Chapter 5
DANCING WITH LORD Shefford had most certainly not been part of Caro’s plans for the night, but he had been circling the room and greeting his guests, like a good host, and then asked her to dance when a song he particularly enjoyed was played.
It had been unexpected, as he was a bit of a nervous man and deferred practically everything to his wife or his son, but he really was a good sort, so Caro had no reason to refuse.
Besides, she had not seen Susannah in some time, nor Bas, which made her deliciously happy. With no other aims for herself at present, Caro decided that a dance with a safely and happily married man would do nothing to damage her reputation or her evening.
What had been impossible, however, was ignoring the whispers as she’d passed.
Not even about her this time, but about Silas.
“With the elder Mr. Darby so clearly besotted with the Brooks girl, perhaps there will be a double wedding.”
“Oh, absolutely. Mr. Silas Darby is to wed, you know. We’ve heard it from the family themselves.”
Silas was to wed? How? When? To whom? Had he left her three years ago to pursue romantic opportunities? Was it now too late to try for him?
Why had she not written to him? Why had she allowed this distance between them to fester?
Why had he?
Surely if he loved her, he would have told her why he was leaving. Would have explained himself. Would have written her and . . .
No, there was no room for resentment. Not anymore. She’d felt that before, and all it had done was give her misery and anguish. Now she had to believe that there was a chance. That her cowardice and silence could be forgiven.
Even if he did not love her, she could tell him. She could confess the truth of her heart, and perhaps he would tell her if he had ever felt the same, even if he did not feel so now.
The rejection would serve her right, but she would know that she had been brave enough to say the words aloud.
“You seem a trifle unsteady, Miss Brooks,” Lord Shefford said kindly as they took their places in the dance. “Are you quite well? Would you prefer not to dance this one?”
Caro forced a smile and shook her head, willing her fingers to stop trembling. “No, indeed, I am quite well. Forgive my distraction.”
His easy smile was just what she needed to bring her back to the moment, though sensation never fully returned to her legs, in spite of the dance and the movement she was engaging in.
But her mind would have to lead her in this while her heart protected itself against collapse, and her body would follow whichever organ provided the most support in the moment.
And her determination to never make a scene or insult a host kept her focused on this dance and this partner, this exchange that others would watch.
If her reactions were in any way out of the ordinary, someone would catch it and say something. More rumors would begin.
And she had no desire to become the object of discussion at the Sheffords’ harvest ball this year.
The dance itself was a simple one, and plenty of couples were filling the space in order to entertain themselves, the other guests watching.
There was much interaction between other dancers as part of the motions, which was even more enjoyable than a pleasant dance with their host, if she were to be honest with herself.
There was something to be said for shared enjoyment amongst others, even if only for brief moments at a time.
And when others were laughing and enjoying themselves, it was difficult to keep from joining their revelry.
The almost rowdy tone and movements of the dance also kept Caro from having to find topics of conversation with Lord Shefford beyond superficial and polite ones, which was undoubtedly a blessing for them both.
If Lord Shefford had wanted conversation, he would not have asked her to dance, and if Caro had wanted to converse, she could have politely demurred his offer to dance.
Neither of them was reserved enough to dance in silence, so the exchange truly was all about the dance itself.
What a blessed relief that was!
Her mother might have scolded her for only dancing with married men—and one of them a relation—but she was accustomed to Caro’s not being considered a marriageable prospect, as it were.
And if she had caught sight or wind of Susannah’s companion for the evening, she would be far too wrapped up in that extravagant blessing to even think of Caro.
Come to think of it, I would likely be at the bottom of the list of daughters who concerned her, she thought as she heard her youngest sister’s distinctive ripple of laughter over the sound of the music.
She took Lord Shefford’s hands again and skipped from one side to the other before twirling under his arm and then proceeding with him under the arms of the couples beside them, laughing at his rather buoyant steps.
“You are rather spry for your age, my lord,” Caro told him on their next pass about the couples. “If I may say so.”
He chuckled and turned her about easily. “You may, Miss Brooks. My wife prefers to speak with our guests more than dance, but I have very little to say in that regard. She and my son are the ones with opinions and knowledge, while I defer and obey.”
Well, she was not going to respond to that statement, but she could also see that he did not mind the arrangement.
They moved into the next set of movements, one which would pair them with different partners for the few remaining minutes of the dance.
He sent her away with a little flourish that had her laughing again as she rounded the line of dancers, on her way to meet her finishing partner.
She was already looking at the tunnel of arms they would have to pass through, her hand outstretched and ready for his.
Then she felt the hand slide against her glove, then a faint squeeze of her fingers.
But rather than settle against her like all the other partners she’d changed with during the dance, this one scorched away the fabric of her glove and sent fire cascading down the tip of each finger and up into her heart and throat.
It wrapped searing tendrils around her chest and tugged at the soles of her feet.
Some dragon-like creature was now taking control of all she could feel and incinerating all that had gone before.
Her brow furrowed, and as they exited the tunnel of dangers, she looked at the man whose touch had created such an inferno.
All breath and thought stopped as her eyes met the deliciously deep blue ones that had seeped deep into her heart and soul from the first day they had met.
“Silas,” she breathed, the word hitching and catching, choking her.
His smile was small, but full of delight and humor. “Keep dancing, Primrose,” he murmured, his voice rumbling and sending ripples of delicious sensations down her spine. “We’ll speak afterward.”
Dance? He wanted her to dance now? She wanted to fling herself in his arms, slap him in the face, cry into his chest, demand he explain himself . . . but dance?
Yet she found herself nodding all the same, her feet moving in the pattern prescribed by the dance, though she was certain her eyes were wide and her complexion pale. She could feel the telltale burning in her eyes that warned of impending tears, but she refused to let them fully form or fall.
That would create a scene, and she did not need a scene.
But he’d called her Primrose.
His special name for her. Only his. Only for her.
When he was especially tender, she was his Primrose, not just Primrose.
The name had come when they were ten and had been frolicking about in fields by their homes, then lay down among the wildflowers and looked up at the clouds.
Silas had named a few of them for her and plucked a primrose from the ground before tucking it behind her ear.
“It suits you,” he had said. “Petite and bright and soft, yet hardy enough to grow wildly. The sweetest of all wildflowers I see.”
The girl she’d been at ten had been torn between laughing at the ridiculous flattery and telling him that she loved him and would marry him when they were older.
The woman she was now wanted to preen like a cat at hearing the name again.
She’d treasured every use of it, even if they were not romantically intended.
Somehow, she managed to dance with him and smiled with all politeness due to any partner she had randomly found herself with. She did not laugh again, and for that she was grateful. She might have sounded hysterical or forced or ridiculous like her youngest sister.
She could barely hear the music, barely comprehend anything but the face of the man before her.
The feeling of his hand on hers. His touch, wherever it fell in the dance.
The scent of him—cedar and amber and cinnamon and fresh air.
The crispness of his presence in her space, in this moment, was so at odds with the blurriness and fog of everything else that she was almost dizzy from it.
Delirious.
But pleased. So very, very pleased.
And afraid.
Her throat clenched, in spite of the fondness in his expression and the light in his eyes, and fear prickled at the edges of everything. Dread. Guilt.
She wanted to immerse herself in the moment with him, to live in it and cling to every second, but that cloud of her convictions hung over her. The conversation they would have to have. The words she would need to speak.
The feelings she would have to confess.
She shivered as she turned in the final formation, lining up with the other ladies before sinking into a curtsey as the music reached its conclusion.
She could not do this. Not with the feeling of ice taking over her veins and the rising of gooseflesh along every expanse of exposed skin, as well as much unexposed skin.
Was he still her beloved Silas, or had the last three years altered him too much? She was still Primrose in his eyes, but was she his Primrose still?
Could she ever be more than that?
Her hand was gently taken, and she was raised from her curtsey, meeting his lovely eyes once more. Only then did the applause reach her ears.
And the whispers.
Caro blinked and glanced around, recognizing that they had been identified by the watchers, and speculation was beginning.
Her fingers were squeezed more tightly this time, and she looked back at Silas, her eyes burning yet again and her lip quivering without her consent.
“Come,” he whispered, the word more of a plea than an order.
And she was helpless against his pleas.
Inhaling a faint breath, she nodded and let him lead her from the dance floor, keeping her eyes on his back so she might not notice the number of eyes upon their retreat.