Chapter One #3
"The loveliness is entirely on your side, I assure you." He offered a slight bow. "I wondered if I might have the honor of the next dance? I believe it is a country dance, which I do believe you favor."
Lord Deane was everything a gentleman ought to be.
Kind, attentive, genuinely interested in her opinions rather than merely waiting for his turn to speak.
He had called on her twice already this Season, each time bringing flowers and making pleasant conversation with her mother.
He was, by every reasonable measure, an excellent prospect.
And yet.
"I would be delighted," she heard herself say, and was rewarded with a smile of such uncomplicated pleasure that she felt a genuine flutter of warmth in response.
They took their places as the orchestra struck up a country dance.
Lord Deane was an excellent partner—steady, sure-footed, never once stepping on her hem or losing his place in the figures.
He made pleasant conversation without demanding too much of her attention, and when he smiled at her, it reached his eyes.
"You seem preoccupied this evening," he observed, as the dance brought them together. "I hope nothing is troubling you."
"Not at all. I am merely tired. These events can be rather exhausting."
"I understand completely. The endless small talk, the constant performance of social niceties…
it can wear on even the most resilient spirit.
" He guided her through a turn with practiced ease.
"I often think how pleasant it would be to simply have an honest conversation, without all the layers of propriety and expectation. "
"That sounds rather revolutionary, Lord Deane."
"Does it? I prefer to think of it as refreshingly direct." His eyes met hers with unexpected intensity. "I value honesty, Lady Vanessa. In myself and in others. I believe it is the foundation of any meaningful connection."
She did not know how to respond to that. Lord Deane was being sincere, she could see it in his face and hear it in his voice. He was offering her something real, something genuine, and all she could think about was a pair of grey eyes and a mocking smile.
"I value honesty as well," she said finally, which was true, even if she was not being particularly honest at this precise moment.
"I am glad to hear it." The dance brought them close again, and he lowered his voice slightly.
"I hope you will permit me to be honest with you now, Lady Vanessa.
I have admired you for some time. Your wit, your intelligence, your refusal to simply say what others expect to hear, these are rare qualities, and I find them immensely appealing. "
"Lord Deane…"
"Please, allow me to finish." He guided her through another figure, his hand steady on hers.
"I know I am not the most exciting prospect.
I am not a duke or a dashing rake or any of the romantic figures young ladies are supposed to swoon over.
But I am steady, and I am sincere, and I would very much like the opportunity to know you better. "
It was, perhaps, the most direct declaration she had ever received. No flowery language, no dramatic gestures and just simple, honest words from a man who meant what he said.
"I understand your family is hosting a garden party next week," he continued. "I wondered if I might call upon you beforehand, with your permission, of course."
He was asking to court her. Properly, formally, with all the appropriate steps and protocols. The way things were meant to be done, by men who respected both the lady and the process.
She should say yes. Every sensible part of her knew she should say yes.
Lord Deane was eligible, appropriate, and genuinely interested.
Her mother would be delighted. Her father would stop making pointed comments about her advancing age.
And perhaps, with time, she might even come to feel something more than tepid appreciation for his steady presence.
"I would be honored," she said.
His smile brightened. "Excellent. I shall call on Tuesday, if that is agreeable."
"Tuesday would be perfectly…"
"Deane!" A voice cut through the music, warm and carrying and achingly familiar. "I had not expected to see you here. I thought you were still at your estate in Kent."
Martin appeared at Lord Deane's elbow, all casual elegance and easy charm.
His timing, Vanessa noted with mounting fury, was impeccable.
Almost as though he had been watching. Almost as though he had waited for the precise moment when the conversation turned toward something meaningful before inserting himself into it.
"Montehood." Lord Deane's greeting was perfectly civil, if somewhat cooler than his manner with Vanessa. "I returned to town last week. My mother insisted on the Season, and I find myself unable to deny her anything."
"A devoted son. How admirable." Martin's gaze slid to Vanessa with an expression she could not quite interpret. "Lady Vanessa. You appear to be enjoying yourself. What a pleasant change from your usual expression of polite suffering."
"I am always pleasant, Your Grace. It is not my fault that some company makes pleasantness easier than others."
"A hit," he acknowledged, pressing a hand to his heart. "I am wounded. Possibly mortally. Deane, you may be called upon to serve as witness when I expire dramatically on the dance floor."
"I suspect you will survive," Lord Deane said dryly. "You generally do."
There was something in the exchange, an undercurrent of tension that Vanessa did not quite understand. The two men were perfectly cordial, their words perfectly civil, and yet she had the distinct impression of hackles rising, of territory being marked.
Ridiculous. She was not territory to be marked. She was a person, with her own preferences and choices, and if Martin thought he could simply appear and disrupt her conversation with Lord Deane through sheer force of personality, he was sorely mistaken.
"If you will excuse us, Your Grace," she said sweetly, "Lord Deane and I were in the midst of a dance."
"So I observed. You make a handsome pair." The words should have been a compliment. The tone made them something else entirely. "I shall leave you to it. Deane…we should talk later. There is a matter regarding the hunting rights at Thornfield that I wished to discuss."
"Of course," Lord Deane said, though his jaw had tightened slightly. "I am at your disposal."
Martin smiled that particular smile that showed too many teeth and withdrew. Vanessa watched him retreat her pulse doing something complicated.
"He is a difficult man to read," Lord Deane observed quietly.
"He is my brother's closest friend. I have known him half my life."
"That is not quite the same as understanding him."
Surely, it could not have been so! But the truth was far more complicated than Lord Deane could possibly comprehend.
The truth was that Vanessa had spent six years trapped between wanting Martin with all her heart and resenting him for making her want him.
She did not understand him, how could anyone understand such an arrogant, mercurial, infuriating man.
..but she was not at all certain that understanding was the relevant issue.
"He has his moments," she said finally, which was perhaps the most honest thing she could offer.
The dance ended. Lord Deane escorted her back to the edge of the floor, bowing over her hand with perfect propriety. "Until Tuesday, Lady Vanessa. I shall count the hours."
He departed, and Vanessa was left alone with her thoughts and the unsettling awareness that Martin was watching from across the room.
She found her mother near the entrance to the supper room, deep in conversation with Lady Haberton about something that involved a great deal of fan-waving and significant looks.
"Ah, Vanessa." Lady Wayworth turned to her with an expression of maternal satisfaction. "I saw you dancing with Lord Deane. He is quite attentive, is he not?"
"He has asked permission to call on Tuesday."
"Has he? Splendid! He is a man of birth and property, with a character that stands the test of any scrutiny. You would be wise to consider that one’s prospects rarely align so favorably.”
Vanessa knew she should be pleased that a man of Lord Deane’s quality had chosen to favour her.
And yet all she could feel was a creeping sense of inevitability, as though her future were being decided without her consent, as though she were watching her own life from a great distance.
"The supper waltz approaches," her mother continued, consulting the small watch pinned to her bodice. "I believe you have promised Lord Montehood that dance?”
"So he has informed me."
"Try not to argue with him too publicly, dear. It gives people ideas."
"What sort of ideas?"
Lady Wayworth's fan resumed its gentle motion. "The sort that require either a wedding or a duel. Neither of which I am prepared to organize on such short notice."
Before Vanessa could formulate a response to this alarming statement, the orchestra struck up the opening notes of the supper waltz. The crowd shifted, rearranging itself into pairs, and she became aware of a presence at her elbow.
"Lady Vanessa." Martin offered his hand with a bow that was, infuriatingly, flawless. "I believe this is my dance."
She could refuse. She could claim sudden illness, a turned ankle, a pressing need to be anywhere other than in his arms. She could create a scene, damn the consequences, and free herself from this particular torment once and for all.
She placed her hand in his.
His fingers closed around hers, warm, steady, impossibly correct even through the barrier of their gloves and led her onto the floor. The waltz began, and suddenly she was in his arms, one hand on his shoulder and his hand at her waist, closer to him than propriety should allow.
"You look as though you are preparing for battle," he observed, as they began to move. "Should I be concerned?"