over. Or atRundlePark .
“Miss Huxtable,” the Earl of Sheringford asked her, bringing her attention back to him, “why were you fleeing the ballroom in a panic?”
It was a thoroughly impertinent question. Did he know nothing of good manners?
“I was not fleeing ,” she told him. “And I was not in a panic.”
“Two bouncers in a single sentence,” he said.
She looked at him with all the hauteur she could muster. “You are impertinent, my lord,” she said.
“Oh, always,” he agreed. “Why waste time on tedious courtesies?
Was he worth the panic?”
She opened her mouth to deliver a sharp retort. But then she closed it and simply shook her head instead.
“Was that a no ?” he asked her. “Or a you-are-impossible gesture?”
“The latter,” she said curtly before they were separated again.
A short while later the orchestra paused before beginning another tune in the same set. But Lord Sheringford appeared to have had enough. He took Margaret's hand from her side without a by-your-leave, set it on his sleeve, and led her off the floor and into a small, semicircular alcove close to the doors, where a comfortable-looking sofa was temporarily unoccupied.
“It is impossible,” he said as Margaret seated herself hesitantly and he took the seat beside her, “to hold a sustained conversation while dancing. Dancing has to be the most ridiculous social activity ever invented.”
“It is something I particularly enjoy,” she said. “And one is not expected to hold a lengthy conversation while dancing. There is a time and place for that.”
“What did he do,” he asked her, “to throw you into such a panic?”
“I have not admitted,” she said, “that there even is any such gentleman or that there was any such incident.” She picked up her fan from her wrist, flicked it open, and plied it to her overheated face.
He watched her movements. He was seated slightly sideways, his elbow resting on the top of the sofa not far from her shoulder. She could feel the heat from his arm against the side of her neck.
“Of course there were both,” he said. “If the cause had been a burst seam, it would have revealed itself rather shockingly when you collided with me.”
She ought to just get up and walk away, Margaret thought. There was nothing to stop her, was there? But his persistent questions had revived the memory of her misery and panic, and some of the former returned. She had really had no chance to digest the fact that she would never be married to the Marquess of Allingham.
Lord Sheringford was a stranger. Sometimes it was easier to talk to strangers than to loved ones. She doubted she would ever pour out her heart to Stephen or either of her sisters. It had never been her way to burden them with her woes. Instead, she had always bottled up her emotions deep inside—at least all the negative ones. She had always been the eldest sister, the substitute parent. She had always had to be the strong one, the one upon whom they could all depend.
Talking to strangers was dangerous. But there was something quite unreal and bizarre about this whole evening so far. Margaret's normal caution and reticence deserted her.
“I told a gentleman of my acquaintance yesterday,” she said, “that I was betrothed. I expected that it would be true by tonight. But this evening I have discovered that the gentleman concerned is betrothed to someone else, and the first gentleman is here and will be expecting to meet my fiancé. Oh, dear, this all makes no sense whatsoever, does it?”
“Strangely it does,” he said. “The gentleman to whom you made this claim once hurt you?”
She looked at him, rather startled. How could he possibly have discerned that?
“What gives you that idea?” she asked him.
His eyes bored into hers as if they could lay bare all her secrets.
“Why else would you be rash enough to tell him such a thing so prematurely?” he said with a shrug. “It was a
“Miss Huxtable,” the Earl of Sheringford asked her, bringing her attention back to him, “why were you fleeing the ballroom in a panic?”
It was a thoroughly impertinent question. Did he know nothing of good manners?
“I was not fleeing ,” she told him. “And I was not in a panic.”
“Two bouncers in a single sentence,” he said.
She looked at him with all the hauteur she could muster. “You are impertinent, my lord,” she said.
“Oh, always,” he agreed. “Why waste time on tedious courtesies?
Was he worth the panic?”
She opened her mouth to deliver a sharp retort. But then she closed it and simply shook her head instead.
“Was that a no ?” he asked her. “Or a you-are-impossible gesture?”
“The latter,” she said curtly before they were separated again.
A short while later the orchestra paused before beginning another tune in the same set. But Lord Sheringford appeared to have had enough. He took Margaret's hand from her side without a by-your-leave, set it on his sleeve, and led her off the floor and into a small, semicircular alcove close to the doors, where a comfortable-looking sofa was temporarily unoccupied.
“It is impossible,” he said as Margaret seated herself hesitantly and he took the seat beside her, “to hold a sustained conversation while dancing. Dancing has to be the most ridiculous social activity ever invented.”
“It is something I particularly enjoy,” she said. “And one is not expected to hold a lengthy conversation while dancing. There is a time and place for that.”
“What did he do,” he asked her, “to throw you into such a panic?”
“I have not admitted,” she said, “that there even is any such gentleman or that there was any such incident.” She picked up her fan from her wrist, flicked it open, and plied it to her overheated face.
He watched her movements. He was seated slightly sideways, his elbow resting on the top of the sofa not far from her shoulder. She could feel the heat from his arm against the side of her neck.
“Of course there were both,” he said. “If the cause had been a burst seam, it would have revealed itself rather shockingly when you collided with me.”
She ought to just get up and walk away, Margaret thought. There was nothing to stop her, was there? But his persistent questions had revived the memory of her misery and panic, and some of the former returned. She had really had no chance to digest the fact that she would never be married to the Marquess of Allingham.
Lord Sheringford was a stranger. Sometimes it was easier to talk to strangers than to loved ones. She doubted she would ever pour out her heart to Stephen or either of her sisters. It had never been her way to burden them with her woes. Instead, she had always bottled up her emotions deep inside—at least all the negative ones. She had always been the eldest sister, the substitute parent. She had always had to be the strong one, the one upon whom they could all depend.
Talking to strangers was dangerous. But there was something quite unreal and bizarre about this whole evening so far. Margaret's normal caution and reticence deserted her.
“I told a gentleman of my acquaintance yesterday,” she said, “that I was betrothed. I expected that it would be true by tonight. But this evening I have discovered that the gentleman concerned is betrothed to someone else, and the first gentleman is here and will be expecting to meet my fiancé. Oh, dear, this all makes no sense whatsoever, does it?”
“Strangely it does,” he said. “The gentleman to whom you made this claim once hurt you?”
She looked at him, rather startled. How could he possibly have discerned that?
“What gives you that idea?” she asked him.
His eyes bored into hers as if they could lay bare all her secrets.
“Why else would you be rash enough to tell him such a thing so prematurely?” he said with a shrug. “It was a
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