friend,” Lady Letitia added.
Hannah cringed at that comment. “Hardly. Besides which, Miss Howard is just below with her mother. I . . . just think it somewhat inconsiderate for our escort to see to our tea service, then abandon us without so much as a word of pardon.”
Lady Letitia grunted at that. “Dear child, Mr. St. Albans is the perfect gentleman. And if you feel you must be apprised of his whereabouts, he has returned to the ballroom to speak with the conductor.”
Hannah whirled around and faced the two old women. “The conductor? Good heavens, whatever for?”
After wetting her mouth with a sip of tea, Lady Letitia continued. “I believe he intended to enjoy a second set with you, Hannah, and wished to request a waltz as the opening dance.”
“A second dance, with the Prancer?” Hannah was incredulous. “I daresay his intention is quite bold, given that I have not even been asked if I wished to dance again.”
Lady Viola flipped open her lavender-and-blond lace fan and waved it before her powdered face, which was already liberally dotted with beads of perspiration. “Well, sweeting, the fault of that would be mine. I assured him you would delight in another set.”
Hannah stared incredulously at her.
The old woman’s fan paused midway in the stifling air. “I-I was not incorrect in my assumption, was I, Hannah? I caught your earlier message . . . and you did so seem to be enjoying yourself when you were dancing with him earlier.”
Hannah exhaled her surrender. “No, Lady Viola. You are not incorrect. I was feeling rather fatigued earlier, but, after taking tea, I believe my vigor is returning.” At least that much was true. “I shall dance once more with Mr. St. Albans if it pleases the both of you. But only if it does. Otherwise, I shall be ever so happy to remain by your sides.”
“Oh, it does,” the Featherton sisters chattered together as one.
“Brilliant.” Hannah turned to the railing once more and let out a long sigh. “I can hardly wait for the music to begin again,” she muttered, with hardly a tincture of sarcasm flavoring her words.
The musicians struck the first note of the Viennese Waltz thirty minutes later, just after Hannah and the Featherton sisters had returned to the ballroom from taking refreshments.
Hannah surveyed the crowded room but did not see Mr. St. Albans, who should have been easily discernible because of his commanding height.
Her lips curved upward, for she had almost decided that he had left the ballroom owing to the heat. After all, she was damp with perspiration in her silk gown. Mr. St. Albans had to be cooked through in his waistcoat, coat, and that suffocating neckcloth. Yes, she had decided that was exactly the situation. Or so she believed . . . that is, until she felt a large hand cup her elbow from behind.
At that very instant, Mr. St. Albans’s mouth was poised just above her ear. “Shall we, Miss Chillton?”
The hum of his low voice tickled her ear, and she instinctively raised her shoulder. She turned around to reply, only to find her chest pressed against Mr. St. Albans’s waistcoat. And there wasn’t so much as a bead of sweat on his brow. Not a one!
From such a close vantage point, Mr. St. Albans’s shoulders seemed much broader, his chest . . . somehow firmer. Indeed, his entire body seemed far more sculpted and muscular. Odd that she had not noticed when they danced earlier that eve.
She turned her face upward and raised her eyes to his.
His breath seemed to hitch the moment their gazes met, and suddenly Hannah could not seem to catch her breath.
Mr. St. Albans raised a hand, gesturing to the center of the dance floor, and again said, “Shall we, Miss Chillton?”
But words seemed quite out of Hannah’s mental grasp at that moment, and so she merely nodded.
Mr. St. Albans folded Hannah’s hand over his and drew her body close in preparation to pass through the burgeoning crowd.
How queer this all is.
Hannah
Hannah cringed at that comment. “Hardly. Besides which, Miss Howard is just below with her mother. I . . . just think it somewhat inconsiderate for our escort to see to our tea service, then abandon us without so much as a word of pardon.”
Lady Letitia grunted at that. “Dear child, Mr. St. Albans is the perfect gentleman. And if you feel you must be apprised of his whereabouts, he has returned to the ballroom to speak with the conductor.”
Hannah whirled around and faced the two old women. “The conductor? Good heavens, whatever for?”
After wetting her mouth with a sip of tea, Lady Letitia continued. “I believe he intended to enjoy a second set with you, Hannah, and wished to request a waltz as the opening dance.”
“A second dance, with the Prancer?” Hannah was incredulous. “I daresay his intention is quite bold, given that I have not even been asked if I wished to dance again.”
Lady Viola flipped open her lavender-and-blond lace fan and waved it before her powdered face, which was already liberally dotted with beads of perspiration. “Well, sweeting, the fault of that would be mine. I assured him you would delight in another set.”
Hannah stared incredulously at her.
The old woman’s fan paused midway in the stifling air. “I-I was not incorrect in my assumption, was I, Hannah? I caught your earlier message . . . and you did so seem to be enjoying yourself when you were dancing with him earlier.”
Hannah exhaled her surrender. “No, Lady Viola. You are not incorrect. I was feeling rather fatigued earlier, but, after taking tea, I believe my vigor is returning.” At least that much was true. “I shall dance once more with Mr. St. Albans if it pleases the both of you. But only if it does. Otherwise, I shall be ever so happy to remain by your sides.”
“Oh, it does,” the Featherton sisters chattered together as one.
“Brilliant.” Hannah turned to the railing once more and let out a long sigh. “I can hardly wait for the music to begin again,” she muttered, with hardly a tincture of sarcasm flavoring her words.
The musicians struck the first note of the Viennese Waltz thirty minutes later, just after Hannah and the Featherton sisters had returned to the ballroom from taking refreshments.
Hannah surveyed the crowded room but did not see Mr. St. Albans, who should have been easily discernible because of his commanding height.
Her lips curved upward, for she had almost decided that he had left the ballroom owing to the heat. After all, she was damp with perspiration in her silk gown. Mr. St. Albans had to be cooked through in his waistcoat, coat, and that suffocating neckcloth. Yes, she had decided that was exactly the situation. Or so she believed . . . that is, until she felt a large hand cup her elbow from behind.
At that very instant, Mr. St. Albans’s mouth was poised just above her ear. “Shall we, Miss Chillton?”
The hum of his low voice tickled her ear, and she instinctively raised her shoulder. She turned around to reply, only to find her chest pressed against Mr. St. Albans’s waistcoat. And there wasn’t so much as a bead of sweat on his brow. Not a one!
From such a close vantage point, Mr. St. Albans’s shoulders seemed much broader, his chest . . . somehow firmer. Indeed, his entire body seemed far more sculpted and muscular. Odd that she had not noticed when they danced earlier that eve.
She turned her face upward and raised her eyes to his.
His breath seemed to hitch the moment their gazes met, and suddenly Hannah could not seem to catch her breath.
Mr. St. Albans raised a hand, gesturing to the center of the dance floor, and again said, “Shall we, Miss Chillton?”
But words seemed quite out of Hannah’s mental grasp at that moment, and so she merely nodded.
Mr. St. Albans folded Hannah’s hand over his and drew her body close in preparation to pass through the burgeoning crowd.
How queer this all is.
Hannah
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