who looks at me the way he looks at the heroine. The way William is looking at me.
When we twirl past again, I smile at Mary, but she doesn’t notice, her gaze turned inward to her own dreams, her own fantasies, and I send up a wish that someday this will be her, dancing in a village hall with a young man who watches her as if the world has fallen away and it is only the two of them, pirouetting through a dream.
The music picks up speed to something I don’t recognize, and William leads me through that, and even before it ends, Mary slips away as she promised. Then we are truly alone in our universe, the musicians hidden in the dining room, only their music wafting out.
We dance, and we dance, and it’s glorious. It’s moment upon moment that my heart snapshots, tucking each away in memory. The smell of the fresh-cut grass mingled with the sweet smoke of the beeswax candles and the faint perfume of William’s after-shave lotion. The music, soft enough that I can still catch William’s whispers in my ear, still hear his breath when he draws me close. I am entranced by the candlelight and the star-speckled sky, and with him, mostly with him, the twinkle of his eyes, the curve of his lips, the bounce of an unruly curl that will not stay in place no matter how many times he discreetly tucks it back.
We dance until my feet ache, and I don’t care. He doesn’t slow, and so neither do I. Dance follows dance until we reach a rather energetic one, and when we come out of it, he’s winded and red cheeked. So am I, but I hide it better and use the excuse to tease, “Shall we adjourn for the cold supper, m’lord? I seem to have quite exhausted you.”
When he looks up, his eyes glint. “I would not say I am entirely exhausted. However, yes, I fear that if I continue, I might very well collapse before long. Yet I do hate to end the dancing and disappoint you.”
“I would be far more disappointed if you pushed yourself to the limits of exhaustion.” I take his arm. “You may lead me in for supper, m’lord, and we’ll consider the dancing at an end.”
23
William takes me inside. At a nod, the musicians pack, having obviously been warned that such a dismissal would come. By the time we’ve filled our plates, they’re gone. When I glance in that direction, William murmurs, “Should I have asked them to play while we eat? I can summon them back.”
“As much as I enjoyed the music, I feel we have reached the private portion of our evening.”
“Agreed.”
He pours me a glass of port, and we head outside to a spot where he’s arranged two chairs and a small table. Before I can sit, I say, “Actually, we could have both music and privacy.”
I lift my skirts and hurry into the house, returning with my cell phone. I waggle it as I walk out.
“That plays music?” Before I can answer, William shakes his head. “Of course it does. It is the miracle box. The only thing it cannot do is bake you scones.”
“No, but I could order them delivered to the house.” I glance at the manor. “Well, a hundred-and-seventy years in the future, which would do me no good, so I’ll settle for playing music.”
I hit the icon. Pearl Jam screams forth, and William jumps. I hit Stop.
“That man seems to be in some degree of pain,” he says.
“Ha ha. It’s the music of my youth. Very fine music, I might add. Not, however, thematically appropriate.”
I zip through my playlists and launch a blues one with the volume turned down to background music, allowing us to converse. We talk of dance parties past, amusing stories from ones he’s attended, and then the sort from my youth, awkward high-school tales. We talk, and we laugh, and we eat, and we drink. When a favorite song comes on and I’ve had two glasses of port, my feet begin to move, fingers tapping the tabletop.
He puts out a hand to lead me back to the dance floor, but I demur with, “As I said, I don’t want to wear you out. Not yet.”
A wicked flash of a grin. He seems about to say something suggestive and then stops, his grin easing down to a smile. “Would you dance for me, then? If you are not overly