Mary Crawford’s Debut #3
Mary raised an eyebrow, her voice dispassionate but not unkind. “And I must admit, sir, that you seem disappointed that I am not as easily flattered as you expected.” She curtseyed deeply, her expression as gracious as ever. “As it is, my next dance partner is surely looking for me.”
Another young lady may be amenable to your charms, but not I.
Before he could muster a response, she swept away, satisfied with how neatly she put him off. Then her eyes found Halstead’s, and she thought of the captain no more.
And so, for I would not deceive you as to the direction of this tale, it was not during her endless revolutions around the floor with gentlemen of questionable merit that Mary’s heart raced—but in the prospect of the waltz yet to come.
Each set had been endured with dignity, but it was the promise of Halstead’s hand at the end of the evening that warmed her.
For all her practised poise, she was not immune to expectation.
And that, perhaps, was what made her the most human of heroines.
As the music from the previous set faded and the final notes were swallowed into the murmur of the assembled company, a subtle alteration in the crowd’s verve signalled that something of consequence was to occur.
Heads turned towards the dais where Admiral Crawford stood, a trim and ruddy man with a booming voice more fitting on a ship’s deck than a ballroom.
He cleared his throat, not to gather the room’s attention but more out of habit, as a prelude to all things he deemed official.
“My friends,” he began, lifting a crystal glass of amber liquid, “we are heartily glad for your presence this evening to celebrate Mary’s seventeenth birthday.
It is not every day a man sees his niece, my late brother’s daughter, step out into society with such grace and, I daresay, such a crowd of admirers at her heels. ”
There was gentle laughter. More than one matchmaking mama snickered with strategic zest.
“I have had the honour of calling Mary my own these many years, though I assure you I have not ever attempted to tame her. What she is—clever, charming, and as courageous as any young lady has a right to be—is entirely of her own making. And it is to her—” he raised his glass higher “—that we revel in this final dance of the evening. A waltz.”
The crowd applauded politely before Captain Wendell cheered, “Hip, hip, hooray,” and the assembled joined in, “Hip, hip, hurray, hip, hip, hooray.” Mary, for her part, flushed, though not out of embarrassment; rather, she worried that the boisterous cheers from the gentlemen made her, and her elegant festivities, some sort of spectacle, but she inclined her head with a composure befitting the honour of the occasion.
Opening strains of a waltz began, and as if on cue, Halstead stepped forwards and proffered no flourish, no bow more exaggerated than custom required. He merely extended his hand and said, his voice like velvet, “Miss Crawford, I have come to claim my dance.”
“My lord.” Her pulse quickened as she placed her hand lightly on his arm.
As they moved to join the other dancers, she spared a glance over her shoulder at Captain Wendell, looking vexed and undoubtedly wondering how he had been outflanked. She sniffed.
Oh, Captain, you never stood a chance.
Her enthusiasm was for the viscount, who, much to her pleasure, appeared to be just as eager for their dance as she. The waltz, this new dance of scandal and debate, she hoped would culminate in wits, where the evening’s anticipated excitement surely would unfold.
Mary’s affected equanimity contradicted her elation as he rested his hand at her waist, and they glided onto the floor.
With her hand on his shoulder, she tried to maintain her poise without looking too rigid.
She had not once waltzed with anyone other than Henry or her dancing master, and she was acutely aware of the space between them as they moved.
Surprisingly, the distance was not uncomfortable—quite the opposite.
The closeness of the dance and the three-quarter signature of the music all seemed like an invitation.
“You weathered the attention of the admiral’s speech… admirably,” he murmured.
Her lips twitched. “I have learnt that ‘Brevity is a great charm of eloquence His speech was brief, as was my wont.”
“I must thank him, then, for his restraint as I have been all anticipation for this dance the entire evening.”
The music began its lilting pitch, and Halstead led her with graceful style, taking a long step backwards whilst she matched him with a step forwards.
His tall frame guided her with confidence, and though Mary’s feet moved with the rhythm of the waltz, she was keenly aware of the exquisite tension that lingered.
The viscount leant in, his hot breath near her ear.
“You are as light on your feet as I imagined,” he said with a low chuckle. “I had no doubt, but it is always diverting to dance with a young lady whose feet are as quick as her wit.”
Mary gave him a sidelong glance, her voice teasing. “Merci infiniment, as I have given much study to the intricacies of dance as the art of conversation.”
As they turned again, the subtle pressure of his touch on her back transfixed her senses.
“And I am appreciative of your efforts in the schoolroom. I suspect you will leave many broken hearts this Season.”
Her esteem burgeoned under such flattery. “I prefer to leave them mystified than downcast, my lord.”
The room seemed to blur around them, and she revelled in the idea of commanding the viscount’s silent intensity, if only fleetingly.
“How very clever. You are kindness itself. But tell me, Miss Crawford, will you reserve this particular talent to beguile all gentlemen or just the ones who are worthy of your... attentions?”
Her heart beat faster than she cared to admit. Mary suspected he simply toyed with her.
And I shall not be included amongst the many broken hearts left in the viscount’s wake this Season.
“I think, my lord, that you should be the one to decide that,” she replied, her voice sweet yet laden with unspoken challenge.
Thoughts jumbled, she knew not what else to say. She found herself simply enjoying the dizzying turns. His favour never wavered from her.
But there was a moment when they spun that she glimpsed Lady Sutherland and her mousy daughter watching them and nattering with Miss Townsend and her mother.
A surge of exhilaration at the thought of being admired, possibly envied, by even the beau monde, stimulated her.
As they swirled across the ballroom floor, she could not help but bask in such an accomplishment.
“You are very quiet, my lord,” she said, tilting her head. “I daresay the quietest dance partner I have had the pleasure of dancing with all evening.”
He raised a brow. “Forgive me if I have been lost in your comeliness.”
She laughed. “Very well. That will do.”
“You do not believe me in earnest? I did profess earlier that I believe your entire person has been designed to capture my attention, nay, every gentleman’s admiration, this evening.”
A jest—or something more?
“Will you be much in Town this Season?” The question escaped her before she thought better of it.
“A little. But perhaps just long enough.”
Was that a promise, a tease, or merely a truth? “Long enough for what?”
“To see you again.”
His words, though titillating, left her feeling something like regret for the conclusion of their dance, her ball. “Of course, if time allows.”
The final step—a dramatic sweep and then a sudden halt—left them both standing motionless for the briefest instance, as if the world had stopped for them.
When the room erupted in applause, Mary relished the attention of the room upon them. He bowed, she curtseyed, and they parted. Not with declarations, not even with certainty. But with something far more thrilling: possibility.
And that is the kind of ending, or perhaps beginning, any sensible young lady might prefer.
One of the maids had opened the curtains, and Mary awoke to stark sunshine. She blinked at the unwelcome light. She had barely fallen asleep before daybreak; her thoughts were anything but still.
She snuggled into her coverlet and let the events of the night before dance through her musings: the waltz with Halstead, their playful banter, his study of her that seemed both fleeting and intense…
Her maid slipped in through a side door with a cup of chocolate. “Good morning, miss.”
Mary grinned at Jones as she propped herself against a heap of pillows, then accepted the sweet warmth from the chocolate, her fingers lingering on the porcelain cup.
Jones set about her work with brisk efficiency. “I trust you slept well after the excitement of last evening? Miss Robinson begs your pardon, but she is having a tray in bed as she has the headache.”
“Oh, the poor dear. She must stay abed as long as she likes.” She sighed wistfully. “I could hardly sleep myself, my head so full of the festivities.”
“I’m sure it was, miss. A birthday celebration like that is sure to set tongues wagging.”
Mary did not reply immediately but pondered those “wagging tongues.” Gossip, of course, was always the price of any event.
She knew this better than most, having grown up amidst the endless speculation of her uncle’s house.
But there was something about last night, about the waltz with the viscount, that she could not quite name.
Nonsense!
She did know. He was a viscount.
Imagine me: Lady Mary Halstead! How divine that sounds.
That “something” made her heart fluster despite her best efforts at restraint.
She put the cup down and looked towards Jones, who was putting away the linens. “You are quite right, Jones. The tongues will be wagging this morning. What are they saying downstairs?”