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Who is this chit and where has she been? Morgan Braedon struggled to recall the name his grandmother had given him. He’d barely listened when she had insisted he dance with “the young miss over there.” His mind had been on the last turn of cards, and the distress on his opponent’s face. Morgan understood that quickly masked look. The vowels he now held were worthless.
The fool had been caught up in the game and his quarterly allowance was now spent. By the time the next quarter arrived he would have lost or won it five times over. Someday an opponent would refuse the sympathy Morgan extended. The jackanapes had been in Town long enough to know the rules.
He shrugged away the sense of responsibility, but not soon enough. He missed the name of the vision that invited him with her eyes and her smile. Who would have expected one of Grandmama’s interests to be so appealing? Ah, now he did recall that Grandmama had said that she was late to the Season because of mourning for some relative. Whatever the reason, she was a wonderful change from the girls who had cluttered the dance floor so far.
The beauty had met his gaze, and at first she did not shrink away. No, indeed. She had smiled—and what encouragement that smile held. At the moment it promised a dance. He smiled back, anticipating so much more, but then her confidence faltered and she had turned from him.
In spite of that, Morgan still wanted this dance. He moved across the room looking for someone to introduce them.
She stood next to a group of matrons, several of whom he knew, but they were engrossed in conversation, unaware of him. He waited and watched the dance floor fill rapidly. Finally, he turned to his intended partner.
“May we pretend my grandmother introduced us, Miss Lambert?” Where had her name come from? He thanked the gods of love that it had stayed with him even when his mind had been elsewhere. “I am Lord Morgan Braedon and the Dowager Duchess of Halston is my maternal grandmother.” He introduced himself with another bow.
He could see his impropriety did not shock so much as disconcert her. Still, decorum won out over the daring creature of that first smile, for she shook her head just as one of the matrons realized his presence. Lady Abernathy turned from her conversation to hurriedly introduce Miss Lambert to him, urging them to the dance floor.
Miss Christiana Lambert curtsied sweetly, her uncertain eyes never leaving his. Morgan kept his expression as pleasantly neutral as the situation commanded. She seemed reassured. Whether that came from his bland smile or the older lady’s casual approval made no difference. Whatever the reason, Miss Lambert’s uncertainty was gone, replaced by a conventional bored expression. Her eyes ruined the pretense. They were lit with a smile that no amount of effort could curb.
With all the formality he could muster, Morgan offered his arm, and once she took it, they moved toward the edge of the floor. He found them a place in a set as the first notes sounded. She did not look around, did not look to see how the rest of the dancers were paired. She closed her eyes for a moment and drew a deep breath.
Oh no, where were the gods now? Was this truly her first ball? She had seemed so much more assured than most.
She leaned a step closer and smiled. “This is my first ball and I want to remember every moment.” Morgan nodded, trying for an understanding smile, and cursed his brother and his ridiculous demand. This was her first dance at her first ball and he was to be her teacher. He could think of a dozen things he would like to teach this beauty, but dancing was not one of them. He wanted to be almost anyplace but here.
How could he have forgotten what he’d so recently learned. The new crop of marriageable misses lost their confidence the moment they took the dance floor for the first time. All at once they realized the difference between a local assembly and dancing in the Countess of Westbourne’s ballroom with dozens of strangers watching. Eventually they would recall what had been so carefully taught. Until then, however, dancing seemed as much a threat to life and limb as Jackson’s Boxing Academy. The scent of nerves stretched to the limit was as palpable as any perfume. Finally, the musical introduction was complete, the set fully formed. He turned to Miss Lambert.
When had he become so jaded? His partner was an undeniably beautiful girl, as fresh as the spring air pouring through the open doors. How could he prefer cards to that smile and those eyes?
“My lord?”
Miss Lambert held out her hand and he took it. Now he was the one who had missed the first step. He glanced down in apology, but Miss Lambert did not seem offended. She smiled her understanding and moved into the dance with confidence, even pleasure. She did not count the steps as his partner at Hobson’s had. She knew when to take his arm and when to move back.
She loved to dance. That was obvious. What else would she love to do, Morgan wondered.
With each step his partner’s restraint eased. The music captivated her and her caution disappeared. He could see an adventurous woman tucked just beneath a surface decorum. With each promenade, his interest was more thoroughly roused. By the time the last move was complete, the scent of her had slid into his memory, woven into a fantasy that would have shocked her.
There was more than one place where a controlled face was an asset. He took her arm and escorted her back to the ladies with an amiable smile that completely masked his daydream.
They had almost reached the group of chaperones when a young man came rushing over.
“Christy, my apologies, my deepest apologies. Did I miss the dance?”
A friend from home, Morgan decided, and I do wish he would disappear.
“Yes, Peter, you did.” She bit her lip, obviously debating further reprimand and then deciding against it. “But it is too perfect an evening to take offense. After all, someone did ask me to dance.” She turned to Morgan. “My lord, may I introduce Mr. Peter Wilton.”
Peter flushed and bowed. Then his face lit with an enthusiasm that made Morgan feel older than his grandmother. “You played that last hand magnificently, my lord. It was a pleasure to watch.”
Morgan nodded his thanks, not sure he wanted this boy’s obvious admiration. Yes, he could play cards, but he did not do it to find favor with a greenhead like Wilton.
“Come, Peter. This dance is not promised,” Christiana interrupted. Clearly his card-playing prowess did not impress her. “You can make your apologies while we dance.” She turned and held out her hand. “It was a pleasure, my lord. Thank you.”
Prettily said and the smile that lit her eyes gave the words special meaning. Morgan took her hand and bowed over it. He wanted to move the glove aside and kiss her wrist, her palm, but despite the smile, she was a country miss and this was her first ball. Balls littered the Season like bad players filled a card room. With any luck they would find themselves together again.
Morgan watched her walk away. She did not turn back and he had the unsettling thought that she had already forgotten him. As he watched, Christiana said something and Wilton’s earnest contrition dissolved into laughter. Morgan smiled, enjoying her self-confidence. Christiana Lambert still thought the world was hers to command. Morgan Braedon hoped this Season would spare her the truth. If the gods were generous, it would live in her memory as one shining moment when all fairy tales come true.
He decided to return to the card room. He had danced with the loveliest girl in the room. James would have to be content with that.