After leaving his elderly aunt with her friends, George offered his free arm to Maggie. The orchestra was tuning up for the first dance. A country dance, by the sound of it. “Miss Honeywell? May I have the honor?”
Jane opened her mouth to object only to shut it again. She’d promised not to be too much of a mother hen this evening. Not that she hadn’t clucked aplenty during the days since Dr. Hart’s visit, warning Maggie to take things slowly.
Maggie supposed she had been pushing herself. But her health wasn’t so easily recovered. It was going to take time. More time than she had at her disposal during this particular visit. “Best not,” she said. “I must save my strength.”
“How about you, m’dear?” he asked Jane.
Jane hesitated. “I don’t like to leave Margaret on her own.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said, urging her friend off. “I’ll not permit you to play nursemaid.”
Jane departed with George to line up at the center of the ballroom. Maggie remained at the edge of the floor. The music commenced with a swell of violins, and the dance began. Maggie stood to watch awhile. As she did so, her excitement over the evening was briefly dampened by a weight of self-pity.
Before the influenza, she’d loved to dance. Indeed, in her memory, her come-out season was one long string of country dances, cotillions, and scotch reels. The music had sung in her veins, and as she’d had no particular attachment to anyone, dancing had been the chief pleasure of every ball she’d attended.
She only regretted that she’d never waltzed. During her youth, it hadn’t yet been deemed respectable. It was a close dance—scandalously close. Some claimed it was akin to embracing on the dance floor. Maggie had hoped she might experience it this evening. That is, if the right gentleman came along.
Had St. Clare had the courtesy to call on her in Green Street in the past three days, she’d have given him advance warning of her desire. But he’d been noticeably absent since that afternoon in the Trumbles’ garden. To hear Fred tell it, St. Clare was too busy paying court to Miss Steele to trouble himself with Maggie.
And perhaps he was.
The very thought of it caused Maggie pain, but there was nothing to be gained by hiding her head in the sand. She forced herself to be realistic. Had she not surprised St. Clare that night in Grosvenor Square—had she not met him so totally by chance—would he ever have sought her out? Would he ever have returned to Beasley Park to find her?
“Wait for me, Maggie,” Nicholas had said all those years ago. “No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.”
But Nicholas hadn’t come back. Not for her.
And St. Clare showed no sign that he’d ever intended to. Rather the opposite. He was settled here in London. Settled, and looking for a bride. She’d thought that bride was to be her, but now…
Well. What did it matter anyway? She was as unable to marry him as he was unwilling to marry her. There was no point in repining.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering if all of her questions about Nicholas had had some small part in driving St. Clare away. If she hadn’t pressed him so relentlessly, would he have returned to her side? Or would he have grown bored with her regardless?
A depressing thought.
Unfurling the painted fan that hung at her wrist, Maggie wafted her face. More guests had arrived, and the ballroom was becoming stuffy. She made her away along the edge of the floor, toward the doors that led out to the terrace.
“Margaret,” a familiar voice called out.
It wasn’t the voice she’d been hoping to hear.
Steeling herself, she stopped and turned. “Fred. I didn’t know you’d be here.”
He stood in front of her, garbed in fashionable evening dress. Too fashionable. His neckcloth was folded in a fantastical design, and his ivory satin waistcoat shimmered like a jewel. It suited his brawny frame not at all.
There was no sign of the sling he’d worn on his arm during their last encounter. No concession to his recent bullet wound at all, save a certain stiffness in the way he carried himself.
“Naturally I’m here. You said you’d be attending. Though not to dance, I trust. You can’t mean to exert yourself.”
“I may dance,” she said. “The waltz is, I understand, not terribly fatiguing.”
Fred’s face tightened. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured to