George frowned. “I wonder over his dogged determination when most men would have given up by now.”
“I think he needs the money my dowry will provide.”
“But you’re not the only woman with a dowry who’s available on the marriage mart. Why wouldn’t he move on to one of the others once he learned you lacked an interest?”
“Maybe because he’s too dense to comprehend my repeated attempts at dissuading him?”
“Hmm... No. There’s got to be something else. I’ll try to look into it so we can get him to leave you in peace once and for all.”
“Thank you.” She reached for his hand. “I’m grateful. It’s nice to have someone on whom to rely for support. During the time I’ve known you, you have become my dearest friend, my closest confidante, and the only man with whom I can see myself spending the rest of my life.”
His chest tightened. Her touch alone was enough to quicken his pulse, but her words had the power to slay him. “If only I could kiss you right now.”
Her lips quirked. “I do wonder how my maid would react if you did.”
He cast a glance in the maid’s direction and sighed. His moments alone with Margaret were few and far between, scarcely long enough for the swiftest of kisses whenever they did occur. “My parents have been asking me when we plan to announce our engagement.”
“Soon. In another couple of weeks.”
George nodded and forced a smile. Given how he felt and with her own words of affection for him still lingering in the air, he could not see the point in dragging their courtship on any longer. But a deal was a deal, so he’d stick with it.
“Will you be at the Everton ball on Saturday?” she asked in a bright tone he knew was meant to change the topic and mood of their conversation.
“I plan to. Yes.”
“Excellent. I’ll look forward to dancing with you then.”
“So will I.” He squeezed her hand and released it so he could take a sip of his tea. When he departed her home half an hour later, he went straight to his club. It was past time he figured out Shrewsberry’s motive for chasing after Margaret.
Chapter Five
THE EVERTON BALL WAS a dazzling event. Dressed in a white muslin gown belted by a wide sash cut from aquamarine satin, Margaret admired the splendor of her surroundings. Chandeliers filled each room with a brilliant glow, beneath which diamonds set in necklaces, earrings, and hairpins alike, twinkled. Chatter buzzed through the air while soft notes played by violins wafted forth from the ballroom. It was quite a crush. Margaret had been jostled a few times already, almost spilling her champagne as a result the last time someone pushed their way past her. She’d also lost sight of her parents, who’d been right behind her until she’d turned and noticed they’d both disappeared in the crowd.
A hand caught her elbow, the jolt of awareness it caused leaving no doubt in her mind about the identity of the person who’d touched her. She angled her head as George leaned in to murmur, “You’re a vision this evening, Margaret, for which I am grateful. It made finding you in this throng no hardship at all.”
She blushed as she turned more fully toward him. Dressed in a frock coat cut from navy blue silk, matching breeches, and a cream-colored waistcoat edged with gold trim, he looked incredibly handsome. Instead of a powdered wig, he wore his hair short, which Margaret preferred. “Shall we see if the ballroom’s more bearable?”
“Is that my cue to invite you to dance?” he asked with a teasing smile that made her heart triple in size.
Margaret loved the easy banter she’d grown accustomed to in his presence. “Maybe.”
He grinned and offered his arm, which she accepted as soon as she’d handed her half-empty glass of champagne to a nearby footman. “Let’s not waste any more time then.” He escorted her into the ballroom where a quadrille was underway.
“I’ve been wondering if you learned more with regard to Shrewsberry’s reasoning,” Margaret said while they waited for the dance to end.
“Indeed. It would appear he made a bet.”
“A bet?”
“Apparently, you have been labeled a challenging conquest. Shrewsberry has wagered one thousand pounds on being able to secure your hand.”
“But that’s preposterous.”
“It does explain why he’s still in pursuit.”
Margaret huffed a breath. One thousand pounds would not get the earl to relent any time soon. Which was something she found to be quite disconcerting.
The quadrille ended and George led her onto the dance floor. They took their positions for the ensuing minuet. The precise piece of music began. George bowed and Margaret curtsied. His hand clasped hers so he could guide her through the steps, turning her this way and that while weaving between other couples. The pleasure she saw in his eyes reflected the pure contentment she felt in her heart. This was the man she would marry. There was no doubt at all in her mind.
“I’ve heard there’s a scandalous dance spreading its way across the Continent,” George said when they’d danced for a while.
“You make it sound like a wildfire,” Margaret said with a smirk, “or a plague.”
“Apparently, it allows couples to dance while embracing.”
“Really?” She couldn’t imagine such a thing. It sounded both awkward and like a recipe for ruin.
“Oh yes,” he murmured. He drew her closer - much closer than the steps permitted. His hand settled neatly against her waist, just for a second, before he stepped back once again to add the appropriate distance. “A pity it hasn’t yet come to England.”
Margaret wished she had her fan at the ready. Heat burned her cheeks. “You are a scoundrel, aren’t you?”
“Only when I’m with you,” he assured her.
It was impossible not to smile in response to his words. No one had ever made her feel more adored than he. “These past few weeks have been the best of my life, George.”
“Mine too.” The music began to fade, drawing the dance to a close, but his gaze held hers with unwavering certainty. “Shall we go and get some fresh air on the terrace?”
“I’d like that. I just have to visit the ladies’ retiring room first.”
“All right. I’ll fetch a couple of drinks for us while I wait.”
Agreeing to meet him by the terrace doors, Margaret hurried off. Thankfully the line leading into the retiring room wasn’t as long as she’d feared it might be, allowing her to make her way back to the ballroom within ten minutes.
But before she managed to cross the parlor she had to pass through on her way, a familiar female voice called her name. For a second, Margaret considered pretending she hadn’t heard the summons, but to do so would be rude. So she stopped and turned to greet her friend.
“Callie. It’s been a while.”
“Too long,” Callie said. The Earl of Merryweather’s youngest daughter was accompanied by two other women with whom Margaret was acquainted, though not nearly as well. One was Miss Jemima Thornton, the other, Lady Kimberly Wessex.
“We missed you the last time we met to play shuttlecock,” Miss Thornton said. “It would have been better with two equal teams. Instead, we were forced to take turns.”