Their feet halted.
Her gaze still locked with his, Sophy blinked at him; the dazed expression in her turquoise eyes assured him that she was as affected as he.
He forced himself to release her, and that was no mean feat. He bowed and was aware the gesture, while perfectly correct, was far stiffer than his usual, gracefully accomplished act.
He raised her from her curtsy, and she wobbled. He held her hand until she’d steadied, then slowly—plainly reluctantly—she drew her fingers from his clasp.
Her eyes held his. “That was…” She paused to sweep the tip of her tongue over her lower lip, and he fought not to close his eyes and groan.
“Enjoyable,” she concluded. She gave a little nod, then flicked open the fan dangling from her wrist and plied it as she looked about them as if noticing the other dancers for the first time.
He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs in the hope more air would steady his wits, then looked around as well. More by luck than design, they were at the opposite end of the large room from where they’d started—from where her grandmother and Julia were sitting.
He didn’t want to but felt compelled to wave in that direction and ask, “Shall we?”
Sophy didn’t want her aunt, much less her grandmother, to see her in such a mental tizzy. Others might not be able to tell, but they assuredly would, and then she’d never hear the end of it.
She dithered, something she rarely did and hated being reduced to. “Perhaps…”
As if in answer to her unformed hope, Oliver appeared through the increasing crush.
“I say!” He greeted Sophy and Martin with exuberant eagerness, then settled the sleeves of his evening coat. “This is clearly the place to be for those with any interest in steel.” He grinned at Martin. “Purely while making my way across the room, I’ve stumbled over more czars of the industry than I’d ever hoped to meet.”
Martin nodded; to Sophy’s eyes, he appeared a touch relieved. “Courtesy of accompanying Sophy while she followed up another odd occurrence at the steelworks, I got to meet John Brown this morning. He assured me that everyone in the business would be here.”
Oliver looked from Martin to Sophy. “That’s excellent news for us personally and also for addressing Sophy’s problem, but what ‘odd occurrence’ did I miss?”
Sophy duly explained, and by the time she had, the stilted stiffness that, in the wake of the waltz, had afflicted Martin and, indeed, her had faded. She was about to suggest they work out some sort of plan for pursuing their various interests when the musicians again interrupted with the prelude to another waltz.
Oliver smiled delightedly and bowed with extravagant grace before her. “Miss Carmichael, would you do me the honor of granting me this dance?”
His eyes were laughing, his expression the epitome of encouraging.
Normally, she would have politely declined, citing her aversion to dancing, but with Martin standing beside her and Oliver having seen Martin and her waltzing, that wasn’t an option.
Besides, she should investigate whether her unprecedented response to waltzing in Martin’s arms was due to something that had changed within her rather than anything peculiar to him. And being a gentleman of similar age and background, Oliver was the perfect choice for that experiment. She smiled and gave him her hand. “I would be delighted, Mr. Coulter.”
Beside her, Martin shifted, but he merely inclined his head to them both and stepped back—away.
Sophy nearly frowned; it felt as if some of her senses remained stubbornly locked on Martin even while Oliver led her through the crowd to the dance floor.
They reached the cleared space, and smiling easily, Oliver turned to her, and she stepped into his arms.
Holding her confidently yet correctly, he whirled them into the swirling throng, confirming that he was, indeed, a very good dancer—perhaps not quite as smooth or understatedly expert as Martin, but experienced nonetheless—yet within three revolutions, Sophy had established that, at least for her, magic flared only when she was in Martin’s arms.
So. Now I know.
Quite what it meant… She doubted that the middle of a ball was a wise place to ponder that.
Setting the issue aside, she gave herself up to taking what enjoyment she could from the waltz. At least Oliver didn’t stand on her toes or steer her into anyone else.
At the end of the dance, he bowed, and she curtsied, then he offered his arm. “I suggest we return to Cynster. We should formulate some sort of plan or at least list our priorities as to what we’d like to achieve tonight.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” She was relieved to see that Martin had waited for them more or less where they’d left him.
He, too, was ready to discuss what they wanted to gain from the evening.
She was genuinely interested in learning what contacts each of them already possessed and who they wanted to meet among the local industrialists. With respect to the latter, she declared herself entirely willing to oblige with introductions.
