Arabella stared at the items as though they had unfurled into snake tongues and lashed at her. “Is this a joke, Lord Haskett?”
“A reparation,” Henry corrected. “Or an apology, if you prefer.”
Her expression hardened. “Yes… you are not very good at those, are you?”
Leaning past her, he placed the ribbons on the table behind. “I will let you be the judge of that. In the meantime, I shall await you for the start of the next set.”
He turned on his heel and walked away before she had the chance to retort again. He did not know if it was the unpleasant encounter with Lord Powell, the brandy still swilling heavily in his stomach, the derision in Arabella’s eyes, or the stupidity of his gift, but the unflappable Henry Finch felt rather flapped indeed.
“I need another drink if I am to endure an entire set beneath the heat of those burning eyes,” he muttered, venturing off to find the refreshments table.
On his way out of the ballroom and into the expansive hall beyond, where looming portraits of the Earl of Chisholm’s forbears glared down with the same droopy, bloodhound-like eyes, he crossed paths with the Master of Ceremonies, and gave him a light nudge on the arm to catch his attention.
“Excuse me, what will be the first dance of the next set?”
The Master of Ceremonies scanned his leatherbound book of Society secrets and lifted his head with a wide smile. “Why, it is to be a Viennese Waltz, My Lord Haskett.”
Henry groaned audibly, alarming a group of older women who were nattering in the wide hallway.
“Is something the matter, My Lord?” The Master of Ceremonies looked concerned.
Henry shook his head. “Not at all. That sounds wonderful.”
And if I should survive it without keeling over and making a fool of myself twice over, I will count myself the luckiest man in Christendom.
His stomach gurgled, and he sensed he might have other things to worry about. Namely, not throwing up on his future bride, and pinning a medal of ill repute and shame on his family that they would never forgive.
Chapter Five
Reluctantly taking Henry’s arm, Arabella waited in line for the changing of the proverbial guard, where the new dancing partners took the place of those who had danced enough, while those who wished to remain stayed as they were. She envied the beautiful couples—she did not know if it was a trick of the eye, but everyone seemed far more radiant and gorgeous than usual—who gazed adoringly at one another, while she could not even look at her partner.
“It is unbearably warm for July, is it not?” Henry attempted conversation.
“It is July, Lord Haskett,” she replied, as if that should be explanation enough. Seeing his wince out of the corner of her eye, however, she decided to offer a touch more. “And you do not know warmth until you have ridden for hours in a carriage, smothered in a veritable sarcophagus of satin and silk, with no respite from a nonexistent breeze.”
He glanced down at her, arching an eyebrow. “Funny you should say that—this particular shade of blinding plum is absolutely my color. Do you not think it would flatter my complexion?”
“I doubt it could flatter Aphrodite’s complexion,” she quipped in reply, allowing herself the smallest smile.
Up close, he was not disagreeable to look at. Indeed, he was probably one of the most handsome gentlemen at the ball. If he had not caused a ruckus upon his arrival, she might have indulged in a mild swoon at seeing the man he had become. But the upsetting display with Lord Powell had made him much uglier in her view, and it had little to do with the swelling at the bridge of his nose.
However, she felt it only right to give him a second observation. Gone was the uncombed, unruly hair of his younger years. In its place, he had glossy, dark brown locks that shone black in some light, but warmer in others. Curly, without verging on wildness, a swathe of it swept over his forehead, the tips dangerously close to his intense eyes the color of blue stained glass when the sun shone through it. She felt a sudden urge to push the hair out of the way, but quickly shoved the notion aside.
He stood a good head taller than Arabella, and his garments highlighted a trim and athletic physique. His shoulders were broad, suggesting strength, while his ungloved hands might have been the nicest she had ever seen. It might have sounded odd to see beauty in a man’s hands, but she could easily picture him chopping wood or playing on the pianoforte with equal skill and grace. Not that a gentleman would ever have reason to chop wood, but her daydreams did as they pleased.
“Your silence is most disconcerting,” Henry said, as the music came to an end and the tides of new and old partners flowed past one another.
Arabella took her position and tried to hide the fact she was dreading this particular dance. It had little to do with him being her partner, and everything to do with the fact that every spectator in the room was watching her and her awful gown. If she tripped during the dizzying dance, she would take out everyone around her with the flamboyant layers of her skirts.
“I was not aware you had asked me a question,” she replied nervously, flinching as his hand settled upon the middle of her back and his hand clasped hers. She placed her free hand upon his upper arm, unaccustomed to being this close to a man.
This is why they call it scandalous.
Be that as it may, it was the fashion of the current Season, likely for the slightly wicked nature of it. Her mother had forced her to learn it, with Cassie standing in as a gentleman, while complaining the entire time that it was not like this in her day.
“It is entirely vulgar!” she had tutted. “When I was a young lady, even the lightest graze of a fellow’s hand could see you become unmarriageable.”
In the next breath, she had urged Arabella not to hold her body so far away from Cassie’s and had shoved her daughter in the small of her back to get her into the right position.
