The first thing she noticed was that despite her genuine pleasure in dancing, Kitty was nevertheless pursuing an ulterior aim. Precisely what it was was difficult to discern; Kitty seemed to have more than one gentleman in her sights. She flirted—definitely flirted—with James, her brother-in-law, much to James’s irritation. With Ambrose, she was somewhat less overt, but there was still an inviting glint in her eye and a provocative smile on her lips. Although she watched closely, Portia could not fault Ambrose; he gave Kitty no encouragement at all.
With Desmond, Kitty was coy; she still flirted, but less overtly still, as if modulating her attack for his different character. Desmond seemed to hesitate, to waver; he did not encourage, but neither did he openly dismiss. But when it came to Simon, and Charlie, too, both seemed locked behind positive walls of disapproval. Kitty challenged them, yet her exhibition lacked conviction, as if with them her performance was all for show.
Why she bothered, Portia couldn’t imagine; was there something here she was missing?
Yet when Kitty danced with Henry, her husband, she was unresponsive. She made no effort to hold his attention; indeed, she barely said a word. Henry did his best, but could not quite hide his disappointment and a certain sad, resigned disapproval.
Of the others, it became quickly apparent that Lucy Buckstead had set her cap at James. She laughed and smiled with all the gentlemen, but with James, she hung on his every word, her eyes huge, sparkling, her lips parted.
James would have to watch himself, and not just on the Kitty front, a fact Portia suspected he knew; his behavior remained pleasant but cool.
The Misses Hammond weren’t interested in any liaisons; they were simply there to enjoy themselves and hoped others would enjoy themselves, too. Their youthful exuberance was something of a relief. Drusilla, in contrast, would have sat out the dances at her mot
her’s side if Lady Calvin had permitted it. Drusilla endured the measures with all the delight of a French aristocrat out for a ride in a tumbril.
As for Desmond and Winifred, there was quite definitely a romance in the air. It was positively instructional to watch the exchanges—Desmond suggesting, never pushing, not diffident yet not overconfident, Winifred quietly responding, lashes falling, eyes downcast, only to raise her gaze again to his face, to his eyes.
Portia looked down to hide a smile as she neared the end of the piece. With the last chord played, she decided the dancers could use a short interval while she searched through the stack of music sheets.
She stood up the better to leaf through them. She was halfway through the pile when she heard the rustle of skirts approaching.
“Miss Ashford, you’ve played for us so beautifully, but it’s unconscionable that in so doing you should be excluded from all the fun.”
Portia turned as Winifred swept up on Simon’s arm. “Oh, no. That is—” She stopped, unsure how to answer.
Winifred smiled. “I’d be grateful if you would allow me to relieve you. I would like to sit out a few dances, and . . . this seems the best way.”
Portia met Winifred’s eyes and realized that was literally true. If Winifred simply sat out, some would speculate as to why. Portia smiled. “If you wish.”
She stepped out from behind the piano stool. Winifred took her place; together they flicked quickly through the sheets, then Winifred made her selection and sat. Portia turned to the room—to Simon, who had, with uncharacteristic patience, waited.
He met her eyes, then offered his arm. “Shall we?”
It was absurd, but she’d never danced with him before. Not ever. The notion of spending ten minutes revolving around the room under his direction without their interaction descending into open warfare had not before seemed a possibility.
His gaze was steady, the challenge therein quite plain.
Remembering her vow—hearing it echo in her brain—she lifted her chin, and smiled. Charmingly. Let him make of it what he would. “Thank you.”
Suspicion flowed behind his eyes but he inclined his head, anchored her hand on his sleeve, and led her to join the others on the floor as Winifred commenced a waltz.
The first jolt to her equanimity came when he drew her into his arms, when she felt the steely strength of him surround her, and recalled—too well, too vividly—how it had felt when he’d carried her. Once again, her lungs seized, her breath caught, then continued more shallowly; the sensation of his hand, large and strong on her back, distracted her—something she fought to hide.
The music caught them, held them, set them revolving; their gazes touched, slid away.
She could barely breathe. She’d waltzed times without number, even with gentlemen of his ilk; never before had the physical sensations even impinged on her awareness, let alone threatened to suborn her wits. But she’d never been this close to him; the shift and sway of their bodies, her awareness of his strength, her suppleness, the harnessed power, all cascaded through her, bright, sharp, disorienting. She blinked, twice, fighting to focus her mind—on anything except the way they were whirling so effortlessly, on the sensation of being swept away, on the tingles of anticipation streaking through her.
Anticipation of what?
She only just stopped herself from shaking her head in a no-doubt-vain attempt to shake her wits into order. Dragging in a breath, she glanced around.
And saw Kitty waltzing with Ambrose. Her performance, with all its subtle variations, was still going on.
“What is Kitty up to—do you know?”
The first thought that had popped into her head, but she’d never been missish, especially not with Simon. He’d been watching her intently; she’d been careful not to meet his gaze. Now she glanced up and, to her relief, saw the frown, the exasperated expression she was used to seeing, form in his eyes.
Reassured, she raised her brows.