Chapter 4

Chapter Four

J ames had been invited to the Carletons' ball along with the rest of his family. He hadn't planned on attending. He'd already indulged his unwilling attraction to Hannah Heywood far more than was good for him.

By rights, he should have left Bath days ago. He should have returned to Worth House or to Beasley Park. Better yet, he should have traveled to London. It was there among the beau monde where he would find the bride best suited to his future plans. A lady who would aid him in rehabilitating the Beresford name, not add a further complication to his efforts.

But James hadn't done any of those things. He'd remained in Bath, brooding over his conflicted feelings with increasing aggravation.

He wasn't generally an indecisive man. In the past, he'd always known his own mind. Decisions had come easily to him, every choice made to advance his goals and further his familial ambitions. He'd never felt himself at odds with a course he'd chosen. And he'd certainly never had to rationalize a bad choice to suit his own selfish desires.

The act of doing so left a sour feeling in his stomach. But there was no favorable alternative. Not when his attraction to Miss Heywood was affecting his mood, his work, and even his sleep.

Having made up his mind, James summoned his faithful valet, Smith, to help him change.

A short time later, James arrived at the Carletons' house, his muscles tight with a bitter resolve. A buoyant country dance was playing when he entered the ballroom. The ball was already half over. The candles in the two large chandeliers had burned low, and the air was redolent with the fragrance of beeswax floor polish, perspiration, and eau de cologne.

As luck would have it, it was James's younger brother, Ivo, who first spied his arrival.

"You dratted scoundrel," he said, approaching James with a smile. "Must you always be so disobliging? That's twenty pounds I'm out."

James arched a supercilious brow at his brother.

Ivo came to a halt in front of him. Like all the Beresford males, he was possessed of fair hair and gray eyes, with a tall, athletic figure. "Kate wagered me that you'd appear before the supper dance. I bet that you'd come afterward, if you came at all."

"The supper dance is next, I take it," James said, unamused by his brother and sister's antics.

"A waltz." Ivo's eyes danced with gleeful humor behind his spectacles. "Shall I direct you to Miss Heywood's parents?"

James didn't rise to his younger sibling's bait. It wasn't the first time Ivo had nettled him about Miss Heywood. James had, initially, strenuously objected to Ivo's courtship of Meg Burton-Smythe. Ivo naturally took great pleasure at the prospect of James abandoning his long-held principles for what he perceived as an equally unsuitable young lady.

"That won't be necessary," James said coolly. He cast his gaze over the room, finding Captain Heywood and his wife seated near the bank of windows. They appeared to be watching the dancing.

"Miss Heywood isn't with them," Ivo informed him, as though James hadn't eyes enough to see for himself. "She's danced every set since the opening polonaise. Lord Fennick is partnering her for this one." He shot a mischievous glance toward the dancers. "A handsome devil if I say so myself."

James stiffened. He knew Lord Fennick. They had been at Oxford together. They hadn't been friends then, or even friendly. Exactly the opposite. Fennick had frequently made sly, mocking references to the Beresford family's scandalous history, perpetually trying—and failing—to provoke James to anger.

Fennick had also been instrumental in getting James blackballed from the university's informal boxing club. It had been a well-aimed blow, considering James's skill at the sport. One that Fennick had loudly attributed to the purported questionableness of James's pedigree.

Following his brother's gaze, James found his former rival at the end of the long line of dancers, wearing the same oily smile and equally oily mustache he'd worn at school. Miss Heywood was positioned across from him. Clad in a white, rose-trimmed ball gown, she was smiling shyly up at her partner as he turned her in a wide circle before they separated and resumed their place in the line. The delicate flounces of lace at her bosom and hem fluttered as she moved.

James's chest tightened. He was struck anew by the inherent quietness and grace in her person. She was lovely, of course. But it wasn't that which had beguiled him so thoroughly against his will—against his self-interest and his reason. It was the softness in her. The tender gravity in her gaze, and the reticence in her manner.

He had been pursued all his life. From boyhood, girls had been throwing their handkerchiefs at him. He'd long become adept at avoiding all efforts to entrap him into matrimony. But Miss Heywood hadn't made any attempts in that vein. Quite the reverse. She often took pains to evade his company.

As he looked at her, James experienced a rare, and totally unfamiliar flicker of masculine insecurity. What if it wasn't only shyness that made her behave as she did toward him? What if she simply didn't like him?

The music swelled as the country dance neared its end.

Dismissing his doubts, James headed toward Miss Heywood's parents.

Ivo followed him for a few steps. "Good lord. You really came for her sake, didn't you?"

James flashed his brother an arctic glare. "Have you nothing better to do?"

"What could be better than this?" Ivo wondered. "But have no fear. I won't spoil your air of frozen dignity. I shall enjoy my triumph from afar until Meg returns from the ladies' retiring room."

"She has my sympathies," James muttered.

Ivo grinned. "And now I've provoked you to spite. This evening gets better and better."

James strode on, privately grateful when Ivo had the decency to give up his pursuit. To James's siblings, everything was a lark. They had no sense of decorum. If the future of the family were left to them, the Beresford name would soon be synonymous with folly.

He made his way through the crowd, nodding at passing acquaintances, but not stopping until he reached the Heywoods.

On catching sight of him, Mrs. Heywood murmured something to her husband. Captain Heywood's already stern expression seemed to grow sterner still. He and his wife rose from their seats.

"Captain. Mrs. Heywood." James bowed.

"Lord St. Clare." Captain Heywood bowed in return. He was a serious gentleman, with graying black hair and the same military bearing as his son. An honorable gentleman too, by James's reckoning.

"My lord." Mrs. Heywood inclined her head. She possessed the same air of quiet reserve as her daughter, but there was no shyness about her. She looked James directly in the eye. "I didn't realize you would be attending this evening."

"I had not anticipated being free," James replied. "By happy chance, I found myself at liberty."

"A happy chance indeed," Mrs. Heywood said.

With a flourish of strings, the country dance came to a close. The couples dispersed from the floor, gentlemen leading ladies back to their parents and friends. Lord Fennick emerged through the crowd with Miss Heywood on his arm. Her gaze at once alighted on James. An expression of astonishment passed over her face.

"Miss Heywood." James sketched her a bow as she came to join them.

Her eyes were very wide. "Lord St. Clare." She curtsied.

Lord Fennick exchanged a bow with James. "St. Clare."

"Fennick," James said.

Fennick's mouth curled in a sneering smile as he looked at James. But he didn't prolong the encounter. He thanked Miss Heywood for the dance and then, bowing once again to her and her parents, promptly took his leave.

Miss Heywood scarcely seemed to register his departure. She was staring at James.

"Forgive my tardiness," he said to her. "I was unavoidably detained."

"But I didn't—" She faltered. "That is, I-I wasn't expecting you."

James couldn't tell if his absence had been noted with any degree of regret on her part. He sincerely hoped it hadn't. Though his indecision had been justified, and his reluctance to commit himself well-merited, he had no desire to hurt her. "I trust I'm not too late to claim the next dance?"

Miss Heywood exchanged an uncertain look with her parents before answering. "It's the supper dance, my lord. And…it's a waltz."

"Ah," he said. "I'm not tardy after all, it seems. Indeed, it appears I'm right on time." He offered her his hand. "If you would do me the honor?"

Miss Heywood's cheeks pinkened. She slowly slipped her hand into his. "I thank you, yes."

James felt a surge of satisfaction. She may not be the right young lady for him, but the moment felt right nonetheless. He was determined to make the most of it.

* * *

Hannah's heart fluttered wildly as Lord St. Clare led her out onto the polished wood dance floor. He drew her through the crowd, away from her parents and any interested friends or relations, not stopping until they'd reached the opposite end of the ballroom.

Horns and strings swelled to life as the orchestra commenced the first chords of a dramatic waltz. Hannah recognized the piece. It was a popular composition by the Austrian composer Joseph Lanner. She had the music for it at home, along with several other of her favorite of Lanner's waltzes.

The couples surrounding them stepped into each other's arms with well-practiced elegance.

Lord St. Clare turned to face Hannah, his gloved hand still holding hers.

Looking up at him, a surge of shyness went through her, worse than any she'd felt since arriving at the Carletons'. She'd never seen him in full evening dress before. The crisp white necktie, white waistcoat, and flawlessly cut black suit set off his tall, broad-shouldered frame to magnificent effect, amplifying his already daunting handsomeness to an uncomfortable degree.

She had previously had difficulty meeting his eyes, but now… How was she to face such golden splendor with even a semblance of composure? The effort to keep her countenance?—

His arm circled her waist, strong and certain, making her breath catch in her throat.

For an instant, her mind went blank. She had to prompt herself to set her hand on his shoulder in return. It was firm as granite under her fingers, with no trace of padding. His commanding figure owed nothing to a tailor's art. He was a sportsman like the rest of his family, his leisure time taken up with riding, fencing, and boxing.

Drawing her closer against him, he effortlessly spun her into the first turn.

Hannah sucked in another sharp breath.

It had been months since they'd waltzed together at Beasley Park. She'd forgotten how it felt to be held by him. The heat. The decisiveness. The lean, muscular power.

Her pulse raced as he guided her across the floor. Many of the older generation still considered the waltz a scandalous dance. It necessitated the partners being in a closed hold, which some likened to embracing on the dance floor. Hannah had never credited the comparison while practicing with her dancing master, or with her brother. But when Lord St. Clare was her partner, she felt the similarity all too keenly.

If he was feeling it too, he didn't show it. He gazed down at her, his expression as inscrutable as ever. They danced in silence for several moments before he spoke. "My brother informs me that your debut has been a great success."

"I don't know about that, sir," she replied breathlessly.

"He claims you've danced every set."

"I have," she acknowledged. "Though never twice with the same gentleman. I fear I'm not a very congenial partner."

"No? I find you quite congenial." His arm tightened around her waist holding her closer. Her rose-festooned skirts swirled about his legs. "See how well we fit together?"

Hannah's heart quickened. "It's owing to your mastery of the dance, not to mine."

"You are too humble, Miss Heywood."

A thrill went through her as he waltzed her around the room. Dancers twirled past them, swooping and turning, but Hannah paid them no mind. The music was humming in her veins, her feet following Lord St. Clare's lead as naturally as if they'd been practicing together.

She looked up at him in wonder. "How easy you make it seem."

"A waltz shouldn't be difficult."

"It isn't with you."

The hard lines of his face softened a fraction. "I shall take that as a compliment."

She gripped his shoulder as they made another sweeping turn. A smile curved her lips. She'd never known dancing with a man could be so exhilarating. And that it should be so with him! A gentleman who usually made her too nervous to keep her thoughts in order, let alone her steps.

"I didn't think you would be here this evening," she confessed.

"I've been remiss," Lord St. Clare said. "I should have made my intentions plain."

"You've doubtless been busy." Though she couldn't imagine with what. His reasons for remaining in Bath were a mystery to her. Aside from Ivo's engagement, there was nothing to keep him here.

Unless Hannah's mother had been right.

Her words echoed at the back of Hannah's mind. Your brother fears Lord St. Clare has developed a tendre for you.

A tendre.

Hannah still couldn't believe it. And yet…

And yet, he had come tonight. Not just to dance with her, but to partner her in the waltz.

"You have your brother's wedding to Miss Burton-Smythe to think of," Hannah continued when the silence had stretched too long. "And Kate's wedding to Charles too." She gave him another faint smile. "We shall soon be family, you and I. Brother and sister, practically."

He looked back at her, unsmiling. "Not quite brother and sister."

Warmth suffused Hannah's midsection. He seemed so serious. She could almost believe he did feel something for her other than the civility one might owe to the sister of his future brother-in-law.

It was a dangerous prospect. Tonight, when she was alone in her room with her dogs, Hannah might allow herself to entertain it. But not here. Not while they were dancing, at least. It would be a sure recipe for a stumble.

She lapsed into silence again, letting him guide her as the other dancers waltzed past and the music flowed over them. All the while, he gazed down, giving her the full force of his attention. Her cheeks heated under the intensity of it.

"My lord, I?—"

"James," he said.

She blinked in surprise. Her head shook reflexively. "Oh, but I couldn't."

"You address my brothers by their given names, do you not?"

"Well…yes. But Ivo and Jack aren't…" She fumbled for the words to explain.

Ivo and Jack were boys to her. Teasing, merry-hearted brothers. While Lord St. Clare was in every way a man. And not a brother or any other kind of relation, but a handsome, unattainable gentleman so perfect that, most times, he didn't seem entirely human.

"I would be gratified if you bestowed me with the same honor," he said.

Hannah could think of no polite way to refuse. "If you insist." She gave him a disgruntled glance. "But I must say it feels like an unforgiveable liberty."

His mouth quirked faintly. "Am I so above your touch?"

"Not just mine," she said candidly. "Everyone's." She paused. "You may call me by my given name if you wish it."

"I very much wish it," he said. "Hannah."

The butterflies in her stomach fluttered their wings with increased vigor. Rarely had anyone spoken her name with such husky inflection. She wondered if she'd imagined it?

He spun her in another turn, waltzing her down the length of the floor. Hannah caught a fleeting glance of her mother and father standing at the side of the ballroom. They weren't alone. Lord and Lady Allendale were with them.

Hannah felt a flicker of self-consciousness. "They're all watching us."

James cast a glance at their parents before returning his attention to Hannah's face. "Not only us. Charles and Kate, and Ivo and Miss Burton-Smythe are dancing as well."

"Are they? I haven't seen them." Hannah turned her head to look for the others only to lose track of her steps. She nearly trod on James's foot. "Oh! I do beg your pardon!"

"Keep your eyes on mine," he said.

Her gaze jerked to his in apology. "I'm not usually so clumsy."

"You're not clumsy at all."

"Not so long as I let you lead," she said, chagrined.

"Then let me," he said. "I won't steer you wrong."