Chapter 3
By the time Emma returned to the retiring room, Hyacinth was buzzing with nervousness and was prepared to beg her friend to call the whole thing off. Surely, Lord Litchfield had found other ladies to dance with by now.
But Emma entered the room with a broad smile on her face.
“I’ve asked him and he said he would be happy to dance with you,” she said, her voice pitching high with excitement.
Somehow, it only increased Hyacinth’s agitation.
“He truly said the word happy?” she asked
“He did.” Emma reached for her hand. “Come, don’t keep my brother waiting.”
Hyacinth let herself be led again, and the two retraced the path they’d taken earlier. But this time, when they reached the ballroom threshold, Tristan Brooke stood just inside the crowded room. He smiled as they approached.
Hyacinth gulped, swallowing thickly, trying to give a smile in return, though she realized a moment later that the brightness of his smile might have been for Emma. Not her.
But then he closed the distance between them immediately and grinned down at her. Only her.
“Miss Bridewell, may I have the next dance?”
“Y-yes, of course.”
He lifted his bare hand, palm up, and she slid her gloved one into it. Something bubbled inside her that swept away a bit of her nervousness.
She wanted this. Even if it was one dance and he would never speak to her after this. Even if he forgot her name or never glanced her way again. She would always have this, and she intended to savor every moment of this single dance with him.
He led her farther into the ballroom, guiding her along the edge, since the room was filled with those dancing the current set. Hyacinth was intensely aware of how he held her, firmly, as if he didn’t want to lose her in the clutch of guests waiting to step onto the dance floor.
Hyacinth wasn’t certain of the order of the dances or what might come next.
“Who’s the one bothering you?” Sir Tristan asked, voice low, though he stood close enough for her to hear him perfectly. And for her to smell the warm spice and bergamot scent of his shaving soap.
When Hyacinth glanced up, he gave her a sympathetic look.
“The gentleman you’re seeking to avoid,” he clarified, brows arched.
Goodness, Emma had told him everything.
The music ended and dancers began leaving the floor to seek refreshment. Some remained to take up a new spot for the coming dance.
“Lord Litchfield,” Hyacinth confessed to him quietly.
He’d bent down to catch what she said, then looked at her with a knowing look.
“Ah, yes. He’s a bit of a cad.”
Hyacinth chuckled and then pressed her lips together. She wasn’t certain whether he was denouncing the man out of a sense of camaraderie or whether he truly knew something she didn’t about the nobleman.
Sir Tristan took the hand he still held and placed it on his arm. “Shall we find a spot?”
Hyacinth nodded and they swept onto the dance floor.
When the musicians struck up again, heat flared in her cheeks. It was a waltz. Relief welled up too. It was a simple dance. She would remember all the steps despite not having danced for most of the Season.
Anticipation made her breath tangle in her chest. And when Sir Tristan slipped a hand around her waist, she pressed her gloved hand to the broad, firm swell of his shoulder and became a bit dizzy at how perfect it felt to look up into his sea-blue eyes.
Each time she looked at him, he returned a kind smile, as if perhaps he truly was happy to be dancing with her.
Music rose to the ballroom’s gilded ceiling as they turned about the dance floor, and Hyacinth didn’t count the steps because Tristan led her so effortlessly.
“You’re quite good at this,” he said to her over the music.
And, of course, at that very moment she faltered, almost missing a step. He corrected them quickly and kept tight hold of her. Anyone watching might have missed it entirely.
“You spoke too soon,” she told him with chuckle.
He laughed too, and Hyacinth thought it was quite possibly the loveliest sound she’d ever heard. It sparked an answering tickle in the center of her own chest, as if a bit of his good humor had lodged deep inside. She’d treasure the memory of this moment.
“Emma would tell you that I’m far too reticent.
That I ponder too long and guard my thoughts too fiercely.
” He looked pensive for a moment. It was the first time during the waltz that he’d taken his eyes off of hers.
“Except when it comes to my work, of course,” he finally said, looking back again.
His gaze glowed with warmth now, but of course it was passion for his work, not for her.
“Paleontology,” Hyacinth said and then felt like a fool. It was like pointing out that the sun hung in the morning sky. Of course, paleontology. It was the work that had earned him his knighthood.
But a moment later, she felt no embarrassment because he beamed down at her.
“Yes. Indeed. And Emma tells me you have an interest yourself.”
“I do. But nothing like yours, of course.”
“We should discuss it next time you visit.” He looked momentarily abashed. “If you wish to, of course. I won’t steal you away from Emma unless it’s something you’d enjoy.”
I would. And you could, Hyacinth’s heart immediately whispered. Please steal me away.
“I would like that very much.” Her voice was too breathy, her tone too eager.
He grinned down at her. “Good. I shall look forward to it.”
Heat swept up into her cheeks, across her throat, and every place their bodies were connected. Everything felt suddenly brighter, more vivid, as he turned her around the dance floor.
At one point, he looked across the room.
“Oh no.” His voice had dipped low, and his jaw tightened.
“What is it?” Hyacinth tried to follow the direction of his gaze, but he was already turning her. She was afraid if she lost her concentration, she’d stumble.
“Litchfield is watching us. The man seems quite set on you, Miss Bridewell.”
Hyacinth huffed out a garbled laugh. “I don’t know why. I want nothing to do with the man.”
“Did he offend you somehow?” What seemed like real concern put an adorable furrow in the middle of Sir Tristan’s dark brows.
“He pursued my sister quite avidly,” Hyacinth told him. “And when she would not accept his suit, he opted for her twin.”
Tristan’s brows shot up at that. “That’s a bit distasteful.”
“Just a bit.” Hyacinth returned a rueful grin. “But I’m used to it.”
“How so?”
“Well, you’ve no doubt seen my sister. She’s…” Hyacinth considered a word that could adequately encompass Mari’s appeal. “Extraordinary. Beautiful. People are drawn to her, and rightly so.”
He regarded her thoughtfully, so intently that Hyacinth felt her cheeks burn.
What did he see?
“You and your sister look remarkably alike, do you not?” The amused look he wore caused his eyes to glitter and his distractingly appealing mouth to purse.
“Yes…” Hyacinth’s voice pitched lower than she intended as she admitted, “But we are quite different.”
He blinked at that. “In what regard?”
A gusty laugh rushed out. “In almost every regard.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, almost dubious. “List a few for me.”
“Well, she is artistic, and I am drawn to science. She paints in vivid colors, and I prefer pencil sketches. If she had her way, she would sleep until noon, and I cannot manage to rest beyond the sunrise.”
He smiled. “Anything else?”
Hyacinth didn’t want to list all their differences because they seemed silly when she spoke them aloud. He didn’t need to know that Mari loathed lemon tarts, and Hyacinth adored them.
The real difference, the one that caused people to treat the two of them differently, was something less tangible. For him, for this man holding her so gently and listening so carefully, she attempted to put it into words.
“She glitters somehow in ways I do not. People all look her way the moment she steps into a room. It is as if she draws the light to her.”
“And you?” he asked softly.
“I don’t shine in that way,” she admitted and then found herself looking away.
Something about the admission made her throat tighten. Made the sting of tears threaten to fall.
“I think you’re mistaken, Miss Bridewell,” Sir Tristan said in a confident tone.
“Do you?” Hyacinth couldn’t keep the hopefulness at bay as she met his gaze again.
He chuckled. “We’re dancing a waltz because another gentleman was so set on having you in his arms. He is watching us even now. Clearly, you underestimate your appeal.”
“Oh, but he isn’t…” Who I want. He is nothing to me. He isn’t you.
“I understand,” he murmured when she left the rest unsaid. “He is a cad. Not worth of your attention. I agree. But surely there are others who wish to dance with you.”
The waltz drew to a close, and Sir Tristan led her off the floor, then stopped, no doubt to take his leave and move on to his next partner.
“Thank you for the dance, Sir Tristan.”
“It was my pleasure, Miss Bridewell.” His smile looked genuine. It made his eyes so bright that Hyacinth swallowed thickly.
For a moment, they both stood observing one another, still and connected while others moved around them. To Hyacinth, it felt as if she stood on a precipice, heart in her throat, eager for something, for him to ask her for a second dance.
He took a breath as if he might, but then he simply nodded. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening and a certain nobleman troubles you no more.”
“Thank you,” Hyacinth breathed.
Then he sketched a slight bow and was on his way.
He’d given her no reason to make her believe that it was more than a single dance, but something inside her, something in her heart, told her that it was.