The Perfect Waltz (20 page)

“Oh, never,” she assured him. “I shan’t tell a soul.” Her mind was spinning with what she’d learned. And her heart was eased by the thought of how he’d protected Giles from bullies. A boy who’d fought bullies on another’s behalf would never grow up to become a bully of little girls.

As soon as the dance was finished, Hope lost no time finding Mr. Reyne. He stood alone, near the window, gazing out, looking morose and bleak and alone. Her heart went out to him.

She took a deep breath, walked directly up to him, and touched him on the arm. As he turned she said, “Mr. Reyne, I am deeply sorry for what I said to you earlier and for abandoning you during the dance. I should never have let my temper get the better of me. I haven’t changed my opinions about the exploitation of young children, but I sincerely regret causing you any embarrassment on the matter. It was most unfair of me, and I apologize unreservedly.”

He said nothing, just stared at her in silence, looking black and grim and harsh.

Hope bit her lip. “I hope you will find it in your heart to forgive me,” she said in a small voice.

He gave a sort of nod and made a sound in his throat that might have been assent. Or not.

Hope swallowed, feeling as if she could cry. “I shall save the last waltz especially for you.” A stupid thing to say, she thought as soon as the words were out of her mouth. As if he would risk dancing with her again, risk being abandoned once more on the dance floor in front of everyone! But she didn’t know what else to say.

He was so grim and silent she just wanted to shrivel up at his feet. She curtsied to him. “I’m so sorry.” And fled before she disgraced herself further with tears.

 
She’d apologized. Apologized to him for misjudging him. And for embarrassing him on the dance floor. He could not believe it. The toast of society had humbled herself to apologize to a mere cit. He hadn’t been able to say a word. He was so stunned at her generosity and honesty.

He’d had the stupid impulse to kneel at her feet and kiss her hem, like a knight of old before his lady.

Oh God, it was worse than ever, now.

He had to fight it. Forewarned was forearmed. A waltz with Miss Hope Merridew would be the end of him, the end of his plans, the final betrayal of his sisters. He would leave the assembly now, before he lost all his discipline.

He hadn’t lost his discipline, Sebastian told himself some forty minutes later as he waltzed Miss Hope Merridew around the dance floor, he’d lost his mind.

No, he hadn’t lost his mind. It was a matter of honor, he told himself. Miss Hope had more than made up for abandoning him in the middle of the dance; it would be churlish to refuse her now. To dance publicly with her—particularly her much-prized, special last waltz—would show the world there were no hard feelings on either side.

No, he told himself as they circled the room for the third time, it had nothing to do with reasons and everything to do with his inability to resist. It would, of course, be their last waltz. He was marrying another woman for an honorable purpose, one that had nothing to do with these unsettling, ephemeral desires.

And as for hard feelings, he had them in plenty, dammit, but of a different kind . . . a most unsettling and insistent desire.

He straightened his back. It was worse than last time they’d waltzed. Then he did not know her. Then he was simply dazzled. Now he knew how sweet-natured she was, how generous, how mischievous, and yet how kind she could be . . . And now he knew what it was like to hold her against him, body to body. He knew what her hair and her skin smelled like. He’d tasted her mouth.

Now to waltz with her was even more of an exercise in torture, to have her in his arms yet not hold her, to touch her, but only though layers of cloth, to circle endlessly and get no closer, to smell her, touch her, see her, and yet not kiss her.

“Are you still angry with me?” Her question startled him out of his reverie. He’d been miles away, lost in some fantasy.

“Angry? No, not at all.”

“I’m so pleased you decided to dance with me. I half thought you’d leave.”

“Well, as a matter of fact—” He stopped. He wasn’t going to explain. He couldn’t.

“In that case, thank you. If you hadn’t, I probably would have tossed and turned all night, regretting my wretched words to you earlier.”

His mouth dried at the image of her in her bed, tossing and turning, her slender, creamy limbs tangling in the white sheets. He closed his eyes a moment and, forcing his body to behave, drew her into a triple twirl. He was getting the hang of this dance. If he had someone else in his arms, someone who didn’t have this drastic effect on him, he could probably even acquit himself with panache.

“So you forgive me, but you just won’t talk to me, is that it?”

He started again. “No. Not at all. I’m sorry. It’s just that I am . . . distracted.”

“Anything you’d like to talk about?”

“No!” Aware it had come out a trifle explosively, he moderated his tone. “No, thank you. It is a private matter.”

“Your sisters?”

He looked at her blankly a moment. “No, they are well.” He thought of something. “I followed your suggestion.”

“My suggestion?”

“I took them to Gunter’s for an ice. It was their first-ever ice. It gave them much pleasure, so I thank you.”

She gave him a thoughtful look. “You care a great deal about those girls, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Her look was unsettling, so he added, “Lady Elinore and I took them to the British Museum, and we went to Gunter’s as a treat afterward. Lady Elinore and I enjoyed our first ice also.” The mention of Lady Elinore was to remind himself as much as her who he was still officially courting.

The warmth in her eyes dimmed. “Of course, Lady Elinore. And I’m sure the girls enjoyed the British Museum. I know Grace loves it. She has a fascination for ancient worlds, you know.”

Somehow she’d moved closer during the last twirl. His legs brushed against hers several times. Unable to think of a single thing to say, he produced a strangled sort of noise.

She said softly, “I suspect you’d prefer to dance the remainder of this waltz without the encumbrance of conversation, isn’t that so, Mr. Reyne?”

He nodded brusquely and tried not to draw her even closer.

“Then let us simply lose ourselves in the music and the movement,” Hope whispered. She closed her eyes and let him and the music take her.

Thus blinded, in his arms, she was totally his. It would be their last waltz. He had spoken of Lady Elinore again. But for just this one dance, she could pretend he was hers.

He danced with awkwardness and precision. She loved how he danced, holding her as if she were so precious and delicate, yet steering her around the floor like a wheelbarrow instead of a woman. And yet, somehow, she felt more fully a woman dancing with him than she’d ever felt with anyone.

She could get grace and elegance anywhere. She opened her eyes briefly and saw Giles Bemerton waltzing by with Lady Elinore. Even such an unlikely pair danced with harmony.

But nobody waltzed like her Mr. Reyne, with that unique mix of stiff, protective awkwardness amid waves of severely repressed passion.

Hope closed her eyes and wished the waltz would go on forever.

 
“Why did you choose him again, twin?” Faith asked as they were disrobing for bed. “Everyone knows you never choose the same partner twice for that dance. And after that quarrel.”

Hope squirmed at her sister’s gentle inquiry. She flung off her clothes.

“Will you mind the gossip? Because there will be gossip, love, you know.”

Hope thought about it as she shrugged into her nightgown. “People will gossip about anything. I was in the wrong, and I wanted to make it up to him.”

“It was a very public apology.” Faith looked troubled. “I thought you had decided he isn’t the one, Hope.”

Hope slumped on the bed. “I just don’t know, Faith. I do feel drawn to him, but if you’d ever waltzed with him, you’d know why I’m so uncertain! In the dream it was perfect, absolutely perfect!”

Faith tilted her head. “He’s never asked me to waltz. You know, he can tell us apart.”

Yes, Hope knew.

“I spoke to Lady Elinore this evening,” Faith said. “She’s invited us both to visit Mr. Reyne’s orphans on Friday. I think it will be very interesting.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

Faith regarded her thoughtfully. “You’re very certain he’s a good and decent man, aren’t you?”

Hope stared at her, frustrated. She’d promised Mr. Bemerton she wouldn’t reveal the details of Mr. Reyne’s life, and she meant to keep her promise. “I am. Mr. Bemerton told me some things about Mr. Reyne, but he told me in confidence, so I can’t tell you.”

Faith stared at her, dismayed. “What? Not even me?”

Hope shook her head unhappily.

“But we always tell each other everything.”

Hope bit her lip. “I know, and I’m sorry, twin. But I promised.”

Faith gave her a long, hurt look, then turned away, folding her petticoat slowly.

It pained Hope, too, not to share. All their lives she and her twin had been as close as two peas in a pod—closer. They’d shared everything: hopes, dreams, fears. All their lives they’d longed for love. They’d shared their visions of love, analyzed it, shared their dreams of shadowy heroes, shared the waiting and yearning for for nineteen impatient years. It had seemed so simple then.

Now everything was suddenly unclear. Hope was more than halfway in love with a man who did not fit her dream at all, and Faith . . . well, who knew what Faith felt? She was certainly dazzled by her violin-playing count. But was it love?

Then, as one, both girls turned to each other. They spoke simultaneously.

“It’s so much—”

“It’s not that—”

They stopped and laughed and then got a bit teary. “Oh Faithy, I’m sorry. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be. I wish Prue were here.” Prudence was their sister, but she was the closest thing they’d had to a mother for most of their lives.

“And Charity,” her sister said, putting her arms around Hope. “Sometimes I really miss them so badly it hurts. Think what it will be like when we are all married and in different places.”

Hope hugged her sister hard. “I know.” Below in the hall the clock struck two.

“It’s late, we should sleep,” Hope said.

“Shall I stay?”

Hope nodded. “Like we did when we were little. Who knows, it might be the last time we share a bed.”

And so the sisters climbed into bed together, two halves of a greater whole, facing the future in the way they’d always faced things, side by side and hand in hand, but knowing now that the path before them branched.

JOHN MILTON

 
 
 
 
 
RAIN PATTERED AT HIS BACK AS SEBASTIAN RANG THE DOORBELL of Sir Oswald Merridew’s house. The friendship that had sprung up between Grace Merridew and his sisters was proving an inconvenience for a man determined to avoid Hope Merridew.

The logical thing would be to put a stop to it, to find some other companion for his sisters. But Cassie and Dorie always came home from an afternoon or morning at Grace’s home with such a light in their eyes, Sebastian could not bring himself to do the logical thing.

He would not normally come to pick the girls up in person, but this morning Cassie had said that Miss Hope and Miss Faith were attending a picnic at Richmond, so the coast was clear. Besides, he was curious to see what his sisters enjoyed so much.

He rang the doorbell again. Lady Elinore would put his sisters’ needs before her own pleasures. The Merridew twins were forever out at balls and routs, parties and picnics.

He was ushered to the nursery by an ancient butler. Sebastian knocked. He could hear music, and when no one answered him, he opened the door and looked in. It was a large, cozy room with worn, comfortable chairs and a square table in the middle. A fire crackled in the grate, and in the corner stood a pianoforte. Miss Faith played while the others sang. It was a lullaby Sebastian had not heard in years.

 
He stood in the doorway, unnoticed, remembering another room, small, cramped, and bitterly cold without a fire. His newly widowed mother, her ill-fitting clothes dyed a cheap black, stretched tight across the mound of her imminent pregnancy, rocking a fretful Cassie and singing the same song. As if music could soothe hunger pains. He and his little brother, Johnny, had come in from long hours of work and scavenging. His mother’s question, the one that greeted him each time he arrived home: had he brought any food? Sebastian, feeling angry and helpless and guilty, producing only two bruised apples and a quarter loaf of stale, hard bread.

“Mr. Reyne?”

He looked up, suddenly aware that the music had stopped. Miss Hope walked across the room and asked in a soft voice, “Are you all right? You had such a strange look on your face.”

With an effort, Sebastian banished the memories. “I am perfectly well, thank you.” Aware that his response had been brusque, he retreated into politeness. “How do you do, Miss Hope, Miss Faith, girls. I . . . I thought you were on a picnic.”

“The weather turned nasty, so it was postponed.”

He nodded and ran a finger around his cravat to loosen it.

“I’ve come to collect my sisters. I hope it’s been a pleasant visit.”

Hope placed a hand on his arm. She had a way of smiling at him that made him feel warm clear to the bone. “It’s been delightful. But you must stay a little longer. We are in need of an audience.”