Mrs. Dorchester wanted to dance; Fitz obliged with a schottische. Mrs. Dorchester would have preferred a waltz, but Fitz felt strongly that for a man and a woman already conducting an affair, there was no need to further broadcast the relationship by engaging in any activity that would have them pressed together in public.
The dance done, he walked Mrs. Dorchester back to her friends, and returned to his wife and sisters. Not five minutes later, Mrs. Dorchester sauntered past their group, smiled at him, then shot an utterly superior look at Lady Fitzhugh.
Fitz turned toward his wife. “Did she do what I think she did? On the occasion of your return to Society no less.”
Her year of mourning for her father had excluded her from all the goings-on of the previous Season. It was the first time in nearly two years that she’d attended a London festivity.
“Anne Dorchester knows she has something I don’t. And she has always enjoyed lording over the less blessed of us.”
“I did not know that about her.”
“Some women are very nice to men but not so much to other women.”
“Well, she picked the wrong woman to not be nice to. No one is allowed to disrespect my wife, least of all some woman with whom I am temporarily keeping company.”
His wife shrugged. “What are you going to do? Make her come here and apologize to me for looking at me the wrong way?”
“I will no longer keep company with her.”
She angled an eyebrow. “You cannot do that. It would be kinder to take her out back and shoot her.”
He laughed. She had the driest sense of humor. “Moreover, I am going to dance with you.”
“You can’t dance with your own wife at a ball.”
“Let them arrest me for it, then. Come, the next dance is starting—and Mrs. Dorchester is watching.”
She studied him. Her eyes were a light brown, the color of the hazelnuts beloved by his Alice. And then she smiled—she had a nice smile. “They will call me bourgeois for it, but I have always been proudly bourgeois.”
He led her onto the floor. She promptly stepped on his toe on the first turn. “Sorry!”
He laughed. “Don’t worry. I just might return the favor—I’m completely out of practice. And I can’t remember any of the fancier steps.”
“Better not. Or I might find myself facedown on the floor.”
Beyond this initial mishap, however, they danced quite well together. His more cautious quarter turns and half turns gave away to ebullient full revolutions. They spun around the ballroom, everything at the edge of his vision streaks of color and light.
“Wait. Dance slower,” she suddenly said.
“Are you dizzy?”
“Not in the least. I just realized you are right: Mrs. Dorchester is watching. I want to enjoy the sight of her fuming.”
“And I, of course, will very pointedly not look her way.”
“She is fanning herself hard,” reported Lady Fitzhugh, delighted. “Now she just snapped at someone.”
“Excellent, I say we keep dancing until she pulls out her hair.”
“No, she loves her hair too much. We’d be here all night.”
“Until she pulls out someone else’s hair, then.”
Not that his motives were entirely altruistic. He enjoyed dancing with his wife: They moved well together, their sense of rhythm in perfect unison. And she smelled good, the scent light yet distinct.
“What perfume are you wearing? I like it.”
“I don’t wear perfume, but my soap is made with extract from our own lavender.”
As it had turned out, the soil and climate of Somerset were perfect for the propagation of lavender. A few cuttings had grown to over two acres of lavender and she planned to keep expanding. Not long ago they’d discussed acquiring a hive of bees to make lavender honey. And perhaps even purchasing an apparatus to steam distill essence of lavender on site.
Henley Park, once a wasteland, was now a thriving estate. According to his housekeeper, tourists applied regularly to see the interior of the house and to picnic at the edge of the lavender fields.
He looked down at the amethyst-and-diamond pins sparkling in her hair. “Why don’t we plan a house party for August?”
She missed a step. He had to tighten his grip on her so that she didn’t stumble. “Careful now.”
“I’m sorry. Did you say you want us to host your friends at Henley Park?”
“For a bit of shooting and fishing, yes. And invite plenty of eligible men for Helena, even though she’ll most probably turn up her nose at all of them.”
She said nothing.
“You don’t like the idea?”
“No, no, I adore it. Just that—I wasn’t sure this day would ever come.”
“At some point I have to give up sulking.”
She raised her face, her eyes shining. “And now they can at last snicker at your blue daisy commodes.”
He chortled. “Don’t mention them. You’ll make me reconsider.”
“Sorry. What was I saying? We only have strapping, manly commodes. They gurgle if you look at them wrong.”
They were still laughing when the music stopped.
“Mrs. Dorchester looks like she is about to break the slats on her fan,” she observed gleefully.
“Let’s see if she’ll do it.”
They danced a second waltz. Then a third waltz.