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Chapter Eight

The waltz was not Abigail’s best dance.

She didn’t consider herself particularly graceful, having never had the opportunity to practice very often. An expensive dance tutor had been engaged when they were younger, but mainly for Scarlett’s benefit. The tutor had adored Scarlett at once, and spent hours with the girl, ignoring Abigail almost entirely. She’d learnt the dances, naturally, but once the steps had more or less lodged herself into her mind, Abigail had avoided both dancing and her tutor as best as she could.

The waltz was fairly new to Society, and still considered shocking by some. Perhaps it was the proximity, the forced intimacy of the dance, or perhaps it was simply amusing to compel the ladies and gentlemen of the ton to adhere to frivolous conventions.

***

Could have been any one of those reasons. Or all, perhaps.

Either way, the point was that Abigail had not danced the waltz before in company. Never, in fact, outside their own drawing room, which had been repurposed as the dancing room when the tutor was in residence.

For the time being, then, she ignored any opportunity to talk, and instead focused on putting her feet where they were meant to be.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Miss Atwater.”

Her head snapped up. Lord Alexander was not looking at her. He was addressing her, of course, but his eyes were fixed over her head, mouth drawn in tightly at the edges.

“It’s alright,” she heard herself say. “I’m not uncomfortable.”

“I asked a Miss White to dance about two years ago. There was such a flutter, and I had no idea what I’d done wrong. They ushered her out and went home, I think. I learned later that the dance was to be a waltz, and Miss White was only permitted to waltz with a man she was engaged to. It was a rather unfashionable viewpoint, even then, but I never intended to make her feel so uncomfortable. Certainly not to force her to leave. My father was furious. I thought he’d beat me, I really did.”

Abigail’s eyes widened. She opened her mouth, perhaps to ask a question, but closed it again. Alexander had gone quiet, too.

“Well, I am not uncomfortable,” she managed at last.

Was this what it was going to be like? Awkward conversation, exchanging the same old points of views and opinions – the fashionable, boring ones – until the dance ended and they went their separate ways?

For some reason, that idea was not a pleasant one. A disappointing one. His fingers, wrapped around her gloved ones, flexed almost subconsciously. It was odd, having a man’s hand at her waist like that.

Perhaps this is why Scarlett enjoys the waltz so much, she thought wryly. She loves attention, after all.

The dance demanded that they circle around, until Abigail was facing the section of the crowd Alexander had been facing before.

Out of all the people standing there, she knew exactly who he had been staring at.

A woman stood there, not anyone Abigail knew, and she was achingly beautiful. Tall, slim, blonde-haired and creamy-skinned, the woman was resplendent in black satin. A widow, then, but young and beautiful, and likely to marry again before the Season was out, if she wanted to.

A peacock, besides which Abigail would look like a drab old peahen.

I’m used to that, of course, she thought bleakly. The woman’s eyes were fixed on Alexander, a veiled look in her eyes. Then she looked at Abigail, and cold water ran down her spine.

It was not a pleasant look. It was the sort of look that implied the woman would like to come storming across the ballroom floor, wrench Abigail out of the arms of her partner, and perhaps bang her head on the floor a little.

The dance spun them away and moved them away entirely. Abigail cleared her throat.

“So, did you ask me to dance in order to avoid that woman, then?”

He flinched, meeting her gaze squarely for the first time since the dance had begun.

“What? I… no, no, of course not, I wouldn’t…” he trailed off, looking guilty. “Would you be horribly offended if I said yes?”

“Not at all,” Abigail answered, and realized at once that it was a lie.

You fool, muttered a warning voice in the back of her head that sounded remarkably like Aunt Florence. Weren’t you warned to leave that man alone? He’s dangerous, and you know it.

Dangerous did not seem to fit Lord Alexander Willenshire. He was so sweet, so handsome, so kind …

You don’t know he’s kind.

“Are you going to tell me the story, then?” she asked, spinning deftly under his arm as the dance required. So far, she hadn’t trod on anyone’s feet, or tripped on her own hem. So far, so good.

Alexander cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, I mean…”

“Come on, my lord. You owe me, don’t you? I’m interested to know how such a beautiful young woman could inspire such fear.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Fear is the right word, actually. Well, you know how Society is set up as a sort of hunting game? Ladies do the hunting, without seeming to hunt, naturally, and gentlemen try to escape or let themselves be caught as their fancy goes.”

“What a lovely way of describing it.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “Sarcasm, Miss Atwater? In a young lady? Shocking.”

She tilted her chin. “I prefer to believe that my sense of humour is simply very delicate.”

“Mm-hm. Well, Lady Diana Lockwell is chasing me . To marry, or to murder, I’m not entirely sure. She wanted to dance, I think, and I would rather not have danced with her, so I fled. Cowardly, yes, but I’m nothing if not honest about my own flaws.”

He fell silent after that, and Abigail waited in vain for more. She knew there had to be more, and looked out for the woman – Lady Diana Lockwell – when the dance brought them round again.

This time, though, she was gone, and Abigail felt oddly deflated. Alexander’s face was pale and tight, and she felt as though she’d said the wrong thing.

Aunt Florence was there, though, hands folded in front of herself, expression pinched. There’d be trouble there, later.

“Ladies aren’t allowed to refuse anyone,” she said flatly. “I always thought it unfair.”

“Of course it’s unfair. If ladies could pick and choose which gentlemen they wanted to dance with, or speak to, or even marry , the face of Society would change rapidly. It wouldn’t be allowed.”

The dance picked up speed, and Abigail spun rapidly under Alexander’s arm. She felt herself getting dizzy – she’d never learned the art of spinning in place without losing one’s balance, not like Scarlett.

“Do you intend to marry this Season?” Abigail said, and nearly bit off her tongue.

There were, of course, certain subjects that were frowned upon at balls and gatherings. And then there were other subjects that were banned entirely. Talk about money – vulgar – as well as status, shocking subjects, and so on were all forbidden.

Bluntly asking a man if he intended to marry was certainly beyond vulgar. Beyond shocking. Lord Alexander would be well within his rights to drop her hand and stalk off the ballroom floor.

He did not, however. He eyed her thoughtfully, eyes glinting green beneath smudgy brows.

“I am sorry,” Abigail gasped, wishing with all her heart that she could go back in time and undo what she’d said. “I never meant… I didn’t think…”

“Yes,” he answered bluntly. There was a heartbeat of silence before Abigail managed to speak again.

“Y-Yes?”

He shrugged. “Yes, I do mean to marry. I’m a third son with no prospects, no occupation, and not much to recommend me but my charm, my face – which had been called handsome, I must modestly say – and whatever money my older brothers sees fit to settle upon me. A dowry, I suppose.”

“At least you have that,” Abigail retorted. “All of my parents’ money will probably go to my sister. They expect her to make the finer match out of the two of us. I doubt there’ll be anything left for me.”

It was a half-joke, but Alexander didn’t smile.

“Be careful who you tell that to,” he said quietly. “Lots of people here are penniless, but it’s all about maintaining the faade. You have to pretend. If you plan to get married this Season, Miss Atwater, I’d suggest you keep your lack of dowry to yourself. People can be unforgiving.”

She bit her lip, colour rushing to her cheeks. “At least you have your charm. My sister is charming, when she wants to be.”

“You are charming too.”

“I wasn’t fishing for compliments, my lord. I was merely stating a fact. It seems that both of us have serious things to overcome this Season. I intend to marry, too. This will be my last chance. My third Season.”

The reality trickled down her spine like cold water.

If this doesn’t work, if I don’t marry this Season, there’ll be no more chances.

It wasn’t fair. Wasn’t fair that ladies got a handful of chances to make a life for themselves, and more unfair still that their ‘chance’ involved catching a decent man who could build a life for them.

Fit in, but stand out, otherwise no man will want you. Follow the rules, or you’ll receive censure, but the gentlemen are all bored of the same old Society misses. Excel at the traditional feminine accomplishments, ready to cast them all aside the instant you marry. You must be noticed for your beauty. If you have no beauty, then your wealth.

If you have neither… well. Be thankful for whoever you get, and even one or two measly proposals may not be guaranteed.

She shivered. The dance was winding down. Another couple of minutes. She was too hot, sweat pricking at her temples and at her hairline, the lace of her neckline and sleeves itching against her skin. Her heart thudded under her tightly-laced bodice, and she made a mental note to ask Lucy not to tie it so tightly next time. How was a girl meant to eat? Or breathe ? Just because short stays and narrow waists were the fashion did not mean that Abigail needed to follow it.

“We’re meant to speak of ordinary things,” he said, the ghost of a smile dancing around his lips. “Your hobbies, for instance. Let me guess – watercolours? Embroidery? Then, I could tell you about my hobbies. Hunting, mostly, for a gentleman.”

“My painting is abysmal,” Abigail admitted, “and my embroidery worse. I love to read, though. Novels, if that shocks you?”

“Not at all. And hopefully it won’t shock you to know that I abhor hunting.”

She smiled. “It certainly does not. I thought all rakes hunted, in one way or another?”

He smiled grimly.

“I have something of a reputation, which I believe you’ve already guessed,” Alexander said suddenly. “A well-earned reputation, but…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I see how happy my brother and sister are, now that they have married their respective partners. I would like some of that happiness. William, now, he is in love with a phantom.”

“A what ?”

Alexander shook his head. “It’s no matter. Not really my secret to tell, you know.”

Abigail itched to ask more, but resolutely pressed her lips together. Alexander did not seem to be hearing or seeing her, his gaze drifting over the top of her head.

“She’s there again, isn’t she?” Abigail said aloud. “Lady Diana Lockwell.”

“She’ll try and collar me as soon as the dance ends. Don’t be offended if I go haring off.”

“I won’t. Although,” Abigail added, catching a glimpse of her stone-faced aunt in the crowd, “Aunt Florence might well chase you off.”

“Now, that is a horrifying prospect. I know Lady Caldecott well enough to be thoroughly frightened of her. And… and Miss Atwater, I’d be obliged if you didn’t mention to anyone – even your aunt – about what we have discussed tonight. I’m not sure what came over me. I ought not to have burdened you with all of that.”

Abigail bit her lip, nodding slowly. There wasn’t much else to do, really.

“I’m not a gossip, my Lord.”

“I didn’t mean to imply…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I told you how charming I thought I was, and all I’ve done is act the fool. It’s rather funny, isn’t it?” He gave a short, low, mirthless laugh. “That’s the story of my life, in fact. I act the fool, and I act the rake, and now I find myself cut off from most decent Society. If you have sons, Miss Atwater, don’t let them grow up like me.”

Before she had the opportunity to say anything – although what could be said in response to such a speech, Abigail did not know – the music ended with a flourish. The dancers stepped apart, bowing and curtsying to their partners, and Abigail and Alexander were obliged to do the same.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Alexander said, face a blank, polite mask, “I think I had better go and find my friend. Let me escort you back to your aunt.”

In fact, it wasn’t necessary for him to escort her anywhere. Abigail turned and found Aunt Florence striding towards them, expression set.

“Don’t worry, Lady Caldecott,” he said, voice forced and light. “I relinquish your niece back into your care.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Aunt Florence responded crisply. “We shall trespass on no more of your time.”

A dismissal if ever there was one. Alexander bowed again, and melted back into the crowd.

Abigail, on the other hand, was in trouble. Aunt Florence gripped her arm tightly, almost frogmarching her over to the refreshment table.

“Lord Donovan came back with our lemonades, and I had to tell him that you had gone whisking off to waltz with his lordship, Alexander Willenshire,” she said crisply. “He was most put out.”

Abigail pressed her lips together. “What should I have said to Lord Alexander, Aunt? I could not be rude to him. This ball is held in his ancestral home, with his own brother as the Duke and his mother as the hostess. Should I have refused him?”

Aunt Florence passed a hand over her face. “No, no, of course not. Forgive me, my dear, I don’t mean to snap. I’m only annoyed that Lord Alexander is looking your way. It will have been noticed, mark my words, that you waltzed with a rake like him.”

“I… he is not looking my way . It’s nothing like that.”

“You can never tell with a rake,” Aunt Florence retorted tartly. “I have known him for a long time, and while he is a good boy, I want him nowhere near my niece. If it means I have a falling-out with the Willenshires, so be it.”

Abigail said nothing. She remembered uncertainly how Alexander had confided that he planned to marry that Season. But then, she’d told him that she had no money.

“Is is lordship poor?”

“Hm? What? No, I think not. He inherited a great deal of money from his father, if I recall. But men do look to marriage when they get bored, even rakes.”

“But he said…” Abigail trailed off, remembering Alexander’s talk of dowries and having no money. Odd.

“No, we’ll avoid him as best we can. You aren’t feeling a draw towards him, are you, my dear?” Aunt Florence added, peering anxiously at her.

“No, no, of course not.”

“Good. Now, let’s seek out Lord Donovan, and perhaps…” she trailed off as a willowy woman with blonde hair and a black satin dress glided towards them. Abigail’s heart sank.

“I hope you’ll forgive me speaking to you without a formal introduction,” the woman fluted, in a genteel, delightful sort of voice. “My name is Lady Diana Lockwell. I believe you and I, Lady Caldecott, had a passing acquaintance sometime before my marriage.”

Aunt Florence blinked, brow scrunching as she called up an old memory.

“Oh, yes , of course, I recall! You were Miss Rubeshall then, of course! This is my niece, Miss Abigail Atwater.”

Feeling frozen from the neck down, Abigail managed a lopsided curtsey. Lady Lockwell sank down gracefully, watching her closely out of large, dark-coloured eyes.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Atwater. I find myself newly in town, soon to come out of mourning. I hope we might be friends.”

“Yes, quite,” Abigail managed. She found herself glancing around, looking for Alexander. Surely he was nearby? What was the woman playing at?

Lady Lockwell rose from her curtsey, face a beautiful mask.

“I hope to see you again, Miss Atwater. Good luck in your endeavours this Season. We ladies need a generous helping of luck, do we not? I hope you get all that you deserve.”

Well, that was a threat if ever she had heard one. Abigail managed a watery smile, and that seemed to satisfy the woman. She nodded at Aunt Florence and glided away into the crowd.

Abigail let out a long, slow breath.

“Well,” Aunt Florence said, after a pause. “I wouldn’t trust that one as far as I could say.”

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