Chapter 9 #2
Sure enough, Drake strolled toward them with his characteristic confidence. He greeted them all, then turned to Miss Fairchild. “I have come to claim the dance I was promised—if your mother agrees, of course.” His gaze moved to Mrs. Fairchild.
She looked for a moment as though she might refuse. “Oh, very well. But just the one set.”
“Of course,” her daughter replied dutifully. “And Mr. Hayes and Bella may join us.”
Silas opened his mouth to excuse himself, but Miss Easton was watching him with so much earnest but doubtful hope there that he bit back the words. “Gladly, if she will have me.” He put out his hand.
Miss Easton looked to her aunt.
“Oh, go on, then, child,” Mrs. Fairchild said with an indulgent wave of her hand.
Miss Easton placed her gloved hand in Silas’s, her smile so radiant it could warm him as easily as the sun.
They took their places in the set, their eyes locking across the dance floor as the music began and they waited their turn to perform the figures.
It was perhaps fortunate that he had not seen her when he had first arrived, for whose thoughts could dwell on Sir Walter Bence when Miss Easton was in the room?
They approached one another, meeting in the middle of the dance floor. Their palms touched, and they rotated around one another, the scent of oranges enveloping Silas.
“May I trust you with a secret, Mr. Hayes?” Miss Easton asked.
“Without hesitation,” Silas replied with a spark of curiosity.
She gave him an amused look, but before she could respond, they were obliged to separate again.
The distance made him feel restless and impatient while they waited as the couples farther down the set completed the figures.
Silas had never felt so out of patience with a group of perfectly pleasant and respectable strangers.
They seemed to move with maddening sloth.
When they met for the next figure, he waited for Miss Easton to divulge the secret.
She did not.
“You hesitate,” he said.
She smiled. “I am gauging your trustworthiness.”
“Come now! I thought we had settled that matter at Vauxhall. What is tipping the scales against me tonight?”
She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before responding. “Shall I be frank?”
“Always.”
Her eyes danced. “It is your mustache.”
A laugh burst from him. “I think it gives me a distinguished look.”
She looked far from convinced of that fact but was too polite to say so.
“If it is simply too great a stumbling block, I have a proposal for you,” he said. “I will tell you a secret. Perhaps then you will feel comfortable reciprocating.”
She considered this, then nodded, but the dance took them apart. When they came together again, he allowed the silence to stretch as they danced.
“Well?” she finally prompted.
“Well what?”
She shot him a look that was meant to seem unamused but was unsuccessful, for her eyes twinkled, making his stomach swoop.
“Ah, the secret.” He leaned in closer, then whispered, “I, too, hate the mustache.”
She drew back, her eyes narrowed curiously. “Then why wear it?”
“For attention.”
She laughed, and the sound seemed to filter through his entire body and make him feel light.
“Would you care for another secret?” he asked as they separated to opposite sides again.
She nodded from her place.
He stretched out his right arm and used the hand of his left to adjust his cuff, revealing the bracelet just long enough for her to catch sight of it.
“Mustaches and bracelets,” she said when they met again. “I have always prided myself on being adventurous in my fashion choices, Mr. Hayes, but you make my attempts seem very dull indeed.”
“You could never seem dull,” he said.
He instantly regretted the comment. He was meant to be keeping his distance, not betraying his admiration for her.
“Besides,” he hurried to say, “I do not think a mustache would suit you. I am not convinced a mustache suits anyone.”
“I am inclined to agree, but”—she tilted her head to the side as she regarded him—“you manage it quite well.”
He smoothed the mustache dramatically, but inside, the pleasure of the compliment filled him. “What say you? Have I earned a reciprocal secret?”
She considered this, her eyes sparkling as he waited and they danced. “I suppose so.” She hesitated for a moment, however, before offering it. “This is my first proper dance.”
Silas’s brows went up. “I see. And have there been many improper ones?”
She laughed, dropping her gaze with a hint of pink on her cheeks. “That is not at all what I meant, Mr. Hayes.”
“I know, but I find it impossible not to tease you just a bit.”
“I do not believe you have stopped teasing me since we met.”
He regarded her curiously. “Do you dislike it?”
“I suppose that depends why you do it.”
He blinked. It was a valid question. Why did he tease her? He might say he teased everyone, for that was true…to an extent. But it was different with Miss Easton. He knew that.
Did she?
“If you had to guess?” he asked, taking the coward’s way out by deflecting the question.
She took a moment to respond. “I have wondered if you perhaps find me na?ve—an easy target.”
His brows snapped together. “Not at all. I enjoy your smile, Miss Easton. That is the truth of it.”
The dance took them to opposite sides of the set again, and the music faded to a close as she watched him as though trying to ascertain whether he spoke the truth.
He kept his gaze steady, determined she know he was not trying to poke fun at her—and wishing for a future where he could well and truly court someone like Miss Easton.
When he had come to Town under an assumed name, he had been so focused on seeking justice for himself and Langdon that he had not thought of all the people he might come to consider friends—or how he would manage things once he shed John Hayes for Silas Yorke.
“Perhaps we should go in search of Papa,” Miss Easton said. “He had a dinner to attend before this, but I imagine he has arrived by now. Or would you prefer to remain for the second dance of the set?”
“No, that is quite all right with me.” One dance with her had been enough to make it clear he was not capable of maintaining a polite distance. A second might have more dire consequences.
She took his arm, and they walked away from the ballroom floor.
“Oh,” she said suddenly, “I meant to tell you—I took your advice.”
“Very wise of you. And, uh…what advice did I offer?”
She glanced up at him with that twinkle he so loved. “I asked Papa if I could design the display window.”
Silas’s brows went up. “And what came of it?”
“He agreed to it—provided, of course, that I prove myself worthy of such an opportunity.”
“And how does one prove one’s worthiness for such a task?”
“By acquitting myself well in Society…”
“There is no doubt at all on that score.”
“And avoiding scandal.”
Silas’s smile flickered slightly. If there was a human personification of scandal, it would be indistinguishable from him—including the mustache.
He was saved the necessity of responding as they reached Mrs. Fairchild, who was conversing jovially with another woman.
“Will you not dance the second of the set?” she asked when they reached her.
“I promised Mr. Hayes I would introduce him to Papa,” Miss Easton replied. “Have you seen my father?”
Mrs. Fairchild shook her head. “Not yet, my dear, though I did see Mr. Lyle, and was that not the man with whom he had an engagement this evening?”
“Yes,” Miss Easton replied, going on her toes to search the room.
“Mr. Hayes,” Mrs. Fairchild said with a smile, “could I trouble you to fetch me a glass of ratafia? I find my ankle is still a bit unstable, and with all these people, it would be very like me to trip and injure it further.”
“With the greatest pleasure. May I fetch something for you, ma’am?” he asked the woman beside Mrs. Fairchild.
“Just a little punch, perhaps,” she said. Her rosy cheeks bore evidence that it would not be her first glass.
“And for you, Miss Easton?”
“Ratafia, please,” she said with a grateful smile.
He gave a nod and went off to procure the promised refreshments. It would be a miracle if he managed to return with three glasses without spilling anything, for the crowds had grown thick.
The table that housed the drinks was surrounded by people with the same idea as Silas, and he was obliged to wait his turn.
He took the opportunity to look around for Frederick, but Frederick was not one for dancing. He would be in the card room, rubbing shoulders with MPs and discussing the latest bills. Fairchild would be with him, undoubtedly.
Mr. Drake and Miss Fairchild had remained for the second dance of the set and were conversing and smiling as they completed a figure.
The gentleman behind whom Silas waited gathered up the two drinks he had poured from the punch bowl and left, making way for Silas.
Silas could not move, however. He was frozen in place, his gaze fixed, his heart stopped as he watched a familiar face move through the crowd.
Lord Drayton had not aged a day since Silas had last seen him two years ago. His clothes were impeccably tailored, his hair gray but still full, his gait confident as people moved aside for him.
He came to a stop in front of Miss Easton and, smiling widely, put his arm around her then leaned down and pressed a light kiss atop her head.
She returned a smile, then went on her toes to kiss him on the cheek.
“Sir?” Someone tapped Silas’s shoulder.
He stepped away from the table absently, allowing the gentleman to take his place in the queue. His mind was still trying to grasp what he was witnessing.
There was no mistaking it, though. A dozen bits and pieces of conversation from the past week began to fall into place, confirming the impossible: Lord Drayton had returned to Town, and he was Miss Easton’s father.