do me the honor of dancing the next two sets with me?” He held out his hand, utterly confident of her answer.
Mrs. Birtwistle stared at the hand, long fingered and strong looking, with nearly the same stunned expression Marina must have had on her face.
“Oh.” Mrs. Birtwistle could barely be heard, and without another sound, she took his hand.
Marina looked up at the Marquis and recalled that she should close her mouth. He looked at her with his usual expression—unperturbed arrogance—except for the gleam in his eyes.
***
Such was the success of the evening, Marina mused as she gazed around the ballroom, that almost anything could occur—even a staid minuet—and everyone would express their delight and pleasure.
Before the ball, Mama had declared that Lord Buckleigh would dance with his daughters. She informed him, using a severe tone, that he would stand up with Marina for the last dance before super and then open the second half of the ball with his youngest daughter.
Marina thought the idea lovely, the only issue being that Papa was not a great dancer, and did not know the current dances. It was decided that they would have to dance a minuet, of all things, something he remembered from his younger days.
Deirdre had been mutinous, complaining that the minuet was deadly dull and quite out of fashion, but soon realized that Mama did not intend to relent.
Marina had quite enjoyed dancing with Papa before supper, and now she stood amongst some of the younger people watching the older people—and Deirdre, who was actually smiling—make the formal, stylized figures. There were not that many couples on the floor, but everyone watching found the scene entertaining as well as charming.
Marina smiled to see Mrs. Birtwistle circling Mr. Penhurst and looking positively girlish. Even her brother, Major Fielding, was on the floor with Mrs. Ralston, doing a creditable job despite his damaged leg.
Marina applied her fan to her warm cheeks, even though all the French doors were open to the balcony. Mama had instructed the footmen to keep the five-foot-tall hearths at either end of the room blazing. The room, with all the chandeliers, candles and bodies, did not need such large fires, but Mama liked the ambience it created.
Marina decided to get some fresh air before the next set, and slipped back from the guests and stepped through the open doors onto the torchlit balcony.
She did not immediately see anyone else, and for that she was grateful; it gave her a few moments to breathe in the cool air and think of the evening.
A slight movement caught her attention. Lord Cortland stood at the far end of the balcony, at the balustrade with his back to her.
She stayed still, watching him. He did not stand like a man attending a ball. He stood with his powerful legs braced apart, his wide shoulders straight—ready for battle instead of a country dance.
She considered again his most unexpected behavior of dancing with Mrs. Birtwistle and really could not account for it.
And it seemed that no one else in the room had recovered from the spectacle of a man of Cortland’s elevated rank and scandalous reputation dancing with the Widow Birtwistle. Twice. Since then, everyone watched him closely, barely hiding their whispers. Yet, most backed away as he moved through the room, seemingly too awed to address him with ease.
Suddenly, he turned and she met his gaze across the torchlit distance. He watched her in silence for several long moments, not with Sefton’s charm and eagerness, but with a smoldering gleam that made her feel aware of herself in a way she never had before. Without a word, he approached.
A nervous flutter came to her throat and she suppressed her first urge to flee. She would not run like a silly girl, and besides, she wished to speak to him about Mrs. Birtwistle. She took a few steps forward, meeting him halfway.
“My lord, it was kind of you to ask Mrs. Birtwistle to dance,” she spoke quickly, wishing
Mrs. Birtwistle stared at the hand, long fingered and strong looking, with nearly the same stunned expression Marina must have had on her face.
“Oh.” Mrs. Birtwistle could barely be heard, and without another sound, she took his hand.
Marina looked up at the Marquis and recalled that she should close her mouth. He looked at her with his usual expression—unperturbed arrogance—except for the gleam in his eyes.
***
Such was the success of the evening, Marina mused as she gazed around the ballroom, that almost anything could occur—even a staid minuet—and everyone would express their delight and pleasure.
Before the ball, Mama had declared that Lord Buckleigh would dance with his daughters. She informed him, using a severe tone, that he would stand up with Marina for the last dance before super and then open the second half of the ball with his youngest daughter.
Marina thought the idea lovely, the only issue being that Papa was not a great dancer, and did not know the current dances. It was decided that they would have to dance a minuet, of all things, something he remembered from his younger days.
Deirdre had been mutinous, complaining that the minuet was deadly dull and quite out of fashion, but soon realized that Mama did not intend to relent.
Marina had quite enjoyed dancing with Papa before supper, and now she stood amongst some of the younger people watching the older people—and Deirdre, who was actually smiling—make the formal, stylized figures. There were not that many couples on the floor, but everyone watching found the scene entertaining as well as charming.
Marina smiled to see Mrs. Birtwistle circling Mr. Penhurst and looking positively girlish. Even her brother, Major Fielding, was on the floor with Mrs. Ralston, doing a creditable job despite his damaged leg.
Marina applied her fan to her warm cheeks, even though all the French doors were open to the balcony. Mama had instructed the footmen to keep the five-foot-tall hearths at either end of the room blazing. The room, with all the chandeliers, candles and bodies, did not need such large fires, but Mama liked the ambience it created.
Marina decided to get some fresh air before the next set, and slipped back from the guests and stepped through the open doors onto the torchlit balcony.
She did not immediately see anyone else, and for that she was grateful; it gave her a few moments to breathe in the cool air and think of the evening.
A slight movement caught her attention. Lord Cortland stood at the far end of the balcony, at the balustrade with his back to her.
She stayed still, watching him. He did not stand like a man attending a ball. He stood with his powerful legs braced apart, his wide shoulders straight—ready for battle instead of a country dance.
She considered again his most unexpected behavior of dancing with Mrs. Birtwistle and really could not account for it.
And it seemed that no one else in the room had recovered from the spectacle of a man of Cortland’s elevated rank and scandalous reputation dancing with the Widow Birtwistle. Twice. Since then, everyone watched him closely, barely hiding their whispers. Yet, most backed away as he moved through the room, seemingly too awed to address him with ease.
Suddenly, he turned and she met his gaze across the torchlit distance. He watched her in silence for several long moments, not with Sefton’s charm and eagerness, but with a smoldering gleam that made her feel aware of herself in a way she never had before. Without a word, he approached.
A nervous flutter came to her throat and she suppressed her first urge to flee. She would not run like a silly girl, and besides, she wished to speak to him about Mrs. Birtwistle. She took a few steps forward, meeting him halfway.
“My lord, it was kind of you to ask Mrs. Birtwistle to dance,” she spoke quickly, wishing
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