“Perhaps not at this precise moment, but nonetheless,” she insisted. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined thatIwould be thought of as an objectionable dance partner.” She laughed at the absurdity of it—she could dance circles around these people. “Oh, dear, I can’t wait to tell Donovan.”
“Did you sayfriends?”
This man was impossible. She abruptly curtsied and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Brendan. I accept your offer to dance.”
“I...” He looked at her hand. Hollis fluttered her fingers at him, impatient to get on with it.
“Very well,” he said grudgingly, and in a moment of decisiveness, he took her hand in his large one and pulled her with enough strength that if she’d been a slender thing like Caroline, he might have launched her across the room.
Hollis grinned with delight. “It’s a quadrille. The French invented it. Do you know the dance, Mr. Brendan? Do you know any Frenchmen?”
He pressed his fine mouth very firmly shut and led her onto the dance floor.
“I don’t know any Frenchmen, but I’ve heard it said that they very much like their social gatherings and dancing.”
He refused to comment on the French, but put her directly in front of him, facing him. Hollis debated telling him that she had never in her life met a more uncooperative gentleman. Well...he was not as uncooperative as Mr. Kettle or Mr. Shoreham, but they werehardlyconsidered part of her social sphere. Thepoint being, Mr. Brendan was as stiff as a board. But he kept looking at her mouth, and it had a surprisingly stirring effect on her.
She curtsied very low, and in doing so, knocked his chest with the tip of her cap. “Pardon,” she said crisply. Why was she so reluctant to leave the man be? Should she not be seeking out Caroline and Eliza to tell them about this man, and the three of them could then laugh at the absurdity of it all? Part of her liked a good challenge, and he was certainly that. But it was more than that. In spite of his eccentricity, she was convinced that this man knew something about the Weslorian king, and she was determined to find out what it was.
She would just have to do it with something other than feminine wiles, apparently, which, unfortunately, gave her very little to work with.
Another couple joined them and they had the required square for the quadrille. Hollis smiled as warmly as she could at her partner, and she thought she might have seen something flicker in those impenetrable eyes, but who could be certain? She leaned forward to say something, to put him at ease, but the music began and the first couple stepped forward. In the next moment, she and Mr. Brendan linked arms and went around in a circle, then joined together to step forward and meet the couple across from them. Mr. Brendan did indeed know the figures, but he moved as if his arms and legs were made of wood, and he scowled the whole time.
Hollis kept her steps light, and she made a point to laugh and smile as he handed her off to each partner, and in those moments they met again, she would speak, their gazes would lock, and she would say “Such a lively tune for a quadrille, don’t you think?” Or “You’re an excellent dancer, Mr. Brendan! What is your favorite dance? Mine is the waltz.”
For his part, he said, “Yes,” “Thank you,” and nothing. But he kept his gaze locked on her, and when she spoke, his eyes slipped to her mouth, and by the time the dance ended, Hollis felt warmth curling around the core of her.
Mr. Brendan bowed, held out his arm for hers, and escorted her off the dance floor. When they reached the edge of it, he dropped his arm.
Hollis smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Brendan! May I say the experience was quite...” She sought an appropriate word—daunting, tedious, excruciating...So many to choose from.
“Thank you,” he said, and bowed. “But now, I must ask you to excuse me.” And he walked away.
Hollis’s mouth fell open with shock. She watched him disappear into the crowd, and when she couldn’t see him any longer, she folded her arms and closed her mouth. Of all the boorish, ill-bred, oafish men she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting!
She stood fuming for a moment or two, maybe three, until she felt someone’s eyes on her. She turned abruptly, knocking her hat to one side, and righted it just as her gaze landed on Lady Katherine Maugham.
The peacock.
She was not dressed as a peacock, but that is what Eliza, Caroline, and Hollis had taken to calling her years ago, owing to the way she strutted around the same social circles as they. She’d been their nemesis for years, pursuing the same eligible gentlemen and social standing. The competition had been fierce. And now, Lady Katherine smiled so smugly that Hollis knew she’d seen every bit of what had just happened.
Well, that did it. Mr. Brendan was a guest in this country, and he did not have leave to treat her as if she was as bothersome as Katherine Maugham. Good God, she wasn’tthatbothersome, was she? Well, then. She had something to prove—if not to him, then to herself.
She whirled away from the peacock’s prying eyes so quickly that her cone cap came off her head and tumbled to the ground. A gentleman stepped on it before she could stop him. He apologized profusely, but it was too late. Her medieval hat was ruined and, probably, so was her hair. Where was Caroline when she needed her? Where was Eliza for that matter? Wherewaseveryone in her life now? Was she to suffer this indignity all by herself?
CHAPTER EIGHT
A peacock in Regency dress was spotted at the queen’s costume ball dancing with a recently widowed gentleman. It has been whispered that he is on the prowl for a new wife who might attend to his brood of five, for which, it is said, he has no use.
There were several witnesses to the moment an Alucian minister shunned his Weslorian counterpart. The two gentlemen very nearly came to blows, and had it not been for the quick thinking of a Prime British person a crisis might have developed. Those close to negotiations say there is trouble brewing between the two countries, as there are many who stand to profit from war rather than peace.
Ladies, if an invitation to a costume ball should arrive at one’s door, and one takes the charge to don a costume, remember that the heat of candles will melt paint on one’s face and it will drip on one’s clothing, putting it to ruin, as poor Lady Humbolt will attest.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
MUCHTOMAREK’SSURPRISE, the dance was not as bad as he’d feared. He truly hadn’t meant to be so crusty with Mrs. Honeycutt, but his temples were throbbing, the effect of so much noise being forced into one ear. The music had only added to the strange mix, and when she spoke, her voice was lyrical and soft, and he had to strain to hear her, and there was the slight panic in him about stepping onto a dance floor after all these years and...well.
He hadn’t been at his best. There was something about Mrs. Honeycutt that set him back on his heels. Her forthright manner, perhaps? He actually appreciated that about her. Her insistence on leading the way? He didn’t mind it.
