boldness until she saw the kindling light in his gaze. She cast down her eyes in a confusion of emotions.
Abby’s next partner was Lord Fielding. He was disgruntled that he had a mere country-dance when the Marquess of Darlington had been honored with a waltz. H e had a good many things to say under his breath as he led her out.
It was not a comfortable set from Abby’s point of view. His lordship several times attempted to strike up a conversation with her, only to be interrupted by the constant shift of partners in the fast country set. By the time the dance was ended, Lord Fielding’s usual unflappability had been impaired.
“Miss Fairchilde, I should like to talk to you,” said Lord Fielding forcibly.
“Of course, my lord,” said Abby, glancing up at him inquiringly. “What is it you wish to say to me?”
He paused on the floor, making her stop with him. He gathered one of her hands in both of his and looked down at her upturned face from his great height. “Miss Fairchilde, as you know, I hold you in high regard.”
Abby felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Surely Lord Fielding had not chosen this moment and this place to make a declaration to her. She could not let him, she simply could not. She said hastily, “Oh, there is my sister, waving to me. I must go to her, my lord!”
She slipped free from her erstwhile partner and started back toward her chair. Taken aback, Lord Fiel ding stammered agreement and closely followed her off of the floor.
August Fairchilde was handing his elder sister to her chair. He turned just as Abby precipitously ar rived, Lord Fielding in tow. He caught the expression on her face. With what his favorite sister thought a lamentable lack of tact, he said, “My word, Abby, you look like a hunted rabbit.”
Abby cast him an anguished glance, at once afraid that Lord Fielding was close enough to have heard. “Shush, August!”
August’s mobile brows flipped upward. He glanced with comprehension at Lord Fielding, who quickly closed the distance between himself and Abby. August frowned thoughtfully, again glancing at his sis ter as she sought her seat.
Mrs. Crocker greeted Lord Fielding with a smile and a friendly greeting, holding out her hand to him. “My lord! August was squiring me on the dance floor, or otherwise I would have spoken to you earlier. How good of you to interrupt your conversation with Abby to recognize me.”
Lord Fielding bowed over Mrs. Crocker’s hand. Always circumspect in his manners, he gave a polite nod to August Fairchilde when he had straightened. “It is always a pleasure to speak with you, ma’am. I do not see Mr. Crocker?”
“Not this evening. He declared himself to be worn to the bone with all of our flighty entertainments and elected to a quiet dinner and evening,” said Mrs. Crocker with a chuckle. Her brown eyes gleamed with amusement. “My husband is exceedingly forbearing, my lord, but he is not made to be a chaperone.”
“Indeed, what gentleman is?” said Lord Fielding politely.
“Exactly so, my lord. I am fair worn to the bone already, and I stepped into Peter’s shoes scarce an hour past,” said August with a sigh as he leaned over Abby’s chair, half shielding her from Lord Fielding’s sight.
“Ungallant, August,” said Mrs. Crocker with a chuckle.
Abby plied her fan, striking up a conversation with her mother and aunt. She was acutely aware of Lord Fielding’s several glances in her direction, but she pre tended not to see. Mrs. Crocker, aided now and again by August, held a lively discourse with his lordship for several minutes.
When Lord Fielding had bowed himself off, Abby turned with a sigh to her sister and brother. “Thank you!”
“For what, you goose? I could see you had been put out of countenance. I knew you would only color up and become tangled in your own periods if I were to draw you into the conversation,” said Mrs. Crocker. She eyed her sister with speculation. “Whatever did his
Abby’s next partner was Lord Fielding. He was disgruntled that he had a mere country-dance when the Marquess of Darlington had been honored with a waltz. H e had a good many things to say under his breath as he led her out.
It was not a comfortable set from Abby’s point of view. His lordship several times attempted to strike up a conversation with her, only to be interrupted by the constant shift of partners in the fast country set. By the time the dance was ended, Lord Fielding’s usual unflappability had been impaired.
“Miss Fairchilde, I should like to talk to you,” said Lord Fielding forcibly.
“Of course, my lord,” said Abby, glancing up at him inquiringly. “What is it you wish to say to me?”
He paused on the floor, making her stop with him. He gathered one of her hands in both of his and looked down at her upturned face from his great height. “Miss Fairchilde, as you know, I hold you in high regard.”
Abby felt a sinking in the pit of her stomach. Surely Lord Fielding had not chosen this moment and this place to make a declaration to her. She could not let him, she simply could not. She said hastily, “Oh, there is my sister, waving to me. I must go to her, my lord!”
She slipped free from her erstwhile partner and started back toward her chair. Taken aback, Lord Fiel ding stammered agreement and closely followed her off of the floor.
August Fairchilde was handing his elder sister to her chair. He turned just as Abby precipitously ar rived, Lord Fielding in tow. He caught the expression on her face. With what his favorite sister thought a lamentable lack of tact, he said, “My word, Abby, you look like a hunted rabbit.”
Abby cast him an anguished glance, at once afraid that Lord Fielding was close enough to have heard. “Shush, August!”
August’s mobile brows flipped upward. He glanced with comprehension at Lord Fielding, who quickly closed the distance between himself and Abby. August frowned thoughtfully, again glancing at his sis ter as she sought her seat.
Mrs. Crocker greeted Lord Fielding with a smile and a friendly greeting, holding out her hand to him. “My lord! August was squiring me on the dance floor, or otherwise I would have spoken to you earlier. How good of you to interrupt your conversation with Abby to recognize me.”
Lord Fielding bowed over Mrs. Crocker’s hand. Always circumspect in his manners, he gave a polite nod to August Fairchilde when he had straightened. “It is always a pleasure to speak with you, ma’am. I do not see Mr. Crocker?”
“Not this evening. He declared himself to be worn to the bone with all of our flighty entertainments and elected to a quiet dinner and evening,” said Mrs. Crocker with a chuckle. Her brown eyes gleamed with amusement. “My husband is exceedingly forbearing, my lord, but he is not made to be a chaperone.”
“Indeed, what gentleman is?” said Lord Fielding politely.
“Exactly so, my lord. I am fair worn to the bone already, and I stepped into Peter’s shoes scarce an hour past,” said August with a sigh as he leaned over Abby’s chair, half shielding her from Lord Fielding’s sight.
“Ungallant, August,” said Mrs. Crocker with a chuckle.
Abby plied her fan, striking up a conversation with her mother and aunt. She was acutely aware of Lord Fielding’s several glances in her direction, but she pre tended not to see. Mrs. Crocker, aided now and again by August, held a lively discourse with his lordship for several minutes.
When Lord Fielding had bowed himself off, Abby turned with a sigh to her sister and brother. “Thank you!”
“For what, you goose? I could see you had been put out of countenance. I knew you would only color up and become tangled in your own periods if I were to draw you into the conversation,” said Mrs. Crocker. She eyed her sister with speculation. “Whatever did his
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