Chapter Twenty
As the announcement of the Marquess of Westland and Miss Mason’s arrival reverberated through the cavernous marble entrance hall, it precipitated a flurry of excitement.
Heads immediately turned, and fans snapped open to conceal their bearers’ whispers as curiosity rippled through the crowd.
Sylvie received several smiles — yet the odd scowl and arched brow did nothing to diminish the nervous excitement she was feeling.
Over the past three weeks, she and Lord Westland had spent many hours in each other’s company; riding in the park, attending intimate dinner parties and even enduring — on his part — a musical evening, which she had thoroughly enjoyed.
Yet tonight was different. Tonight was their first ball.
Their first true public appearance as a couple, with more than thirty guests to endure.
She could feel the muscles in his arm tense beneath her gloved hand as he began to lead her through the crowded hall — the thrum of conversation finally starting to crescendo back to its original state as curiosity swelled in their wake.
Passing several glittering reception rooms brimming with society’s elite, they followed a little clutch of excitable young debutants giggling and whispering as they near skipped their way towards the ballroom.
Lady Gossforth’s ball was touted as one of the highlights of the social calendar — large, opulent, and a veritable who’s who of the ton — and tonight, it seemed, it would not disappoint.
Feeling Angus hesitate on the threshold of the grand ballroom, Sylvie gave his arm a gentle squeeze as she looked up at him.
“It feels rather like walking the plank, does it not? Shall we avoid the circling sharks a little longer by taking a turn about the floor?”
“Dance?” His gaze snapped down to hers, brows knitting. “I do not…”
But Sylvie’s eyes were already darting around the room. “Oh golly, incoming, two o’clock,” she interrupted under her breath.
Momentarily, he stared back at her before his gaze drifted to his left.
His expression unchanged, he murmured dryly, “I see.” With only a subtle incline of his head, he added, “Shall we?” then, without hesitation, he guided her gracefully toward the parquet floor, offering nothing more than a curt nod and a clipped, “Lady Cabbot-Leigh,” to the young woman dressed head-to-toe in eye-watering sugar-pink, advancing upon them.
Closing the space towards the parquet floor, Sylvie made to veer around, but Angus corrected her course.
“My lord?” she asked, startled, “I thought we were simply to wander round the outside.”
“You asked me to dance.”
She half giggled in shock and spluttered. “I do not believe I did.”
“Ah, but you did.”
“I… I…” she whispered a little breathlessly, “I would never dare presume to ask such a thing.”
“I disagree,” he murmured, taking her hand. “And I accept.”
Her eyes widened. “But you do not dance… you just said you could not dance… oh, golly… and it’s a Waltz!”
“It is,” he said evenly.
The dance floor loomed dauntingly close, and before she could protest again, he moved.
The swift fluidity of his motion made her catch her breath.
Her feet barely touched the floor, and she blinked up at him, finding herself already poised on the dance floor, his hand firm and warm on her back, his frame commanding.
Leaning slightly as he scooped up her right hand, he murmured near her ear.
“I was going to say, I do not usually dance, not that I cannot.”
His nearness stole her breath. She had never been held so close, a mere whisper of space between them.
The sensation was intoxicating—his scent, the rhythm, the strength of his hand guiding hers.
The intimacy. She felt a little light-headed as if she were floating, and it took her a moment to realise that they were already moving, gliding lightly across the dance floor.
Their bodies, dipping and swaying, turning as one in time with the hypnotic music.
She wasn’t thinking of the steps or counting in her head as she normally did.
Nor was she anticipating a misstep from her partner or how to avoid her toes being crushed.
She was simply dancing. Floating weightlessly around the room, her body intrinsically following his masterful lead as if she had always known how.
“You are quiet,” he murmured.
“I am, my lord.”
“It is unlike you.”
She laughed softly. “You have mesmerised me, tis all.”
“Is that so?”
“And I’m a little breathless.”
“Are we going too fast?”
“No… breathless with excitement to discover you do not have two left feet as I feared, but rather… twinkle toes.”
“Hmph,” he rumbled as they twirled again, though Sylvie didn’t miss the subtle crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he tried to mask a smile. Then instantly, it was gone, and without warning, her feet left the floor entirely.
He lifted her — cleanly, effortlessly — high in the air, spinning once, twice, her skirts billowing, her heart soaring.
Her chest was pressed so close to his, for a moment she felt as if his heart beat against her own, and thought she might burst with delight.
Then, as quickly as it began, her feet touched down, a little clumsily, but his arm was still secure around her waist, supporting her for the seconds it took to find her steps.
His tight grip slowly released, and his frame was once more majestic as they sailed across the floor.
Now, completely breathless, she gazed up at him, eyes shining.
“Sadly,” he said impassively, utterly composed, “not everyone has twinkle toes.”
“Pardon?”
He looked at her for a moment, his gaze holding hers. “Did I not tell you I would keep you safe?”
Her eyes widened. “Yes… but… but thrillingly risqué dancing? Shockingly delightful as it was… “
This time, he didn’t hide his quick smile as he nodded toward something over her shoulder. “Collision. Miss Mason. Averted.”
Her brow slightly furrowed in answer, so he added, “Risqué, rather than risk a broken ankle?”
Her eyes darted to where he had indicated, and her momentary expression of concern blossomed into the most radiant amusement.
“Goodness, what a blundering buffoon! That poor girl, how embarrassing for her, though I am pleased to report she is not limping, merely spitting feathers… And… making quite the scene.”
“Mm.”
“And yet…” she whispered, eyes darting back to the crowd, “it appears your heroic action to save my ankles is of far more interest… and, oh, they are all quite agog!”
“Agog?”
She chuckled, “Yes, agog. It’s my word of the day.
Deliciously descriptive, is it not? Agog…
a state of intense excitement and interest, falling over oneself with eager curiosity to know more.
It is said,” she intoned theatrically, “that Lord Westland’s mastery on the dance floor, and rather scandalous display, left spectators quite agog. ”
“Then it is a good thing that our dance is at an end,” he said as they came to a halt. Releasing her, he gave her a bow.
“Bother,” she muttered to herself, but he caught it, and it earned her a raised brow.
Responding to his expression with a shy smile, she added softly, “What I mean, my lord, is that it was wonderful. Our dance. Thank you.”
Offering her nothing more than his arm, he led her from the dance floor. After a few steps, he murmured, “As did I, Miss Mason… As did I.”
And as much as she wished to squeak in delight at such a confession — finding herself now quite agog, and, indeed, in a state of intense excitement and near tripping over herself with eager curiosity to know more — she simply lowered her gaze and smiled quietly to herself.
Such sentiments from her future husband’s guarded lips were to be treasured, each smile or gruff laugh a rare gem to be cherished.
With every passing day, she fell deeper in love with him.
Each hour in his company brought more enlightenment.
He had said he would keep her safe — and she had no doubt he would keep her safe from any danger or harm — yet did he realise that he made her feel safe?
Safe enough to be completely herself… safe enough to dare to hope…
* * *
They found a quiet corner, attempting to melt into the background, yet it was proving a futile exercise. Of course, all and sunder were vying to attract the Morose Marquess’s attention.
“Oh goodness… Lady Mitford is heading our way. You know,” Sylvie whispered devilishly, “it is said that she once made Lord Mitford hide behind the curtains for an entire evening… just so he could listen in on conversations and report back.”
Angus turned and looked down at her, his brow slightly elevated in feigned reproach. “Gossip, Miss Mason?”
“Well… that was the initial hope, but apparently all he discovered was a terrible draft.”
He bit back a laugh, giving her what he thought to be a warning look, yet its effect only produced a momentary impish grin, wholly for him.
She quickly replaced it with a polite smile as she turned and greeted Lady Mitford.
And, much to his dismay — though he would never admit it — he was beginning to appreciate her company.
She had an astounding ability to navigate conversations effortlessly away from him, steering them into the mundane, socially acceptable realms. A skill he had never mastered, always feeling irritated and frustrated in such situations.
Yet Sylvie could chatter away for England, leaving him free to merely nod or interject an occasional, indeed.
As, did it seem, she had an uncanny knack for making him laugh at the most inopportune moments…
or were they truly inopportune? He shook his head, distracted by a familiar voice.
“… looking very, dare I say, relaxed? Is this your doing, Miss Mason? And may I say, you are looking more lovely than ever. Betrothal and powder blue appear to be just your colours. Now, have we drinks, as I fear we will need some fortification if we are to come out of this unscathed. That lively performance on the dance floor has caused every young deb’s heart to flutter…
young bucks to ponder, and heavens forbid…
every matron to shudder. Dash it… If only I had thought of such a move myself. ”
“Humber,” intoned Westland, unmoved.
“Yes, my dear fellow. It is I, come to the rescue. Now, do be a dear and refresh your delightful fiancé’s champagne while I whisk her off for a spin around the dance floor.
Oh, and make mine a large malt if you will.
I understand Penelope is already on the prowl and has her claws out.
If I am to bleed, let it be whisky rather than blood.
Now, my lovely,” he said, bowing elegantly, “shall we?”
Sylvie, in a haze of delight and confusion, turned an enquiring smile to Angus. Though his demeanour was austere, he nodded his acquiescence, and Humber instantly swept her onto the dance floor.
“My lord,” Sylvie whispered, as the music carried them along, “do you really think our dance has caused another scandal?”
“Absolutely,” he replied delightedly, then instantly tilted his head. “Yet, do I detect a hint of concern in those pretty eyes of yours, my lovely?”
“I…” she faltered, “… it’s just…”
“Just?”
The softness of his tone and kindness in his eyes encouraged her next words to tumble forth.
“You see… I had not thought until you mentioned… I mean, I knew a few were a little shocked, but are they not always? I would hate to be the cause of more discomfort for Lord Westland… because, because after everything else I have brought upon him… he felt he had to dance… and then… then to save my ankles, and I had just started to hope…” She blinked in dismay, flustered at such an outpouring.
“Oh, my goodness, please forgive me. I… I scarcely know what came over me.”
He studied her for a long moment, then gently squeezed her hand. “No, my dear little friend… I fear it is I who should apologise for teasing so. It is simply the way between Westland and I.”
“Oh…” she murmured, slightly disenchanted.
“You do understand, Westland would never dance to please society, my lovely. He has no care for their opinions. He danced only to please you.”
A blush instantly dusted her cheeks. “Oh?”
“You appear to put him at ease.” Seeing her brighten, he added, “Ah… that’s better. Now, one of your enchanting smiles, directed solely at me, if you please. We must not allow him to get too comfortable.”
“Lord Humber!” she spluttered on a giggle.
“Perfect,” he whispered with a devilish smile. “Now… tell me all there is to know about this new craze I am hearing about.”
“Which craze?”
“Duck fat.”
“Duck fat?” she echoed, puzzled. “For roasting potatoes?”
“No, my lovely… for smearing on one’s skin.
Apparently, it has astonishing qualities for rectifying all manner of ailments.
Though I hear…” lowering his voice, “after bathing in a tub of the stuff for several hours… as it cooled, Lady Winterbottom became quite stuck… Had to call for the quack to crack her free.”
Totally unladylike, Sylvie snorted in delight. “You rascal.”
And so they danced on, and Sylvie proceeded to delight in the rest of their dance. Her worries allayed for now, though, Humber had left her mind much to ponder.