Mary Balogh - Simply Magic

“It is, my lord.” She curtsied and discovered that the evening really could turn brighter and even more exciting.

“ Do you waltz, Miss Osbourne?” Mr. Crossley asked her, sounding surprised and even perhaps a little disapproving.

“I know the steps, sir,” she said. “I learned them at school-from a dancing master who is a stickler for doing all things correctly.”

“He is indeed,” Frances agreed.

“I have even given permission for Rosamond to waltz with Mr. Moss,” Mrs. Raycroft said, “since both my son and Viscount Whitleaf have assured me that it is danced at Almack’s. And if you are to waltz, Lady Edgecombe, then it must be unexceptionable.”

“We fell in love with the waltz the first time we danced it together,” the Earl of Edgecombe said. “It was in an assembly room not unlike this, was it not, Frances?”

Mr. Crossley was silenced.

Viscount Whitleaf held out a hand and Susanna placed her own on top of it. He led her out onto the empty dance floor. They were the first there. They could probably have waited five minutes longer, but, oh, she was glad he had not waited. This was the moment she had anticipated eagerly ever since he had asked her yesterday. She was going to waltz. With him. The happiness of it all was almost too much to bear.

“Well?” he said when they were alone together-though they were, of course, surrounded by their fellow guests. “What is your verdict on your first assembly? Not that I really need to ask, I believe.”

“It is that obvious?” She pulled a face. “But I really do think it is splendid, and I do not care how gauche I sound to you. This is my very first ball-at the age of twenty-three-and I am not even going to pretend to be indifferent to it all.”

“Ah, but it is splendid,” he said, holding her eyes with his own-as he had done with each of his partners. “Far more splendid, in fact, than any other ball or assembly I have ever attended in my twenty-six years.”

Which was a Banbury tale if ever she had heard one. She laughed again.

“Oh, but I believe you did not complete that thought,” she said. “Were you not supposed to add that it is more wonderful because I am here?”

“I was going to say that,” he told her, “but I thought you would accuse me of flattery and flirtation.”

“Indeed I would,” she said. “But really, are you enjoying yourself? I know that all the other young ladies are thrilled that you are here.”

“The other young ladies,” he said, setting one hand over his heart. “Not you too?”

But she laughed and fanned her face. Talking nonsense, even mildly flirting, could be enjoyable after all, she thought, when both parties were well aware that it was nonsense they spoke.

“I will remember this,” she said, “all my life.”

“This assembly?” he asked her. “Or this waltz?”

The smile was arrested on her face for a moment.

“Both, I hope,” she said. “Unless I fall all over your feet during the waltz. But then I suppose I would remember all the more.”

Other couples were gathering around them. The orchestra members were tuning their instruments again.

“If you fall over my feet,” he said, “it will be because of my unpardonable clumsiness and I shall atone by going home and burning my dancing shoes. No, correction. I shall atone by burning my dancing shoes and then walking home.”

She laughed once more.

And then stopped laughing.

He had set his right hand behind her waist and taken her right hand in his left. She lifted her left hand to set on his shoulder. She could smell his cologne. She could feel his body heat. She could hear her heartbeat throbbing in her ears.

His violet eyes gazed very directly into her own-they smiled slightly.

Ah, she thought, the magic of it.

The sheer wonderful magic.

Then the music began.

It occurred to her afterward that a number of other couples had taken to the floor with them. She even had one fleeting memory of seeing the Earl of Edgecombe twirling Frances about one corner of the room, holding her rather closer than Mr. Huckerby would approve of. She could recall the swirling colors of the ladies’ gowns, the warm glow of the candles, the sounds of voices and laughter, the sight of a number of people gathered at the sidelines, watching.

But at the time she was oblivious to it all. She was aware only of the music and the dance and the man who held her. She performed the steps faultlessly if a little woodenly for the first couple of minutes, and she held her body stiff and as far distant from his as the positioning of their arms allowed. But then came the moment when she raised her eyes from his intricately tied neckcloth to look into his own eyes-and he smiled at her and she relaxed.

“Oh,” she said a little breathlessly, “I do remember how.”

“And so,” he said, “do I. I hope I live up to the exacting standards of your Mr. Huckerby.”

She laughed. “Yes, I would have to say you do.”

They did not speak after that, but it seemed to her afterward that they gazed into each other’s eyes the whole time they danced. It ought to have caused intense discomfort. Gazing into another person’s eyes from such a short distance even when conversing always gave her the urge to take a step back or to glance away from time to time. But she felt no such urge with Viscount Whitleaf. They danced, it seemed to her, as if they were one harmonious unit.

She remembered the quickly suppressed mental image she had had almost two weeks ago of waltzing in his arms. That dream had come true after all.

And, ah, it was exhilarating beyond words.

But it could not last forever, of course. Eventually she could sense that the music was coming to an end.

“Oh,” she said, “it is over.”

She had been quite unaware of the passing of time.

“But it was lovely,” she added after the music had stopped altogether. “Thank you, my lord. Will you take me to Frances?”

She must not be greedy, she told herself. She might well have been doomed to watch everyone else waltz while she pretended to be enjoying herself as an onlooker. She would always have this memory of her first-and probably her last-waltz.

“It is customary, you know,” he said, leaning his head a little closer to hers, “for a man to lead his partner at the supper dance into the refreshment room. Will you take supper with me?”

“Is it suppertime already?” she asked as she looked about to see that yes, indeed, the room was fast emptying. “Oh, I am so glad. Yes, I will. Thank you.”

And so, she thought happily as he led her off to the refreshment room, her half hour with him was to be extended, even if they were to sit with other people.

What a very precious evening this was. With only three days left of her stay at Barclay Court, it had become a fitting finale for a memorable holiday.

Though there were still three days left.

Peter found them two seats wedged between the teapot and the window before going to the food table. One thing a person could always count upon at a country assembly, he thought appreciatively as he filled plates for them both, was plenty of good food.

“Where will you go when you leave here?” Miss Osbourne asked him after he had set down their plates and fetched some tea and seated himself opposite her at their small table. “Will you go home?”

“To Sidley Park?” he said. “Not immediately. I do not wish to intrude upon the end of my mother’s latest house party there.”

“There is a house party at your own home, yet you are not there to host it?” She raised her eyebrows as she selected a small cucumber sandwich and bit into it.

“The thing is,” he said, “that my mother is desperately trying to marry me off. There is someone there whom she wishes me to court-and all the other guests would have been well aware of the fact if I had gone there.”

“You do not wish to marry?” she asked him.

“I most certainly do not,” he assured her. “Or at least, I do not wish to be trapped into a marriage not entirely of my own choosing.”

Her eyes laughed into his.

“I absolutely do not want my mother choosing my bride,” he said.

“I daresay,” she said, “she loves you.”

“She does,” he agreed. “But love can sometimes be a burden, you know. She first tried to marry me off when I was twenty-one years old and still wet behind the ears.”

“You did not love the girl?” she asked.

“I did.” He grimaced. “I was head-over-ears in love with her-because I was expected to be, of course. I was a cocky boy, Miss Osbourne, and was thoroughly convinced that I was my own man. But in reality I did everything I was expected to do. I thought I loved her.”

“But you did not really?” She set one elbow on the table against all the rules of etiquette and rested her chin in her hand. She gazed steadily at him. “What happened?”

Oh, good Lord, he was not prepared to go there with her. He smiled, though the expression felt somewhat crooked.

“One could say that I had an awakening,” he said. “It was really quite spectacular. I woke up one morning an innocent, cheerful babe, my head in the clouds, stars in my eyes, and I went to bed that same night a cynical old man, with my eyes opened to all the ugly realities of life. My almost-engagement was the biggest casualty. The woman I had loved so devotedly but no longer loved at all left the next morning with her family and I never saw any of them again. Fortunately, they live far to the north of England and seem never to come near London. Though I did hear that she married less than six months later.”