partner, and a holiday in Brighton a few times a year—his favorite place to relax and reset himself. Even there he spent more time with his male friends than in mixed company. It had been a happy turn of events to have met Miss Beeton at the Temples’ dinner last June and then gotten on with her so well in the months that followed.
Only, right now, he realized that the assurance of her regard for him was perhaps the attribute of her character he appreciated the most. There was relief to have found an acceptable woman, yet Miss Beeton did not measure so well to the woman he was currently leading across the floor. A man should not marry to relieve his worries that he might not find a better option. For while he did admire all of Miss Beeton’s qualities that he had listed to Miss Connell just now, Miss Beeton did not . . . excite him. It would be nice to feel excited about the person one chose to share one’s life with.
“Are you all right?”
He realized that his thoughts must have shown on his face more than he had expected. “Forgive me, I lost my place.”
“What were you thinking about just now?” She paused only for a moment, playfully narrowing her eyes as she continued. “And do not hand me over something cordial and frosted with holiday icing. We are honest with one another, remember?”
Her words, coupled with her sincerity, softened something inside him, unraveling it and leaving him with little reason not to tell the truth. “I was thinking what a big decision it is to choose a partner to share one’s life with. There is no turning back, after all.”
“Indeed, it is perhaps the most important decision a person can make in the whole of his existence.”
He nodded, and they danced in silence for several seconds; apparently they had both said all there was to say on that topic. As they danced in silence, however, he wondered what she was thinking about. Then his thoughts went back to Miss Beeton and how much of his feelings for her were regard and relief. He felt rather foolish for prizing those things so highly until now.
“Will you come to London this season?” Miss Connell asked quickly when the music began to rise toward conclusion. It was as though she had been holding the words back but could no longer curtail them. “I should be ever so glad to see you there, even if your Miss Beeton comes with you.”
He looked into her face as they turned, unsure whether Miss Beeton would factor into a visit to London, but he appreciated Miss Connell’s enthusiasm to include him in a different part of her life. She would be eighteen soon, and though that did nothing to decrease the nine years between them in age, she was not a child any longer. If he put off decisive action with Miss Beeton for a few months and went to London, he might be able to explore the connection he felt with Miss Connell. “Perhaps I will come to London, Miss Connell.”
She grinned, showing fine teeth and emphasizing the lines of her collarbones. “Wonderful. I shall look forward to it.”
Yes, he thought as he drew her into another turn that made her smile even wider. Perhaps I will.
Third
Marta
When Mr. David—not D’Artagnan—Woodbury entered the Arrington ballroom, the candles burned a bit brighter, despite the fact that Marta had been rather put out with him for months. He approached her, as he had the two years before, with easy grace and a careful smile on his face that did not seem to be so old as she’d thought when they had first met. Perhaps because she was older and now acquainted with men who had not aged half so well as he had. His skin was smooth, his hair dark and thick, and his shoulders square. When he smiled, the right side of his mouth went up first and remained a tiny bit higher than the left. Had she truly thought him not very handsome that first time they’d met? What a child she’d been.
“Good evening, Miss Connell.”
She refused to smile back at him, though it was difficult. “You did not come to London. Again.”
Lucy and Elizabeth, her cousins, eased away, hiding smiles of their own. They’d heard a great deal about Disa
rming D’Artagnan as the time for the ball approached.
Marta wanted to put her hands on her hips to further illustrate her displeasure, but it would draw too much attention. She had to satisfy herself with lifted eyebrows and a slight jutting of her chin.
He reached for one of her hands, and she let him draw it up between them. He bowed deeply and kissed the back of her glove, which caused a lively shiver up her arm and down her spine. He straightened. “May I put my name on the line for the Christmas waltz, Miss Connell?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but not so severely that it would conceal her playfulness.
“Please, Marta,” he said softly.
She blinked at his use of her name as he continued holding her hand, the one without the dance card attached with a green cord this year. That cord was perhaps the only detail that was unchanged from this year’s ball to the last. Did he notice how much she had changed? She thought she’d seen his notice in the way he tried to hide his appraisal, but she could not be sure. He had not come to London, after all, so perhaps he did not have interest in her at all. She was eighteen years old now. A woman in her own right, and comfortable in her skin in ways she hadn’t been during their prior waltzes. Would he notice that? Would he appreciate her confidence and maturity?
Mr. Woodbury watched her expectantly, and she finally let out a breath and relaxed her shoulders, giving up the severe impression she was trying to maintain.
“Of course you may have the waltz,” she said in a tone of feigned exasperation, unable to contain her smile. She would have been very sorry if he’d ended the tradition. She handed him her dance card and wondered if he noticed that while several other dances were already filled, the waltz had been left empty. Would he guess she’d saved it for him? Two other men had requested it, and she’d said she’d already accepted a request, even though such things were not done; her aunt would be humiliated if she learned that Marta was being so ill-mannered. That Marta believed she could get away with the breach of etiquette was one more display of her growing confidence. Or arrogance.
Mr. Woodbury collected her without a word when “their” dance was cued and led her to the portion of floor just left of the orchestra. When he put his hand at her waist, she experienced that same shimmer she’d experienced before, and she felt sure his fingers pressed a bit tighter. She liked it. The music began, and with steps that moved like a seamless length of silk, they began to dance, the energy running through their clasped hands as they stepped and turned together. Cousin Lizzy had said last year that they made a striking couple, and Marta wondered if other people noticed. She liked the idea that they might be admired, though she would never say as much out loud.
“I really had hoped to see you in London last spring. Why did you not come?”
There was a sorrow in his smile, and he did not meet her eyes. “My father passed away in February. It was unexpected, and his affairs were not in order. The task of making sense of his records and supporting my grandfather, who has not coped well with the loss, has been time-consuming.”
“I am so sorry,” she said, giving his hand a compassionate squeeze. He squeezed back. “I had no idea. That must be so difficult.”
He nodded. “Yes, it took months for my solicitor and me to make significant progress—I’d had no idea things could be so complicated.”
“I meant that it must have been awful on a personal level.”
He looked past her, as he’d done before when he was trying to hide. She did not want him to hide anything from her, but she was reminded in this that they barely knew one another. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he nodded. “That has certainly been the most difficult part,” he said softly. She pulled in a bit closer to hear him better and to show that she was genuinely interested. And to be . . . closer.
He was silent for a few steps, then let out a breath. “My mother had been ill for most of my life. I realize that must have prepared me for her passing prior to her actual death, because even when I sorrowed over her loss, I found peace in not so long a time. She’d been so very sick, after all, and there was comfort in knowing she was no longer in pain. If that makes sense.”
“Yes, of course. My grandmother’s passing when I was a child was similar. We were sad, of course, but she was no longer suffering, and we could soothe ourselves with that knowledge.”
Mr. Woodbury nodded. “My father’s passing has been very different. He was always strong and capable and . . . busy. He became quite ill without warning and lost consciousness within a few days. I wasn’t ready for his death the way I must have been ready for my mother’s.”
“Oh, D’Ar—” She paused and frowned. “I cannot hear such tender feelings and still call you by the name of a young girl’s fantasy, now can I? Though Mr. Woodbury sounds too formal for this exchange.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Fantasy?”
She felt her cheeks flush, and he laughed, a sound that seemed to take him off guard. He sobered quickly and cleared his throat. “My Christian name is David. I’m afraid it is not very romantic.”
She frowned. “I would disagree, but then we have made a pact, you and me, to be honest. I know of no heroes of novels who are named David.”
He laughed again, and this one sounded more natural. “Well, your name, Marta, is very much like my grandmother’s name, Martha, and there is little romantic connection to that for me either.”
She smiled, but then it fell as their earlier topic of conversation returned to her. “I am so sorry for your loss and your pain, David. As I get older, I more keenly feel the anxiety of what I would do without my parents. You must miss him a great deal.”
“We were not even very close, he and I,” David said, looking past her again. “He and Grandfather did not get on, and my attempts to divide my time between them left me out of my father’s company a great deal, I’ve realized. He also had a great many hobbies and regularly traveled away from the estate, which I rather resented. Knowing he is gone, however, has left me with this empty place I cannot quite determine how to fill.”
“Perhaps what you miss the most is the hope you had that one day the two of you would be closer.”
He considered that and then nodded. “That might be exactly right.”
They danced in silence while David seemed to ponder.
After nearly a minute, he met Marta’s eyes once more. “I think it is exactly what you said. I had always thought that I would reach a point when whatever distance existed between us would disappear, perhaps after Grandfather’s death, which I always expected would come before my father’s. I am, instead, left with that distance now and no hope of changing it.”
Marta nodded her understanding. “I have heard that our biggest regrets in life will not be what we have done but what we have not done.”
“Precisely,” he said. “I believe Grandfather is feeling much the same way. Common grief has been good for our own relationship, but it is difficult to leave him—I have not traveled all these months. Coming here was my first time away from the estate, yet I feel enormously guilty for having left at all. He seems to have aged a great deal since my father’s death—Father was his only child. The broken line has shaken us both a great deal.”
She opened her mouth to say more but could not think what else she could add. David remained lost in thought, but when he moved just an inch closer to her, she met him eagerly, aware of the warmth of his body and the gentle ebb and flow of his breath. She imagined coming to a stop and resting her head against his chest, his arms coming around her back. The idea was so powerful that she closed her eyes to better picture it, all without missing a single step. It was not the romance or the passion that drew her imagination, however; it was the sincerity of wanting to help him. To comfort him, hold him. She was left with only words to inadequately attempt the comfort she wished to share. “I am so very sorry, David. If there is anything I can do to help.”
He smiled at her, honest enough to warm her very soul. “This dance
is immensely helpful. I am grateful you saved it for me.”
So he had realized she’d put off other men so that they might have their dance. Yet his comment reminded her of something she’d forgotten in light of his sad news about his father. “I do hope Miss Beeton has been on hand to comfort you.” She said the words in a bright voice, even though they brought a twinge of jealousy toward the woman, whom she’d never met. She’d thought about her a fair amount, however. What sort of woman drew the attention of a man like David Woodbury? More mature than Marta, that was for certain, and likely blessed with better manners too.
His smiled stiffened, and he took a deep breath. “I’m afraid that I neglected our correspondence in the months following my father’s death. I am sorry to admit that I thought of her very little, though she wrote me her condolences when she heard the news. By the time I had space enough to resume our connection, I realized that I was doing so out of obligation, not preference. I instead wrote her to thank her for the letter, apologize for my delay in response, and wish her happy in the future, as I was now committed to my grandfather and the estate that would be mine much sooner than I had anticipated.”
“Oh, David,” Marta said, though she was confused at her own feelings regarding what he’d done. She was sad for his loss of connection to Miss Beeton for his sake, but for her sake—for their sake, perhaps—she felt a rush of possibility.
“Do not feel sorry for me, Marta,” David said, and he actually laughed, which she found even more confusing. “She replied with a confession—she had accepted the hand of a man in her own parish, a widower who could offer her a comfortable and steady life. I received her letter just two weeks before she became a married woman. So I am left with my heart intact and the assurance that I did not break hers.”
A Christmas Waltz Page 3
