The Vicar's Widow

Lord Dillingham turned to Tabitha again with that warm smile. “Miss Townsend, would you please do me the great honor of standing up with me at the next dance?”


Tabitha was at least as shocked as Emily by the invitation. Her mouth fell open; she looked at Emily and blinked like an old cow, then looked at Lord Dillingham again. “My lord! I’d be delighted!” she cried happily.

He grinned. “Oh . . . hear it? They’ve just finished the quadrille. I believe a waltz will be next, if you’d like.”

“Yes, my lord . . . I’d like,” Tabitha stammered, and with a beaming smile for Emily, she put her hand in Lord Dillingham’s. “Please excuse me, Miss Forsythe.” And she practically bounced off to the dance floor, her beaming smile now directed at her partner.

Of all the . . . Emily mentally crossed Dillingham off her list of potential husbands. No loss, really—he’d been rather far down the list to begin with.

But now that she was left standing alone, much like an old spinster, Emily tried to keep from fidgeting with her gloves and the ribbons of her gown, tried to keep her sights trained on something more appealing than all the other girls who were fortunate enough to dance. And just when she thought she’d go mad with all the trying, the gentlemen behind her moved forward, so that they were standing very near to her.

Emily glanced at them from the corner of her eye. As fortune would have it, Lord Montgomery was standing directly beside her, and Emily seized her opportunity.

“How do you do, Lord Montgomery?” she asked loudly.

It worked—the gentlemen stopped their chatter and all five of them turned to look at Emily. Lord Frederick eyed her from the top of her head to the tip of her slippers, while a smiling Lord Barstow elbowed him and snickered. The fourth gentleman, whom she did not know, looked absolutely horrified by her boldness.

Montgomery was the only one to smile at her; he bowed. “I am quite well indeed, Miss Forsythe. And how do you do?”

“Very well,” she said, clutching her fan so hard that her fingers ached. “I was just admiring the dancers,” she said, and looked meaningfully at the dance floor.

Montgomery looked at the dance floor, then at Emily, gallantly ignoring the sniggering at his back from Barstow and Frederick. “Would you care to dance, Miss Forsythe?”

Emily’s heart winged almost free of her chest. “How kind of you to ask, my lord,” she said, and in her haste to put out her hand, lest he retract his offer, she dropped her fan. Montgomery stooped down and picked it up, put it solidly in her hand, then even went so far as to curl her fingers around it so that she did not drop it again, before holding out his arm to receive her hand.

Emily laid her hand on his sleeve. He put his hand over hers, his fingers warmly surrounding hers, and she smiled brightly.

He led her to the edge of the dance floor where the waltz was starting. Emily curtsied deeply; he gave her an amused smiled and bowed with a flourish before helping her up. With her hand securely in his, he stepped forward, put his hand lightly on her waist, and Emily sucked in her breath as she put her hand on his shoulder.

As he pulled her into the dancing, she felt a thousand butterflies in the pit of her belly, waltzing about on their own as he smoothly led her in time to the music. He moved so elegantly, so expertly, all the while smiling down at her, his eyes warm and liquid, and the very color of fine tea. Oh yes, oh yes, this was the man she would marry!

“And have you found the May Day Ball to your liking, Miss Forsythe?” he asked, his eyes never leaving her, one hand gripping hers firmly, the other riding high on her waist and covering her ribs.

“Quite,” she managed to get out, unthinkingly staring at his remarkably full lips. Full and glistening and— “I’ve always found the spring season to be the best time of year for balls, as it is neither too cold nor too warm.”

Actually, Emily felt a little warm. “It’s quite lovely,” she rasped. “Perhaps the loveliest of all that I’ve attended thus far. Yet I understand that the annual Charity Auction Ball is much grander than this. Have you attended in the past?”

“I have, from time to time.”

“Do you think it is more or less grand than the May Day Ball?”

He chuckled at her eagerness. “In truth, I have not given it as much thought as that. I suppose I find all balls rather grand.”

“Then do you plan to attend this year’s Charity Auction Ball?” Emily asked, immediately regretting her words, realizing how forward she must seem.

As if to confirm it, he cocked one brow high above the other. “I have not as yet made plans,” he said politely.

Anxious to cover her gaffe, Emily quickly stammered, “You . . . you are a wonderful dancer, my lord.”