And he sauntered away even while Aunt Lavinia was still thanking him.
“I am quite delighted that you will be able to stay,” she said, setting a hand on Imogen’s arm while she spoke quietly beneath the hum of conversation around them. “It is far too early for young people to return home when there is so much enjoyment still to be had here. Cousin Percy is most kind and thoughtful.”
Yes, he was, Imogen agreed. His leaving so early might have caused a village riot, of course, but he could have sent her home in the carriage and remained here himself, unencumbered by female relatives. Did she wish he had done just that? She could still insist upon going, she supposed. But . . . there was the waltz. And he did dance well. She had noticed. He had danced each set so far with a different lady, and he had given each his full attention, smiling and talking whenever the figures brought him close to his partner. He danced with assurance and easy grace.
It was so hard to find fault with him.
But . . . was there anything to his character apart from the charm? Any substance? She still had not made up her mind. But it did not matter. Soon she would be back in her own home and need have little to do with him even if he stayed at Hardford Hall, which was doubtful.
He made the arrangements for the carriage and the hot bricks and saw the two ladies on their way before leading Ruth Boodle, the second and plainest of the vicar’s daughters, into a vigorous reel. He soon had her flushed and laughing and looking really quite pretty. Imogen returned her attention to her own partner.
And then it was time for the waltz and he was standing before her, one hand extended for hers, no smile on his face, no bow, no words, merely a very direct look into her eyes. His own were quite extraordinarily blue, she thought foolishly, as though she were noticing their color for the first time. Even in them there was no imperfection.
It was all very deliberate, she thought. And, yes, very effective too. For of course her stomach muscles clenched and her stomach fluttered and she hoped—oh, she hoped—her cheeks were not flushing.
She set her hand in his and allowed him to lead her onto the almost empty dance floor. It always was almost empty for the waltz. Not many people knew the steps, though they were simple enough, and even fewer had the courage to perform them before their neighbors. But nearly everyone loved to watch those who did have the courage. And the very sparseness of the dancers allowed for all sorts of twirls and fancy footwork, at all of which Mr. Alton, her usual waltzing partner, was adept.
On this occasion, she could see, Mr. Alton was to dance with Tilly. Young Mr. Soames was leading out Rachel Boodle, while Sir Matthew Quentin had taken to the floor with Mrs. Payne. Elizabeth was with Mr. Wenzel. And that was to be that. There was always a feeling of exposure just before a waltz began, an anticipated exhilaration, a certain fear that one would trip over one’s own feet or tread upon one’s partner’s or otherwise make a cake of oneself.
The Earl of Hardford had not taken his eyes off her. She would swear he had not. Nor had he smiled—or spoken. It was all very different from the way he had treated his other partners. Imogen looked into his eyes again and found that they were indeed focused upon her.
“What part are you playing now?” she asked him.
“Part? As in a play?” He raised his eyebrows. “Now? As opposed to . . . when?”
“You are neither smiling nor oozing charm,” she said, “as you have been with your other partners.”
Oh, dear, she was never rude to people.
“But if I were doing either, Cousin,” he said, “you would quite surely accuse me of playing a, er, part. Would you not? It appears I cannot win your approbation no matter what I do. Perhaps it would help if I knew what game it was we played.”
Why did the music not begin? It appeared that the violinist had broken one of his strings and was still tuning the new one with the help of the pianist.
“I thought to appear sober and serious in your eyes,” he said. “Even brooding. I thought to impress you.”
“Shall we forget my rudeness?” she suggested. “I apologize for it.”
“And you have been watching me, have you?” he asked her.
She frowned her incomprehension.
“You noticed that I have been smiling and oozing charm for the benefit of my other partners,” he explained.
“How could I help but notice?” she asked curtly.
“Quite so.” His head had dipped slightly closer to hers, and he . . . smiled. Oh, not the smile of practiced charm he had used upon everyone else this evening, but one that crinkled his eyes at the corners and looked warm and genuine and . . . affectionate?
The way one would smile at a valued cousin?