Chapter Two #3
Nicholas danced every set though he knew his leg would ache more than usual tomorrow.
He had learned to ignore such inconveniences.
He always enjoyed mingling with other people at the social events he attended.
He enjoyed choosing his partners at balls.
He liked conversing with them, as far as the figures of the dance allowed.
He savored the opening set with Grace. She looked strikingly handsome in an emerald green gown.
She lived up to her name in the way she danced.
She smiled and gave him her attention. He felt that she genuinely liked him, as he liked her.
But love? Did it matter if she loved him?
Or if he loved her? They were both past such romantic nonsense, surely.
Liking would give place to affection if they married and eventually to a sort of love, which might not be passionate but would be lasting.
He would be able to trust her, he firmly believed, as she could trust him.
Once he was married, his wife would have all his loyalty.
All his fidelity. He had never been much of a philanderer anyway.
She would be a good mother—as he hoped he would be a good father.
Different from his own. But he shook off that thought as soon as he became aware of it.
His father had been who he was, just as he, Nicholas, was who he was.
Why should he fear becoming his father all over again just because he looked like him and shared a basic gregarious nature with him?
It was disturbing when other people still told him, as though they thought it was a compliment, that he was just like his father.
One person had told him that just tonight. He had forced himself to smile.
His father had been enormously popular, both at home at Ravenswood and here in London, where he had spent the spring months, supposedly attending to his parliamentary duties while Mama and his children remained at home in the country.
It was only when Nicholas was eighteen and about to leave home that he passed the age of innocence with an abrupt jolt when he discovered who, or rather what, his father really was.
He simply must make Grace an offer soon.
There was no point in delaying. Her parents expected it.
So, no doubt, did she. And he was not going to find anyone more suitable.
He did need to ascertain first, however, that it was what she truly wished.
He did not want to discover after their marriage that she had accepted him only because it was expected of her.
Not that he would discover it even then, he supposed.
Her vows made, she was unlikely ever to admit such an unsavory truth to him.
“Would it be too much to ask that you reserve another set for me later this evening, perhaps directly after supper?” he asked her as he led her back to her mother’s side.
It was unexceptionable, he knew, to dance twice in an evening with the same partner, though he rarely did it himself.
“Thank you,” she said. “I will.”
Which left him wondering why he had not, even before tonight, reserved the supper dance with her.
Having the meal together would have given them the chance for a private tête-à-tête, perhaps to be followed by a stroll in the garden.
Instead, he had asked Miss Cunningham, in whom he could have no possible interest beyond the connection with Owen.
He rather liked her despite, or perhaps because of, her outspokenness in the receiving line.
But as a sister-in-law? As a lifetime partner for his fun-loving brother?
Owen’s business was not his, of course. Even Devlin, their elder brother and head of the family as the Earl of Stratton, did not interfere in any of their relationships.
It finally came time to claim his partner for the supper dance.
He had observed that she was a good dancer.
She had danced all evening so far, which was not surprising.
The duchess would have seen to that. If Owen did not come up to scratch, Her Grace would probably also procure some respectable marriage offer for her niece.
He guessed that Miss Cunningham was in her twenties already.
They did not talk as they danced. They would do that later.
Instead, they moved with the twirling crowds of their fellow dancers, and it struck Nicholas that her obvious exuberance was as unfashionable as her appearance.
Most of the other ladies either smiled politely as they danced or looked fashionably bored.
It would seem that most considered it undignified to show open enthusiasm. Even Grace…
But no, he was not going to pursue that thought.
“Allow me to escort you into the supper room,” he said, bowing over Miss Cunningham’s hand as the set drew to an end. “Shall we see if we can find a quiet table somewhere?”
She looked consideringly at him. “So you may interrogate me?” she asked.
Her blunt observations never ceased to take him by surprise. He smiled at her. “I promise not to use the thumb screws,” he said.
“That is vastly reassuring, Colonel Ware,” she said, setting her hand on his offered arm.
He led her in the direction of the supper room and was fortunate enough to find a small side table still unoccupied. He settled her on one side of it and seated himself on the other.
All around them there was a swell of sound as other guests found spaces and friends and settled into animated conversation, each person trying to raise his or her voice above the multitude.
Fortunately, Nicholas had never found it difficult to make himself heard, even without resorting to the use of his parade ground voice.
“Now, why would you expect an interrogation?” he asked, regarding his companion with amusement.