Marrying Christopher by Michele Paige Holmes Page B

swath of lantern light, then back again. On their second turn they traveled farther, passing Murphy, who looked at them as if they’d both gone mad.
    As they reached the edge of the upper deck and paused to return the other direction, Christopher kicked up his heels in an attempted jig— and failed miserably, landing sideways on his ankle and nearly falling. Only Miss Abbott’s firm grip kept him from making a complete fool of himself.
    “We shall see who is still standing.” She repeated his earlier words, then pulled one of her hands away to cover her mouth in an attempt to hide her laughter.
    “I meant to do that,” he said. “Trying to make you feel more confident.” Christopher released her other hand and began clapping and high-stepping in a circle around her.
    She held her skirts at the sides and began a jig of her own, pointing her toes in front of her as she skipped about.
    “Not bad,” he said. “Are you sure you’re not Irish instead of French?”
    She shook her head. “But I’ve Scottish blood, too,” she boasted. “And my grandmother was a fine dancer.”
    “That explains it.” Christopher looped his hand through the crook of her arm, and, facing each other, they began to circle about. Her smile was infectious, and he felt his own grin broaden.
    Grace told me dancing was enjoyable, but I never believed her.
    They passed beneath another lantern, and he saw that Miss Abbott’s face was flushed. Her eyes were bright and merry, and when they locked on his for the merest of seconds, something in her look set his heart racing.
    “Ooh, what are you doing? May I join you?” Miss Cosgrove’s shrill, overexcited voice put an abrupt end to the moment and whatever it was he’d been feeling.
    “How fun! Are they having a party on the other ship? I simply adore parties— and balls. And dancing. What a lovely idea. And in the moonlight too. I shall have to write to all of my friends and tell them I attended a midnight dance on deck only my second night aboard ship.”
    “It’s not midnight,” Christopher cut in before she could say more. She stood before them, hands clasped in front of her and still overdressed in the ridiculous ensemble she’d appeared in at dinner. How many cabins did she and her mother have, anyway? Where do they store all those clothes?
    “Of course you may join us,” Miss Abbott said, freeing her arm from his and stepping aside. “Mr. Thatcher is a most excellent dancer.” She cast a sly look his direction, almost giving him the impression she knew of his discomfort.
    “Oh, that is good to know,” Miss Cosgrove gushed. “You can practice with me so I may be ready for the soirees I shall be attending once we reach New York. Mr. Vancer is to host a ball to welcome me. And Mother says his family always holds another at the year’s end— a masquerade ball. Can you imagine?” She whirled about. “Everyone comes wearing a mask, so you cannot tell who anyone is. It sounds delightful.”
    Christopher thought it sounded like she ought to need a drink after such a long speech. He was beginning to feel he needed one just from listening to her.
    “Go on and dance,” Miss Abbott said. “The musicians are just starting another piece.” She stepped backward, leaning against the rail, and Christopher could have sworn he saw a bit of mischief in her brown eyes.
    Reluctantly he turned from her and faced Miss Cosgrove. “If the lady would care to.”
    She giggled— a most annoying sound. Whereas Miss Abbott’s laughter is… refreshing.
    Miss Cosgrove walked toward him, her hips swaying dramatically as they were wont to do whenever she moved. He wondered who had taught her such an outlandish swagger and how long it had taken her to master. He was quite certain he couldn’t walk thusly, no matter how he practiced.
    He held his hands out, intending to promenade about with her as he had Miss Abbott, but Miss Cosgrove moved too close for that and placed her hand at his