Chapter 18 #2
The hand was skillfully shaped—and encased in a glove, as it was now, the illusion was convincing.
“Does it . . . function?” she asked as he stood there, arms at his sides.
“Afraid not. But I wager it’s better than a hook, or an empty sleeve.”
His grin faded as something over her shoulder caught his eye. She turned to look and saw Angela Blake, resplendent in green silk, and a man Sophie assumed must be her brother, with similar red hair.
Seeing her, Angela approached and said, “Mrs. Overtree, may I introduce my brother, Horace Blake. Horace, Mrs. Overtree, Stephen’s wife.”
She curtsied, and he bowed. “A pleasure.”
Angela’s eyes turned frosty when they settled on Sophie’s companion. “Mr. Keith,” she acknowledged with cool civility but quickly turned to greet someone else, her brother swept along in her wake.
When the butler announced dinner was served, they all entered the dining room in order of precedence, though Sophie still didn’t understand all the particulars. She waited until Stephen offered his arm and was grateful for his nearness and relative familiarity amid the sea of strangers.
The dining room was awash in candlelight from candelabra and wall sconces.
The table had been extended to its full length to accommodate their many guests and laid with fine linens, the family china, and decorative arrangements of fruits and hothouse flowers.
Place cards directed her and Stephen to one end of the table near Angela Blake, Mr. Keith, and Mr. Darby-Wells.
Kate sat on his other side, while Mr. Harrison and his parents were seated at the opposite end.
During dinner, Mr. Keith waved away refills of wine, Sophie noticed. Taking his cue from the captain, he nursed a single glass, while sipping on spring water.
Mr. Darby-Wells leaned toward Mr. Keith. “Haven’t seen you in months, Keith. Been to White’s lately?”
“No, not in ages. I’ve been in Devonshire with Wesley Overtree.”
“Ah. Devonshire.” The handsome man nodded sagely. “Spend any time with the Exmoor ponies while you were there . . . ?” His tone dripped with innuendo.
A euphemism for betting on horse races, Sophie guessed.
“Afraid not,” Mr. Keith replied.
“Care for a friendly game after dinner?” the man asked.
“No, thanks. I’ve given it up.”
“Have you indeed? That’s a shame.”
Keith’s eyes glinted. “No. It’s a shame when you lose your family’s estate and have to marry for money.” He gave the young man a pointed look.
“Do you say that from personal experience?” the dandy retorted.
“Yes, but I was not thinking of myself or my father in this instance.” Keith’s eyes held the other man’s steadily. Knowingly.
Darby-Wells gave a casual shrug, but Sophie noticed him shift in his chair.
“Bah. You know how rumors spread . . .” The young man smirked and leaned closer, lowering his voice. “I may have lost a fortune, but at least I still have all my appendages.”
Sophie sucked in a little gasp and looked at Stephen and Kate, but they hadn’t heard. Miss Blake had, however. So had Mr. Keith, and the bravado faded from his eyes. He lowered his artificial hand into his lap.
After dinner, Kate begged for dancing, and soon the men set aside their port and pipe, and the women their gossip, to oblige her.
Together the party moved toward the great hall.
In anticipation of the dancing, servants had rolled up the carpets and laid a fire in the massive hearth to chase away the chill in the cavernous room.
Mr. Overtree had surprised his daughter by hiring musicians after all, who even now sat at the ready in the raised gallery above.
As the company entered they began playing a jaunty tune with fiddle, flute, and pipe.
Kate and Mr. Darby-Wells claimed the position of head couple and called for a Scottish reel. Its militant pace put Sophie in mind of soldiers marching into battle. At the thought, her heart fell, knowing Captain Overtree might soon do just that.
The tune reminded Stephen of his regiment’s bandsmen. He blinked away an unwanted image of a drummer boy who looked no older than twelve, lying dead in a Spanish wheat field. This was not the time or place for such remembrances. If only he could wipe them from his mind forever.
As other couples joined in, Stephen touched Sophie’s elbow. “May I have this dance?”
She blinked up at him in surprise. “I did not think you cared enough for dancing to wish to begin so early.”
“I don’t. But I refuse to waste a moment with you.”
She bit her lip. “Would you mind terribly if we waited until the next? I don’t think I’m equal to a reel after that large meal.”
“I don’t mind at all, as long as you stay near.”
She smiled shyly up at him. “I shall.”
They stood beside one another, watching the dance. Stephen grinned at Kate’s enthusiastic, energetic steps compared to her partner’s smooth, polished style.
“They may not be well matched in dancing, but no great matter,” he said. “A dance is fleeting, but marriage is forever.” Where had that come from—was he a philosopher now? Stephen inwardly cringed. What a thing to say when their marriage could very well be short-lived.
“I don’t think they are well matched for marriage either,” Sophie said mildly.
Stephen didn’t challenge her and was relieved when she didn’t expound on her reply. He hoped to avoid another argument, this night of all nights.
The first set ended, and the gentlemen escorted their partners from the dance floor. Then the musicians began another tune.
Stephen watched in surprise as Mr. Harrison led Kate on to the floor, her face flushed and radiant as she smiled up at him. He wondered how his mother felt about Mr. Harrison’s presence.
A few feet away from them, Keith leaned near Miss Blake and said earnestly. “I beg your forgiveness for my behavior at Windmere. Upon my honor, it shall not happen again.”
“I forgive you.”
Keith reared his head back in surprise at how readily his apology was accepted. A moment later, he asked glibly, “I don’t suppose you’d care to dance with a one-armed pauper?”
Stephen knew the man’s teasing tone hid his fear, or perhaps even his assumption, that she would refuse him.
“I would indeed,” Angela replied, as though he’d referred to himself as a titled lord.
Stephen’s fondness for his childhood friend deepened then and there.
“I recognize this music,” Sophie spoke up. “A favorite in Bath. It’s called ‘Our Mutual Love.’”
“Well, then,” Stephen replied. “We had better dance to it.”
They shared a private smile and joined the other couples forming two lines down the center of the long hall. As they moved through the patterns, Stephen observed Mr. Harrison as he danced with Kate, noticing the young man’s respectful distance and correct, if faltering, steps.
Soon, he and Sophie found themselves at the top of the line with Miss Blake and Mr. Keith. Stephen was glad Angela and Sophie would be the two ladies taking his lifeless hand.
He and Keith stepped around their partners, then turned them with both hands—or in Keith’s case, one hand.
Then the ladies did the same. The two couples changed places, right hands across, left hands back, moving down through the line.
Stephen relished Sophie’s nearness and the feeling of her hands in his.
It only made him want to hold her closer. God give me strength.
He watched Sophie with unabashed admiration.
When Mr. Keith could not reach or turn, she continued on fluidly with enough grace and ease that only those watching closely would know Mr. Keith did not perform his role perfectly.
Miss Blake was a little less serene looking, as though concentrating very hard on the steps and hoping not to make a fool of herself.
Or perhaps hoping others were not scoffing at her partner.
And he had to admire Keith’s bravery as well.
Dancing in such august company, with many eyes on him, took a great deal of bravery.
Nearly as much as facing a line of French infantry.
When Stephen and Sophie reached the bottom of the set, they stood out for a round as the dance dictated.
This left another couple at the top of the line to dance the steps and repeat the pattern.
As they waited to rejoin the dance, they were free to converse.
To flirt. It was the time that young men, whether courting or simply admiring a fair partner, looked forward to most of all.
A time to have a lady’s undivided attention away from the listening ears of chaperones.
To talk, or tease, or whisper sweet words of flattery.
Instead, standing there with his wife, Stephen found himself tongue-tied.
He faltered, “Your dress is . . . well, you in that dress, I should say. You take my breath away.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She looked down, embarrassed, and he thought, or at least hoped, pleased at his praise. She said, “I am glad your mother had it made for me.”
“So am I. And here I am in ordinary evening attire like every other man in the room. Perhaps I ought to have worn my dress uniform, but as it is my last night as a civilian . . .”
“You look very handsome as you are.”
His body warmed at the shy admiring glance she gave him from beneath her lashes.
“Why, Mrs. Overtree, are you flirting with me?” he teased.
“And . . . if I am?”
He took her hand in his. “You, my wife, may flirt with me any time you like. The way you are looking at me now, I almost think you mean it.”
She met and held his gaze. “I do.”
His heart beat hard, and he swallowed in vain to dislodge the lump in his throat. He said in a voice low and hoarse, “Careful, Sophie, or I may begin believing you. And then you had better lock the adjoining room door.”
She looked at him quickly, then away, the veil of her golden-brown lashes falling over her eyes once more. What had he seen there? Hope? Fear? Uncertainty?