After dinner, the guests drifted back into the drawing room with the quiet ease of practiced society. Candles had been replaced and the fire stoked higher, lending the space a soft, golden glow. Someone had opened a window just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of night air, tinged with roses and cool grass.
Anna moved toward one of the smaller chairs near the wall, her gloves freshly buttoned, her posture composed. She did not fidget. She never fidgeted. But something in her pulse was off-beat tonight, subtle, but present.
She caught a glimpse of Henry across the room.
He stood just beyond the pianoforte, his profile to her at first, speaking with Lord Elberton. The flickering candlelight played across the strong line of his jaw, catching the gold thread at his cuff. His coat fit with effortless precision, dark navy set against a snow-white cravat, the line of his shoulders broad beneath thecut of evening wear that no tailor could take credit for. It was simply how he was made.
He didn’t speak loudly. He never needed to. And yet people seemed to part for him in small, unconscious ways. As if the room bent slightly around him.
She told herself she was merely observing.
But when he turned, just slightly, and his gaze swept the room, and landed on her, her breath caught before she could help it.
A few murmured conversations began around the room. The Dowager Duchess took her usual chair by the fire, a thin shawl draped around her shoulders, and Lady Gretchen positioned herself with calm dignity near a side table stacked with cards no one would touch until later.
She glanced toward the pianoforte and lifted a hand, elegantly. “Sophia, my dear. Play us something gentle, will you? Something with fewer tempests than last evening.”
Sophia looked up at her mother, and with a slight dip of her chin, rose from her chair.
She had been seated quietly, gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, but now she curtsied with the poised confidence of someone used to being watched.
“Of course, Mama,” she said, her voice smooth as cream. “Something serene. The gentlemen look tired.”
A few soft chuckles rippled through the room.
Lady Gretchen, who had settled herself by the card table, murmured, “Or they’re bracing for the second act.”
Sophia’s smile didn’t waver as she crossed the room, her ivory skirts whispering across the rug.
Laughter faded to murmurs. Conversations slowed. The Dowager Duchess, seated near the fire, looked up from her cup with a knowing smile.
There was no fanfare, only a moment of silence as Sophia lifted the lid, and set her fingers to the keys. She didn’t wait for permission, didn’t ask for silence, she simply sat, adjusted her posture, and began to play.
The first notes drifted into the air, delicate, rippling, the familiar strains of a waltz slow and soft at first, rippling like sunlight across still water that turned the room’s quiet hum into something softer, more expectant.
Nathaniel, who had been conversing lazily near the door, straightened with theatrical purpose and crossed the room to the Dowager Duchess.
“Your Grace,” he said with a bow and an irrepressible smile. “Might I have the honor?”
She gave him a bemused glance over the rim of her teacup. “I’ve not danced in longer than you’ve been charming, Frayton.”
“Then it’s long overdue.”
That earned a ripple of warm laughter from the nearby guests, those close enough to hear.
The Dowager set down her cup with exaggerated care. “If I fall, I expect you to catch me.”
“With every ounce of dignity I can summon,” he replied, offering his arm with a flourish.
Soft laughter followed as he helped her rise. She rose with queenly grace, laying her hand lightly on his sleeve. “Heaven help me.”
Guests shifted, more for amusement than participation.
Together they stepped onto the floor, to a murmur of quiet amusement and the gentle swell of the waltz.
She sensed him before she saw him.
Anna had just turned her attention back to the pianoforte when she heard her name.
