To Dance until Dawn - Emma V. Leech Page 0,7

Phoebe was not meant for him, and it was about time he resigned himself to that fact. A little burst of indignation and anger flared in his heart, even though he knew it was for the best. Whatever it was that possessed him, he did not know, but he looked around to see if he was being watched, and then tugged a slip of paper from the hat and stuffed it in his pocket.

Chapter 2

Dearest Phoebe,

I’m so disappointed your parents cannot attend my ball this year. It seems a pity that you be left out, however. Do come and stay with us. I believe I may be able to persuade your father that I am a suitable chaperone.

Eliza, Lottie, and Jules will be thrilled to see you too.

―Excerpt of a letter to Miss Phoebe Barrington from Her Grace, The Duchess of Bedwin.

5th March 1827. Beverwyck, London.

Phoebe gasped and leaned back against the wall of the ballroom, fanning herself vigorously. Prue’s balls were always well attended, but this one was an absolute crush. She had danced every dance, her feet hurt, and she was far too hot. With regret, she looked down at her dance card to see she had given the next one to Mr Jameson. He was a big, jovial man, and she liked him very much, but he was a terrible dancer and would likely stomp all over her toes. She winced at the idea.

“Is it so bad?”

Looking up she discovered a face she’d not seen before. He was handsome—and he knew it—and he was smiling at her. He was tall, blond, and supremely elegant, his blue eyes bright and just a little wicked.

“Is what so bad?” she asked, aware she ought not speak to the fellow. They’d not been introduced. Another of those stupid rules she so despised.

If someone seemed interesting, why not talk to them? But no, you had to find someone else who knew them, and you, and would vouch for you both before they would deign to introduce one to the other. As if they had exchanged an unwritten contract guaranteeing the good behaviour of all parties. Almost as if the giving of your own name had some mystical power. It was ridiculous.

“You looked as if you were considering something unpleasant,” he said, tilting his head a little to one side.

“Like eating a slug,” she said, the words out before she could consider them. Oh, how terribly gauche. What a nitwit he would think her now, and he the only interesting man she’d met all night. She met lots of nice men, charming men, a good many fools too, but this was the only interesting one so far.

Far from being revolted by her answer, he gave a bark of laughter.

“Exactly like that,” he said.

Phoebe returned a sheepish smile. “Actually, it isn’t so bad at all. Only my feet hurt, and I’d like to sit down for a while, but I promised the next dance.”

Rather shockingly, he reached out and took hold of the dance card dangling from her wrist, his gloved fingers brushing hers as he lifted it.

“Mr Jameson,” he said, returning a sympathetic smile. “Oh dear. Just like eating a slug.”

Phoebe smothered a laugh, a little outraged, but amused too. “Oh, no. Not in the least. You are too harsh, sir.”

“Perhaps,” he said softly. “But I am a wretched fellow and horribly jealous. How am I to stand watching that big oaf lumber about the floor with you, when I know you would prefer to stay and talk with me?”

She stared at him, eyes wide.

“That’s rather unkind,” she said, not liking him speaking about Mr Jameson so. “And dreadfully conceited.”

“True, though,” he said. There was a glint of challenge in his handsome face, his gaze trained intently upon her. Daring her.

“Miss Barrington?”

With a little relief, she looked up to see Mr Jameson had come to collect her.

“My dance, I believe,” the fellow said, beaming at her.

Phoebe took his hand.

“Indeed it is,” she said, turning to glare at the blond man even as she felt a little pang of regret for leaving his company. She turned her gaze resolutely back to Mr Jameson and smiled. “I have been so looking forward to it.”

***

Max winced as he saw Jameson step on Phoebe’s toes for a second time. The poor girl. She did not complain, though, only laughed good-naturedly as Jameson coloured and stammered another apology. She was dressed in a pale gold silk this evening, and the candlelight set her aflame, the warm glow shimmering