Lord Trent eagerly joined in the conversation. “Is it true the boy’s representatives are in communication with Her Majesty?”
People gasped and murmured, whispering among themselves with renewed vigor.
It was during all this that strong fingers closed over Evelyn’s arm. She turned with a start, coming face-to-face with a tall, immaculately dressed stranger.
But not a stranger.
It was Mr. Hartford, the roguish gentleman Anne had pointed out in Hyde Park. The one who had addressed her with such cheerful mockery.
Evelyn hadn’t realized he was in attendance.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Maltravers,” he said. “This is my dance, I believe.”
In other circumstances, she might have been flattered. Mr. Hartford cut a dashing figure. He was healthy and handsome, standing head and shoulders over most of the men in the ballroom.
He was also dangerous.
Evelyn would have recognized that even without Anne’s warning. There was an air of calculation about him. A gleam in his eyes that spoke more of strategy than impulse.
If he was asking her to dance, it wasn’t on a whim.
“I think not, sir.” She opened the dance card that fluttered from a silken cord at her wrist, turning the page to the penciled entry for the waltz. “This dance belongs to Mr. Babcock.”
“And Mr. Babcock has generously ceded it to me.” Mr. Hartford extended his hand to her. “Shall we?”
Evelyn cast a swift glance over the ballroom. Mr. Babcock was standing a distance away—an older man, like all of the others she’d danced with thus far. He gave her an apologetic shrug.
Her temper flared. “If this is some kind of a prank—”
“Ah. Lady Anne has told you about me, I see. A word of advice. Where I’m concerned, you’d be wise to take everything she says with a quarry of salt.” His hand remained outstretched. “It’s just a waltz, ma’am, I promise you. No pranks, tricks, or otherwise.”
The orchestra struck up the first notes. It was Strauss. A bold, heart-stirring composition. The music filled the air.
And Evelyn was still standing there. Not dancing, but facing off with a gentleman in what must appear to be an argument.
People were beginning to stare.
She reluctantly took Mr. Hartford’s hand, permitting him to guide her the rest of the way onto the floor. She could no longer see where Anne was. Her absence provoked a distinct twinge of discomfort in Evelyn’s midsection. She didn’t wish to be thought disloyal.
Mr. Hartford slid an arm about her waist, leading her into the first turn.
A quiver of uncertainty nearly made her stumble.
The last time she’d waltzed had been in the safety of her family’s cottage. Her little sisters had partnered her in turn while Aunt Nora pounded out music on the schoolroom pianoforte. Each of them helping, in their own way, to prepare Evelyn for the rigors of the season.
They were the reason she was doing this. All of it, from the new coiffure and corset to the elegantly designed riding habits and gowns. It was for her sisters that she must marry a wealthy husband. Her own feelings were supposed to come second. Everything was supposed to come second. And yet . . .
And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about Ahmad.
She wondered what it would be like to dance with him. To be held in his arms.
“Relax,” Mr. Hartford said. “Don’t overthink it.”
She clutched at his shoulder for balance.
“Don’t look down. Look at me.”
She was looking at him. Or trying to anyway. Other couples whirled by them, dipping and turning to the music. It seemed that everyone was on the floor. There was scarcely room to navigate among all the spinning skirts billowing out over wide wire crinolines.
“It’s very crowded,” Evelyn remarked. “Perhaps we should—”
“Ignore the crowd.” Mr. Hartford expertly waltzed her through the crush. “Let me lead you.”
It went against her every instinct to obey him. Then again, he clearly knew what he was doing. She gradually relaxed, allowing him to guide her around the floor.
People watched them from the edge of the ballroom as they passed, gentlemen staring and ladies whispering behind their fans.
Evelyn’s confidence rose.
She felt a glimmer of what she’d experienced when she’d made her debut in Rotten Row. That awesome sense of feminine power.
“That’s it,” Mr. Hartford said. “It’s not so difficult, is it?”
“Not difficult, no. I’m merely out of practice.”
“Have you no dancing in your village?”
“Of course we have. Combe Regis isn’t Timbuktu.”
“Quite so. But it’s all your admirers can mention. Your humble origins.”
“I don’t know why,” she said.
“Don’t you? A small village lends an air of freshness to a pretty girl. Not so much to an unattractive one.”
She gave him a suspicious glance. “Is this one of your compliments that doubles as an insult?”
His large hand tightened on her waist. “Another warning from Lady Anne?”
She didn’t deny it.
He swept her into a final turn as the music swelled to a close. “Tell her something for me, will you?”
“What?” she asked, a little breathless.
His head bent to hers. “Tell her that no plant can flourish in the shadow of another.”
She frowned up at him, wishing she could make out his expression. “I don’t know if that’s entirely true.”
“Just tell her,” he said. The music ceased. He promptly released her, offering a curt bow. “Miss Maltravers.”
“Mr. Hartford.” By the time she rose from her curtsy, he was gone in the crowd. She stared at his retreating back in bewilderment.
What a peculiar man!
Briefly lowering her spectacles so she could see over the top of her lenses, she set off across the ballroom in search of her friends. She wasn’t engaged for the next set and could use a glass of lemonade. More than that, she was anxious to find Anne.
It wasn’t difficult. In her black ball gown, Anne stood out like a sore thumb.
Evelyn caught up with her just as she was exiting the ballroom. “Where are you off to?”
Anne stopped in the corridor. “The ladies’ retiring room. Lord Dawlish trod on my skirts. The trim needs to be reattached.”