Clare escorting his comely young partner into supper.
“Aunt Harriet.” George appeared out of the crowd, a little short of breath. He came to stand in front of his aunt. “Are you ready to go down to supper.”
“Yes, yes. I’m famished.” Aunt Harriet took George’s arm.
“Miss Honeywell?” He offered his other arm to Maggie.
She shook her head. “Thank you, but I must have some fresh air. I feel a trifle light-headed.”
When Jane returned with her partner, she offered to accompany Maggie outside. “It will be no trouble at all.”
“Nonsense,” Maggie said. “I’m fine on my own.”
“But if you’re going out into the garden—”
“I won’t venture that far,” Maggie promised. “I’ll only step outside onto the terrace for a bit, and then I’ll come and join you. You’ll scarcely notice my absence.”
As her friends and the rest of the guests made for the dining room, Maggie pressed toward the opposite end of the ballroom. Glass-paned doors led out onto a wide stone terrace. A liveried footman opened one of them for her.
She passed through and kept walking until her hands found the cool edge of the railing. Lit by torches, the terrace looked out over an expansive tiered garden. No one else seemed to be about. Except for a few lingering servants tidying up in the ballroom, she was alone.
The evening air was cool on her exposed skin. Far cooler than it had been when they’d arrived. She leaned over the rail, breathing deeply. Her eyes closed on a sigh.
It had been foolish to come here. Foolish to imagine she was well enough to dance with anyone, let alone St. Clare. Perhaps Fred was right. It was time to go home to Beasley Park. Time to resume the normal course of her life.
London had been a welcome distraction from reality. It was full of energy and industry. Alive with entertainments. But it was no place to recover one’s health. It was too dusty and dirty, the air filled with smoke and damp with fog. What she needed was the fresh air of Beasley Park. She needed to walk in the countryside. Perhaps even to ride again, if she could convince Fred that it was safe for her to do so.
Fred.
The prospect of a life spent under his thumb depressed her spirits. It would be no life at all. But many women endured worse. Many carved out lives for themselves in spite of brutish, bullying husbands. She was more equipped than anyone to do so. With her temperament and backbone, she’d never permit Fred to break her spirit, or to get the better of her.
As for the rest of it—
Maggie’s melancholy thoughts were arrested by the sound of the terrace door opening and closing again. Footsteps echoed on the stone as someone approached.
She went still, a shiver tracing its fingers down her spine.
It was St. Clare.
Maggie sensed him before she saw him, too afraid to turn and look lest he disappear in a puff of smoke. Indeed, it seemed like another dream. As if she’d conjured him out of the ether. A manifestation of her unrequited longing.
But he was no dream. He came to stand beside her at the rail, his body big and warm and breathtakingly real. His arm brushed hers. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”
“Nor should you,” she said with creditable calm. “Your partner will be waiting for you.”
“Miss Steele? She’s seated quite comfortably in the dining room. Lord Mattingly is looking after her.”
“I wasn’t aware Lord Mattingly was here.”
“He’s been in the card room. As have I, until the waltz.”
“Ah yes. The waltz. You dance it very well.”
He brushed the back of his knuckles over the small expanse of exposed skin that resided between the bottom of her sleeve and the top of her elbow-length glove. “I’d rather have been dancing it with you.”
Butterflies fluttered wildly in Maggie’s stomach. That anyone’s touch should have such an effect on her! “You might have been. If you’d asked me.”
“I didn’t know you’d be here. You said that you no longer attended balls.”
“I don’t. That is, I haven’t. Not since my illness. But Madame Clothilde made this dress for me, and I thought—if there was a chance that you and I—” She stopped herself.
“You look beautiful this evening. You always look beautiful.”
“How kind of you to say so,” she replied dryly. “And how spontaneous.”
“I mean it. I’ve never known any lady who shines as brightly as you do. When I saw you in the ballroom—”
“You may keep your compliments. Save them for