He winked and smiled broadly as though he had said something of unique originality.
ANGELINE WAS HAVING a frantically good time at the Hicks ball. She had never been so merry before in her life.
She linked arms with Martha and Maria before the dancing started. She had to be in the middle, of course, because she was so much taller than either of them, as well as being darker and built really on a larger scale altogether. The two of them must look like dainty ribbons dancing about a maypole, in fact. They promenaded about the perimeter of the ballroom, the three of them, chatting and laughing—even out-and-out giggling once or twice.
She danced three sets in a row and smiled dazzlingly and chattered incessantly to her partners, even when the figures of the dance took them so far apart they would have needed ear trumpets to hear every word. She smiled at all the other dancers in passing, ladies and gentlemen alike—except that she conveniently failed to notice the Earl of Heyward when he lumbered past ten feet away from her with his partner and so did not smile at him. It was the same moment anyway as that in which she almost tripped over her own slipper, though she recovered well enough that no one noticed except Ferdinand, who grinned at her.
She chattered between sets to all who wandered her way. A flattering number of those who came were gentlemen, some to ask for dances, some just to be amiable. There were a few notorious fortune hunters among them, according to Cousin Rosalie. But poor men must marry rich wives. It was only good sense. Angeline did not hold their poverty against them. She smiled as brightly upon them as she did upon all the rest.
Ferdinand wandered over to her when there was a lull in the crowd gathered about her and congratulated her upon rejecting yet another suitor for her hand.
“For they have all been nonsensical so far, Angie,” he said. “But none more so than Heyward. I suppose the best that can be said of him, poor man, is that he is worthy. He is undoubtedly that. But the fellow cannot dance.”
“Tresh calls him a dry old stick,” she said, smiling until she felt her lips might crack.
He gave a short bark of laughter.
“It is a good one,” he said. “I must remember it.”
She fanned her tightly smiling lips and turned to greet her next partner.
It was only as she was dancing with him that Angeline realized that Miss Goddard was at the ball. She was tucked into a shady, crowded corner of the ballroom with a group of older ladies, wearing the same blue gown she had worn at Angeline’s own ball. Oh, goodness, she must not have danced at all or Angeline would have seen her sooner. Was one of those ladies her chaperon? Why had she not made some effort to find partners for Miss Goddard?
Angeline had been looking out for her since that day in the library but had not seen her anywhere.
Her partner—goodness, she could not even remember his name, which was shockingly careless of her and not at all fair to him—returned her to Cousin Rosalie’s side when the set was at an end. Angeline spoke quickly before another crowd could gather.
“I am going to speak with Miss Goddard for a moment,” she said to Rosalie. “She is sitting over there.”
“Miss who?” Rosalie asked, but Angeline was already on her way.
She fanned her face and smiled brightly as she approached, and Miss Goddard, seeing her coming, smiled back.
“Lady Angeline,” she said in her quiet, serious voice. “How do you do?”
“I have borrowed Mr. Milton’s Paradise Lost from the library,” Angeline said. “I have read six of the books and have started the seventh. I am loving it. I cannot wait to find out what happens.”
“Oh.” Miss Goddard looked a little taken aback. “Well done. I read it when I was a girl. I have always meant to read Paradise Regained but have not yet brought myself around to it.”
“The Earl of Heyward called at Dudley House this afternoon,” Angeline said. “He offered me marriage, but I said no.”
There was a short silence, during which Miss Goddard stared at her without expression.
“I am surprised,” she said. “And sorry. Surprised and sorry that you said no, that is.”
“He does not love me,” Angeline said. “I asked and he said no. Well, he did not say an out-and-out no. That would have been ungentlemanly, and Lord Heyward is always a gentleman. He talked about fondness and affection and other things that all meant the same thing. But he could not say he loved me.”
“No,” Miss Goddard said quietly, “he would not. He ought to have lied because he would have been devoted to you for the rest of his life, you know. He could not possibly not be. It is not in his nature. But he finds it difficult, if not impossible, to lie, even if only for the sake of diplomacy.”
“He once said that my riding hat was the most atrocious thing he had ever seen in his life,” Angeline said.
Miss Goddard was startled into laughter.
“No!” she said. “Edward said that?”
“But he smiled as he said it,” Angeline said, “and I laughed too. He has a lovely smile.”
“Yes.” Miss Goddard looked arrested. “Pardon me, how very rude I am being. Lady Angeline, may I present my aunt, Lady Sanford? Lady Angeline Dudley, Aunt Charlotte.”
Angeline sat on an empty chair facing the ladies, her back to the dance floor, and chatted for a while. She looked around again only when Miss Goddard fixed her eyes upon something or someone beyond and above Angeline’s shoulder and opened her fan, though she held it in her lap.
Lord Windrow was approaching, all lazy smiles and mocking charm.
Angeline jumped to her feet and smiled brightly again. She fluttered her fan before her face. He was just what she needed this evening—or whom she needed, perhaps. He must have just arrived, which would be typical of him. Certainly she had not seen him before this moment, and she surely would have done if he had arrived earlier.
He feigned a look of surprise.
“Ah, fair one,” he said, bowing elegantly. “And the delectable Miss Goddard, whose stimulating conversation I have sought but not found, alas, since a certain memorable evening that is regrettably long in the past.”
Angeline set her closed fan on his sleeve. The next dance was to be a waltz, was it not? And it was the supper dance. This was perfect. And she actually liked Lord Windrow, she realized, in much the way she liked her own brothers. He was a rake and a rogue, but at least he was an interesting one. An amusing one. And she was not in any danger whatsoever of being taken in by his charm. She would be able to relax and enjoy herself thoroughly with him. No matter that he had made some very improper advances to her at that inn and never apologized adequately for them. What gentleman would not have tried to take advantage of her under similar circumstances?
The Earl of Heyward would not, Miss Pratt’s voice answered very clearly and promptly in her head. Angeline ignored it.
“This is to be a waltz,” she said, “and I am happy to be able to say that I am allowed to dance it. And I am free.” She smiled at him with deliberately exaggerated coquetry.
“My heart would have been smitten with dreadfully negative emotions if you had not been either or both,” he said, his eyelids drooped over his eyes in their customary way—though his eyes were keen enough beneath them. And they were laughing. “I would have felt obliged to challenge every patroness of Almack’s to … ah, not pistols at dawn. That would have been unsporting. Fans at dawn? I hear they can do dreadful damage when slapped across a man’s wrist, and the ladies would have an advantage over me in that I have never practiced dueling with a fan. However, it is now unnecessary for me to put my life and wrists at risk. You will waltz with me, Lady Angeline?”