“Nonsense.” Beatrice beamed from ear to ear. “I see my good friends just over there—I shall bother them until you are free to be pestered again. Do not worry a jot about me, cousin. I am nothing if not resourceful.”
Expelling a small breath of relief, Valeria allowed Roger to guide her to the dance floor.
The gown looked better than Duncan could have imagined. If the master of ceremonies had announced her as a foreign queen, come to seek a noble English consort, he would have believed it.
So, it is to be the viscount, is it?
He observed the expression on Valeria’s face as she walked to the dance floor at the viscount’s side, her hand resting delicately on the crook of the man’s arm. Rather too intimate a gesturefor Duncan’s liking, but then who was he to talk about intimate gestures?
You will be bored within a month.
He frowned. She already looked less than thrilled, her face placid, the shine of her pretty eyes dulled as if she were in some manner of trance. As if the viscount, or that irksome baron, or the ball itself had poured cold water upon the fire of her very being. The spark of her that so compelled Duncan had gone out.
She has become one of them…He turned his attention to other ladies, noting that same blank look; the same false smiles and stilted laughs, the same thespians performing from the same script, in the play of courtship and achieving marriage.
But what business was it of his? He had promised he would help, and it appeared that he had. She had interest aplenty, she had her pick of the gentlemen present, so why did he not feel a lick of triumph? Why was he suddenly feeling so… frustrated by the situation?
Because she has dimmed herself too much, and that isnotwhat I taught her.
Sipping his drink, he continued to watch as the couple took to the dance floor, his thoughts drifting to his drawing room and how he had basked in the fire of her, holding that inferno in his arms without getting burned. He thought of the kiss he had almost pressed to her lips, lamenting that he had not chanced a slap to be the first to graze that soft mouth, cursing himself forever telling her that she needed to smother the fierce embers of her character to appease such small, unworthy, dull men.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The lively country dance was not at all like the secret waltz that Valeria had daydreamed about ever since Duncan had held her and whirled her about his drawing room. It was entertaining, certainly, but she could not stop her mind from making sneaky, distracting comparisons.
“Do you like the seaside, Miss Maxwell?” Roger asked, as they stepped forward and back.
“Very much,” Valeria replied. “As I child, I visited Brighton often.”
Roger pulled a face. “Brighton is no true seaside. It is all stones and there are far too many people.” He turned in a circle. “My manor is by the sea. I mean to journey there for the end of the summer.”
“I have always adored Brighton,” she replied, somewhat defensively.
Some of her fondest memories were to be found on that pebbled beach, or wandering along the promenade, holding her mother’s hand as they weaved through other merrymakers.
“Ah, but that is because you have never seen a real beach,” he countered. “My manor has beautiful, sandy beaches. I thought I might have a ball, actually, though I do not know if anyone would make the journey.”
Is he askingmeto make the journey?Regardless of her lessons with Duncan, she had still not mastered the art of reading every nuance in a gentleman’s conversation.
“If you make a point of describing the beautiful beaches, I doubt you will struggle to have a house full of guests,” she answered carefully. “You could even have the ball on the beach itself. Although, that might make the ladies of society grumble. No one wants sand ruining their gowns.”
Roger laughed. “That velvet would certainly struggle.”
“I cannot argue with that,” she replied, smiling.
He was a pleasant man. She couldn’t argue with that, either. Their conversation had been… engaging enough: stilted, at times, and rather generic, but she was not having a miserable time, dancing with him. The problem was that she did not feel like she could say whatever she liked, and he would respond in kind; she did not feel any rush of blood or flutter of the heart or flip of the stomach when she met his eyes. He was thegentlemanly equivalent of a plain scone: nice, sweet, but nothing memorable.
And she hated that she thought that way about him. After all, she was no excellent catch herself: on the brink of destitution, absent any real dowry, and at the ripe age of five-and-twenty.
“What do you think about the invention of these steam engines?” she blurted out suddenly.
Roger raised an eyebrow as he put up his hand to meet hers, the two of them turning in circles around each other. “I think it sounds rather ridiculous and rather dangerous. It has merit for mining, I do not doubt that, but this notion thatpeoplecould travel on such things is… outlandish.” He paused, smiling. “You look beautiful tonight, Miss Maxwell.”
It was a painful blow, and she strove to keep a cheery demeanor upon her face. Even Roger did not want to hear her opinion about innovation and invention and what the world might look like one hundred years from now. He just wanted to tell her she looked nice.
“What if itcouldbe done?” she persisted. “What if there were ‘wagonways’ for steam engines, all over the country? Would you ride on one?”
He pulled a face. “Certainly not. What would be the use of it?” He shook his head as he moved in a horseshoe around her. “I have never hosted a ball before. You are a lady who has attended many—what do you feel is important to entertainguests? I rather like the idea of having it on the beach, but… the organization would be troublesome.”
