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  In that case, our suffering will soon be over, she wanted to say. She didn’t say it, of course. Another awkward pause ensued. Across the knots of people, Cynthia saw her mother’s reproving eyes upon her. She knew she had to make more of an effort. She turned to her companion but could not catch his eye; he was looking elsewhere.

  “Do you enjoy dancing, Mr. Ellsworth?” she asked loudly.

  He glanced sideways at her, in the manner of a skittish horse. “Dancing? Enjoy it? Enjoy dancing?” She had evidently caught him at a loss. He gave a kind of gulp, then found his tongue. “I don’t mind it. One must dance, eh? Expected. I’m not a dab hand at it, mind you,” he added. “Not the sort of chap who—that is, I’m not particularly—well, I’ve never been fond of—”

  “Dancing,” she finished helpfully.

  He appeared grateful. “Yes.”

  They were both palpably relieved when Hannah escaped the group that surrounded her parents and joined them. Her presence seemed to ease Mr. Ellsworth’s awkwardness as much as it did Cynthia’s; he visibly relaxed and his affect became less forced. Hannah took John’s arm with one hand and Cynthia’s arm with the other, and drew them from the foyer into the ballroom as if it were the most natural thing in the world that they should form a threesome.

  “I know it is horrid of me,” she confessed, “but I simply cannot wait to get away from here and back to London. I loathe being the center of attention, and every time we attend one of these local events we are mobbed.”

  “Ghastly,” said Mr. Ellsworth sympathetically. Then he smiled the most natural smile Cynthia had yet seen him wear. “But I daresay you would be mobbed tonight in any event, Lady Hannah. Never saw you look so pretty, upon my soul.”

  Hannah looked startled, and so thrilled that Cynthia was afraid that even Mr. Ellsworth could hardly fail to notice the heart pinned to Hannah’s sleeve. However, she had evidently underestimated the thickness of his skull. He gave no sign that he saw anything out of the ordinary in the glowing look Hannah threw him, nor in the pretty confusion his compliment cast her into. For a moment, Cynthia longed to box his silly ears. Then she remembered her role: she was not here to matchmake. She was here to steal hapless Mr. Ellsworth from her friend. That meant she must be glad that Mr. Ellsworth was dense.

  Depression settled on her spirits.

  Her only consolation was that Hannah, surely, could do much better for herself than to marry John Ellsworth. She had to believe that, at any rate... she would go mad if she did not. Marriage to Mr. Ellsworth seemed, to Cynthia, a fate so dreary that only she deserved it. If she allowed herself to believe that Hannah might actually be happy with the man... and that Mr. Ellsworth might, also, find happiness with Hannah... she would feel even meaner and more despicable than she already did.

  A tingle of awareness along the back of her neck alerted her to Derek’s presence before she actually saw him. She felt him approach the way one feels a thunderstorm approach; he seemed to exude a subtle charge of electricity that changed the weight of the air. She reflexively wiped all expression from her features and stared into the middle distance.

  Hannah shifted to make room for him, and Derek joined them. “Hallo, you three,” he said genially. “I’m glad to find a few familiar faces among the horde.”

  Hannah giggled. “These balls are always a frightful crush.”

  “I hope you ladies have saved me a dance or two.”

  It pained Cynthia to see the shy, hopeful glance Hannah shot Mr. Ellsworth. “I haven’t promised a dance to anyone yet,” she said. This was the perfect opening for him to claim a dance with her. But Mr. Ellsworth, as always, seemed oblivious.

  Cynthia altered her posture to subtly imply that she was standing, not with the group, but with Mr. Ellsworth alone. “I have promised the quadrille to Mr. Ellsworth,” she said. Then, mindful of her mother’s instructions, she remembered to smile at him. “I do not yet know if he will require more of me.”

  It was a statement, but she inflected it as if it were a question. Mr. Ellsworth blinked, evidently startled by her sudden frowardness. “Oh, ah—certainly. Yes, I think I will, Lady Cynthia. Certainly I will. Who wouldn’t, eh? Yes, if you’ll do me the honor, I shall... I shall press my luck.”

  His response lacked enthusiasm but passed the test of bare-bones gallantry. At any rate, she had successfully painted him into a corner. Whatever his intentions originally had been, he would, perforce, ask her for a second dance. That should appease Mama.

  The next trick she needed to perform, of course, was to effect an escape before Derek painted her into a similar corner—easy enough for him to do, since she could hardly refuse to dance with him. He was, as she was, a guest of the Chases.

  The musicians in the balcony, mercifully, chose that moment to begin tuning their instruments. The ball was about to begin. Mr. Ellsworth presented his arm and Cynthia gratefully took it, nodding a cool farewell to Derek. Sensing Hannah’s disappointment at her walking off with Mr. Ellsworth, she avoided Hannah’s eye. She thus missed whatever took place between Hannah and Derek after she and Mr. Ellsworth took to the floor to find their places for the quadrille. She could guess, however, so she was glad when her partner led her to the last empty slot in a set. When Lady Hannah and Mr. Whittaker appeared among the dancers, as she had expected they would do, they had to join a neighboring set.

  The quadrille began. Cynthia wondered, not for the first time, why balls always seemed to begin with a quadrille. It was one of the more difficult dances to learn, and there were always a few people on the floor who forgot the sequence or danced the wrong steps. It soon became apparent why Mr. Ellsworth had moved with such alacrity to place them as fourth couple; he, alas, was among those who humbugged their way through the dance, waiting until someone else moved before venturing to guess which figure came next. As a result, he and Cynthia were slightly behind the time in any figure that was not danced by the other couples first. His concentration and anxiety were such that conversation was impossible; throughout the dance he counted the bars of music under his breath and stared nervously at others’ feet, trying to anticipate what would be required of his own.

  By the time the music ended, Cynthia was both bored and annoyed. Mr. Ellsworth’s preoccupation struck her as boorish; why had he asked her to dance the quadrille, of all dances? His lack of skill had made them both conspicuous. As usual, she gave no indication of her feelings. She hid her irritation behind a bland and noncommittal smile, and laid her glove upon his sleeve so he could escort her off the floor.

  A familiar shirtfront stepped squarely into her line of vision, forcing her to halt or walk into its owner. Cynthia chose to halt. With her hand still on Mr. Ellsworth’s arm, she lifted her eyes to Derek’s face, one eyebrow delicately lifted in a carefully-practiced expression of icy incredulity.

  She had quelled many an advance with this lifted eyebrow. She had routed formidable opponents; she had reduced grown men to stammering, red-faced boys. However, her glacial glare had no effect whatsoever on the audacious Mr. Whittaker. His response was neither embarrassment nor apology nor dismay. Instead, he gave her a cheeky grin. That grin contained enough heat to melt the most frozen of hearts, and Cynthia felt her willpower turning to slush.

  Inwardly berating herself for her appalling weakness, she straightened her spine and lifted the other eyebrow. “Are we in your way, Mr. Whittaker?” she inquired, her tone a perfect mixture of politeness and hauteur.

  “It’s the other way round,” he replied promptly, with absolute good cheer. “I am in yours. I say, Ellsworth, did you happen to see which way Lady Hannah went?”

  Mr. Ellsworth looked befuddled. “No, can’t say that I did. Have you lost her?”

  “Well, she isn’t here,” said Derek vaguely. His statement was true, as far as it went, but Cynthia knew a fib when she heard one. It was plain to her, if not to Mr. Ellsworth, that Derek was cutting a wheedle. She shot him an indignant look, but it seemed to bounce right off him. He was busy tr
ying an ingratiating, apologetic air upon her companion. “Be a good chap and find her for me, would you?” he begged, with apparent sincerity. “I am unfamiliar with this place. I don’t like to think of Lady Hannah wandering about unescorted.”

  Concern knitted Mr. Ellsworth’s brows. “Certainly not. Most improper. All sorts of persons here; not a private ball. Pray excuse me, Lady Cynthia. I’m sure Mr. Whittaker will take good care of you.”

  “That I will,” said Derek. His assumption of meek gratitude was highly suspect. Cynthia shot him her best affronted stare again, but it still had no discernible effect.

  “Don’t let Lady Cynthia wander off as well, eh? Ha, ha.” Mr. Ellsworth was already scanning the crowd, as if he had completely forgotten Cynthia’s presence.

  “Oh, I have learned my lesson,” Derek promised. He plucked Cynthia’s hand off Mr. Ellsworth’s sleeve and tucked it firmly in his elbow. “Lady Cynthia shan’t escape me.”

  “Have I nothing to say in the matter?” demanded Cynthia, but Mr. Ellsworth was gone, shouldering his way through the crowd. She directed a fulminating glare up at Derek. “You, sir, are unconscionable.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. Pray do not try that wide-eyed stare on me. I shan’t be duped by it. I know you too well.”

  “Done,” he said promptly, as if they had just made a pact. “And you may stop blasting me with that arctic freeze of yours. I shan’t be duped by it. I know you too well.”

  He started for the door leading back to the foyer, and Cynthia was forced to fall into step beside him or risk causing a scene. He still had her hand hooked in his elbow, and had covered it with his other hand to make sure she could not easily remove it. Cynthia was guiltily aware that she had no real desire to remove it, so some treacherous part of her was secretly glad that he had taken this step. This knowledge ruffled her feathers even further.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “Refreshments. You look thirsty.”

  “I am not thirsty, Mr. Whittaker. I am angry.”

  “What, at being separated from Mr. Ellsworth? I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Lady Cynthia, but he was remarkably easy to dispatch.” He shook his head with mock sympathy. “Not a good omen for your ambitions, I fear.”

  Cynthia fumed in silence. She was so preoccupied with trying to find a suitable retort that she failed to notice where Derek was leading her. Her focus returned when he opened a door leading to the terrace behind the building.

  She stopped short, staring in disbelief at the opened door—and the cold darkness beyond it. “This is not the refreshment room.”

  “No, but you said you weren’t thirsty. I thought you might like some air. To cool your temper,” he added, words plainly chosen to do the opposite.

  Cynthia immediately snatched her hand away and turned on her heel. She had not taken two steps before she felt his hand at her waist, pulling her sharply back against him. She froze, terrified that people would see him holding her. His warm breath tickled her ear as he murmured, close to her head, “Don’t try to escape me, Cynthia. I’ve told you before, you won’t succeed.”

  “Let go of me at once,” she hissed.

  “I will, if you agree to dance with me.”

  She gasped. “For shame! Will you force me?”

  “If I must.” But she felt his hand loosen and then, with obvious reluctance, release her. “I had hoped there would be no need.”

  This was too much. Exasperated, she whirled to face him. “I don’t know what to do with you,” she exclaimed. “You seem to willfully disregard my wishes. You hear only what you choose to hear. How can I make it clearer? There is no hope for you, Mr. Whittaker. Your suit will not prosper. I have told you so time and again.”

  “Yes, you have.” He looked completely unperturbed. “And yet I fail to retire from the lists. Odd, isn’t it? I wonder why I don’t give up? Other men would. Call me foolish—”

  “I shall call you worse than foolish! You are utterly pig-headed. I know perfectly well why you continue to harass me. You are too stubborn to admit defeat.”

  He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, that’s possible,” he admitted. “I own, I can be remarkably tenacious at times.”

  “Tenacious? That’s a polite word for what you are.”

  “On the other hand, I’m a fairly good dancer,” he offered. “Which brings us back to the point of our discussion. Will you do me the honor, Lady Cynthia, of standing up with me?” He held up one finger in a warning gesture. “Be careful! You mustn’t read too much into my invitation, or I will begin to think you conceited. I have asked you to dance with me, not marry me.”

  He was so ridiculous, she found herself fighting an impulse to laugh. “You have asked me to marry you,” she muttered resentfully. “Conceited, indeed! I am no such thing.”

  “Well, then, let me point out that the invitations were issued separately. Consent to one does not bind you to the other.”

  What an attractive smile he had. One could not help returning such a smile, however reluctantly. “Very well,” she said. “One dance.” Inspiration struck. She felt her smile turn sly. “The pavane, if they play it.”

  “The pavane! That hasn’t been danced since—” He cut himself off abruptly. “And yet,I feel sure they will play it tonight. I have an instinct about such things.” There was a cunning gleam in his eye; obviously Derek was planning to bribe the musicians. Cynthia had to look away to keep from laughing aloud.

  “Pray take me back to Lord and Lady Grafton. You may come and find me when you hear the pavane. If you hear the pavane.”

  “Oh, I may come and find you long before that,” he assured her.

  She tried to look stern. “I beg you will not. You have a most unsettling effect upon me, Mr. Whittaker. You made me lose my temper—something that has happened so seldom in my life, I nearly failed to recognize it just now.”

  “It’s good for you.” His face was alight with mischief. “Even the iciest of ice queens must have someone in her life whom she cannot frighten.”

  “How absurd you are! I don’t frighten people.”

  He looked skeptically at her. “What would you call it?”

  She bit her lip. “It’s unkind of you to tease me about my shyness,” she said with dignity.

  He threw back his head and gave a delighted yelp of laughter. “Touché! I apologize, my lady.”

  “Then you will take me back now?”

  “Your wish is my command.” He lifted her hand and laid it on his sleeve, covering it with his own.

  The dynamic between them subtly shifted when he touched her. She looked pointedly down at his hand covering hers. “You are too familiar, sir,” she said, but not convincingly. The words came out high-pitched and breathless.

  “Ah, Cynthia, don’t frost me,” he murmured coaxingly. His voice was so low and intimate, it sent shivers through her. “Let me touch you while I may.”

  Her heart seemed to flutter in her chest at these provoking words. Before she had time to think better of the impulse, her eyes had lifted to his—a fatal error. The maidenly protest she was preparing to utter died, unspoken, on her lips. Instead, she heard herself say, in a broken whisper, words that seemed to bubble up out of nowhere.

  “Derek, you will be the death of me. I don’t know whether I am on my head or my heels when I am with you.”

  She saw his eyes darken with understanding. The rest of the room seemed to fade and float away, leaving the two of them utterly alone in some sweet and private place.

  “You keep trying to follow the rules,” he told her softly. “But Cynthia, my darling girl, the rules do not apply to us.”

  His words made no sense, and yet they rang utterly true. She felt in the depths of her soul that he was right.

  Cynthia shuddered and looked away, trying to regain her poise by breaking their eye contact. They were still, after all, at the edge of a foyer near a crowded ballroom. “Take me back,” she said fai
ntly. “I cannot think when I am with you.”

  “You know that I am right.”

  “It seems to me,” she said wretchedly, “that I know absolutely nothing anymore. And the older I get, the more certain I become that everything I once knew is wrong. Take me back, Derek. Please.”

  Chapter 12

  Half in a dream, Cynthia watched Derek disappear, heading purposefully toward the stairs. The stairs led to the mezzanine. The mezzanine led to the musicians. She smiled to herself, guessing his errand; he was going to ensure, by fair means or foul, that the pavane was played tonight. And Cynthia, rightly or wrongly, felt a flutter of giddy pleasure at his persistence.

  She almost laughed, trying to picture the scene that was doubtless about to take place above her head. The pavane was an ancient, courtly dance, neither romantic nor fashionable. She imagined it was not among the pieces frequently requested by amorous young bucks.

  She felt a sharp rap on her forearm and spun, startled. Her mother had walked up behind her and tapped her with her fan. Mama’s eyes were glittering with wrath. Cynthia went cold with fear at the sight.

  “Where have you been? Mr. Ellsworth is dancing with Lady Hannah.”

  “Well, Mama, I cannot dance every dance with him,” Cynthia hedged, trying to sound reasonable.

  “I saw you walk off with Mr. Whittaker after the quadrille. Cynthia, for heaven’s sake, what are you about? Why did you not ask Mr. Ellsworth to bring you a glass of punch? You might have kept him by your side another quarter of an hour.”

  Cynthia’s control frayed. “To what purpose? It’s absurd! I cannot force him to like me.”

  For an instant, Mama looked stunned. Then her eyes narrowed in fury. “I disagree,” she snapped. “And who, pray, are you, to set up your will against mine? How dare you flout my authority, you ungrateful little snip? I have shown you every indulgence, Cynthia—more than most parents would have done. Did you not promise me after Filey died, that if I let you rebuff all suitors for a twelvemonth, you would then marry at my bidding? Well? Did you not?” Her fingers dug painfully into Cynthia’s arm.