Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

W hen the dance ended, Lord Worthe escorted Scarlett to where Bess stood with her mother. Lady Leighton was very pleased to make Lord Worthe’s acquaintance, and simpered like a schoolgirl, much to the obvious amusement of her daughter.

“Tell me, Miss Margrave, is there any space left on your dance card tonight that I might be so bold as to claim a second dance with you?”

Scarlett heard little noises beside her as Bess and her mother no doubt exchanged delighted looks and tried not to shriek with excitement. “Yes, sir,” she replied with a smile. “I would be honoured.”

“Good.” He raised her hand to his lips and bestowed a gentle kiss upon her gloved knuckle. “For I should have hated to have to resort to a duel with some unlucky man in order to get him out of my way.”

She laughed at that, and Lord Worthe bowed to her and to Bess and Lady Leighton, and then moved back into the crowd.

“Good lord!” Bess breathed as soon as the throng had swallowed him. “Scarlett, you have made a conquest!”

“And what a conquest!” Lady Leighton added. “What a handsome, charming man! You know I hear that Ashworthe Park is splendid and?—”

“No, no,” Scarlett said immediately. “You have it all wrong, I am sure! Though I shall admit he is…singularly charming.”

“And handsome and wealthy and titled and… Heaven sakes! If you cannot fall in love with a man like Lord Worthe, who will you fall in love with?” Bess demanded.

Scarlett did not answer her, for the question made her spirits sink.

Love was a formidable word that conjured up imagined scenes from Bess’s tales from London—suitors bearing posies and uttering pretty words, promenading about with young ladies who were far more beautiful than she was, and had far more to offer. It seemed audacious to her to aspire to that sort of thing with anyone —much less a man like Lord Worthe. The earl saw a lady before him tonight who was no better than a charlatan, a drab, dishwater-coloured person who had been disguised for one night only to look like the resplendent ladies of the ton whom he likely saw every day. No matter how much you despise it, how ill-fitted it might seem right now, that is what you are .

It had been the source of much arguing between herself and her father of late. He wished for a church mouse, a meek little lady who would quietly submit to living in his shadow and performing her duties with silent alacrity, just as her mother once had.

The problem arose because, no matter how she had been raised, Scarlett simply did not see that she should have to live her life in that way. She had not chosen service to the Church. She had not chosen to marry a man of the cloth. She had simply been born there, and it increasingly felt like she had somehow landed wrong.

Never mind all of that , she told herself as Leighton reminded her of their dance. For tonight, I am just like any other young lady, and I shall not ruin it with these glum thoughts.

Scarlett felt excessively conscious of Lord Worthe’s presence throughout the interval between their first and second sets. She first danced with Leighton, and then a Mr Warburton; then she sat out a set and followed that by dancing with Sir Peregrine Percy. All the while, she thought of him and where he was and what he was doing. It did not help that the few times she permitted herself to peep at him, she was caught doing it; then it would feel like a fire ignited across her face and she would be struck by an unaccountable urge to giggle wildly.

On Lord Worthe’s part, he danced with Bess and then some other lady, a fine-looking girl with a mass of chestnut-coloured curls atop her head and a winsome smile. Scarlett found herself almost rabidly jealous of the lady’s beauty and was just considering whether she ought to allow one long curl of her own oft remarked-upon flaxen hair to dangle over her shoulder when his lordship caught her eye and winked! There is that blush again , Scarlett thought ruefully, hoping the erratic alterations in her complexion were disguised by the guttering candlelight in the ballroom.

“I could not help but notice,” he said, coming to her directly after his dance with the chestnut-curled lady, “that you seem to be staring at me.”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I must disagree. It is you who have been staring at me .”

“Oh, I definitely was,” he said, offering his arm to lead her to the next dance. “But it was not my fault.”

“No?”

He shook his head, looking too grave to be taken seriously. “No, the fault is your own. You have captivated me, completely, and I simply cannot look away.”

His words made her heart pound, but she asked, very lightly, “Are you always so charming, my lord?”

“No. In fact, I think I am rarely charming.”

“I must have caught you on a good night, then,” she said with a self-conscious smile.

“I think it is a very good night. A wonderful night, in fact. Miss Margrave…” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I can truly say I have never met another lady like you.”

“Oh, I think you have,” she teased a little. He replied with a quizzical look, so she added, “Is that not how we met, after all? Because of this lady you know who is my twin?”

He looked confused for an instant. “Miss Richmond! Oh, well, yes you do quite resemble her, but in looks alone. I like her, very well in fact, but I confess this is very…unexpected.”

She thought she would do better not to ask—every feeling within her cautioned against knowing what he meant by saying so—but nevertheless, she enquired, “What is?”

He looked to the side for several long moments, affording her both the chance to admire his profile and to suffer anxiety for having asked what she really did not wish to know. At length, just as the dance was about to start, he cleared his throat and said, “I have not before met a lady with whom I felt this almost instantaneous…fit. I have known scores of beautiful and charming women; I have even known a few who were both, including Miss Richmond. Yet never have I experienced what I have felt here with you tonight.”

Her hand rose to press against her chest, but it could not remain there long for the dance started just then, a noisy reel that left them both gasping for breath. She enjoyed dancing it with him, and not only for the relief of leaving the prior conversation. Their former levity was returned to them as they giggled at their missteps and occasional bumps into one another that Scarlett suspected were mostly her fault. Mostly—but not all. After one such bump, after which he was required to grab her and steady her for a moment, she said, accusingly, “You did that on purpose!”

“Perhaps I did,” he said with an unrepentant grin.

When the dances were complete, he offered to escort her over to the refreshment table. “I am unaccustomed to such revelry,” she admitted. “My feet have not the stamina for more dances!”

“That suits me very well,” he said, “so long as you will always have dances enough for me.”

She smiled awkwardly. It seemed as if he expected to see her on future occasions, and she had not the heart to remind him that there would not be a Season in London for her; no expectation of frequently dancing until dawn, no attendance at parties and routs, and no walking on Rotten Row or any of the other things Bess had told her that she did in London. Scarlett had no real cause to expect that she would ever see him again, but she could not bear the idea of saying so to him.

At once, a lump came into her throat. Why could she not be like other ladies? It need not be the London life of grand ladies…even to be permitted regular attendance at country assemblies and dinners and parties would be thrilling. Yet Scarlett had no expectation of that either.

Lord Worthe handed her a glass of punch just as Bess came to them with Mr Beamish hard on her heels. It turned out that Lord Worthe was already acquainted with Mr Beamish—not well, but they had been at school together for a time. As they spoke of it, Bess gave Scarlett expressive, excited looks. They almost vexed her; Bess of all people should know that none of this would go beyond this one magical evening.

When the men’s conversation lagged, and Mr Beamish turned his attention to making love to Bess, Lord Worthe leant towards Scarlett. “I wish I could ask you to dance again. Three dances is just far too scandalous, is it not?”

“Far too scandalous,” she agreed. “And I fear my poor shoes would not suffer it.” Her shoes were, in fact, Bess’s, and a mite too small for her.

“Perhaps some air would be nice?”

Say no , she urged herself. A dark terrace can only take this further.

“I daresay it would,” Scarlett answered, marvelling at her own obstinacy. She gave Bess a look as she took Lord Worthe’s arm and allowed him to lead her out onto one of the terraces that surrounded the assembly room. Scarlett breathed deeply of the cool night air that hit her face, closing her eyes for a moment to fully appreciate it. When she opened them again, she found Lord Worthe staring at her, a faint half-smile playing about his lips.

Lord, he is handsome. She wanted to sigh but instead smiled. “There is nothing as perfect as a spring breeze, is there?”

“I can think of something more perfect,” he said in a low, husky voice. “You, Scarlett. I think you are the most perfect lady I have ever known.”

He took one gloved finger and ran it down her cheek. When she did not protest, he followed it with his lips, very gently kissing her, so softly she almost did not feel it when it happened save for the tingling trail it left behind it.

She breathed out an, “Ohh,” and briefly touched her fingers to her cheek, thinking the spot he had kissed must be forever altered. She was caught in his eyes and the moonlight and the heady scent of springtime air that surrounded them.

“Will you slap me for taking such a liberty?”

“Will you slap me for having no wish to slap you?”

He laughed at that. She adored the way he laughed, heartily, with a masculine timbre to it such as she had never known. It made her want to laugh along.

“We ought to go in,” he said. “I fear if I stay out here with you much longer, then I shall do something that you will need to slap me for.”

She giggled and turned to precede him back into the ballroom, feeling the faintest brush of his fingers against the small of her back. It sent her tingling anew and wishing, desperately, she could feel his lips on her cheek again.

“I believe that I might have some business in—Stanbridge, was it?—very soon.”

His words, from behind her, had the effect of a dash of ice-cold water on her spine as they brought with them a terrible vision of introducing him to the reverend, of letting Lord Worthe see who and what she really was.

She turned slowly back to look at him. “Stanbridge?” she asked, in a voice that sounded high and anxious to her own ears. Keeping her voice friendly, she said, “Th-that would surprise me very much, sir, as there is little enough to do in Stanbridge for the people who live there, much less visitors.”

He considered that a moment, then said, “I wonder whether I have friends I might call upon.”

Alarm began to pound in her chest as terrifying scenes of Lord Worthe standing before Reverend Margrave flooded her mind. She managed to keep her voice steady as she said, “It is a long way to travel for just a call.”

“It is not so very far. It cannot be but fifteen or twenty?—”

She had interrupted him by putting her hand on his arm. “Perhaps we will meet in London.”

The sense of panic within her made the words emerge more sharply than intended. He drew back slightly, his posture suddenly very stiff. After a moment, he gave a very slight bow and said, “Perhaps we shall.”

She nodded and then there was a terrible, although short, silence. She turned again then and began walking back into the ballroom, feeling his silent presence behind her. How she wanted to sob! But she would not, and maintained her composure through a painful farewell.