“I couldn’t wear this. It’s indecent.”
Constance, Valeria, and the seamstress laughed.
“My dear, in that dress you will have every man in the room developing a sudden strong interest in botany,” Constance said.
She felt her cheeks turn bright red. Indomitable, she ordered. She squared her shoulders and smiled at her reflection. “Then I will do what I must in the service of horticulture. But now you must get me out of this. I am late to meet Mr. Maxwell.”
“Of course,” Constance said, unfurling her from yards of fine fabric. “But join me at five in the library. I’m afraid we must go over expenses with my tedious brother.”
When Constance insisted that Archer join her in the library to review the expenses for the ball with Miss Cavendish, he had sensed she was plotting some act of mischief; no one was more bored by expenses than Constance. He therefore arrived late and silently, his years as her older brother having taught him the benefits of stealth.
As he peeked through the half-open door, he saw that the account book was forlorn in the corner, its pages undisturbed. Beside it was Miss Cavendish, whose drooping posture and expression of dread indicated Constance had once again taken her hostage. He silently edged into the room. After yesterday he owed it to her to prevent further injury.
Constance rifled through sheet music at the pianoforte. “Ah, here we are, a minuet. Brilliant. Everything worth happening at a ball occurs during the first minuet.”
She played a few bars. “It’s a six-beat count, you see, not so difficult. Do you hear it? One two three four five six.”
The nurserywoman looked both beautiful—he could never stop himself from noticing how pretty she was—and amusingly sullen. “This is preposterous, Constance,” she muttered.
He was inclined to agree with her. She was, after all, dressed like a man.
“What is preposterous is yourself not knowing how it is done. What do you expect will happen if a handsome gentleman wants to dance with you?”
“I expect I shall politely decline.”
Archer laughed to himself.
“Nonsense,” Constance called, continuing to play the tune. “You will say ‘The honor would be all mine’ and be swept off your feet to fall in love under the stars. That, you see, is the sole purpose of dancing.”
Leaving the instrument, she took Poppy’s hand and pulled her to the center of the room. “The gentleman will bow, and you will curtsy. You will place your heels together, just so, do you see? And then he will place his hand in yours. And it begins.” She demonstrated, gliding across the room with an imaginary partner—first forward, then backward, calling out “one-two-threes” as she went.
Intent on her demonstration, Constance became more focused and creative in her steps, allowing her ghostly partner to escort her across the room with ever-greater flourish.
Enjoying the dismayed expression that had overtaken Poppy’s face, he could not resist coming out of hiding to whisper in her ear. “Has my sister been seduced by a spirit?”
She gave him a pained smile. “A drunken one, by the looks of it.”
“Oh, Archer!” Constance said. “Excellent timing. Here, you lead and I will play the accompaniment.”
“Not a chance,” he said, backing from the room. “I don’t dance.”
“You do now,” Constance said, snatching him by the hand and pulling him back into the room. “I daresay it would serve you well to refresh yourself if you wish to charm the Miss Bastians of the world.”
Without waiting for a reply, she placed his left hand in Poppy’s right one.
Given he had spent the bulk of the past waking hours reciting to himself the varied and excellent reasons for staying as far away from Miss Cavendish as possible, the only rational response was to let go of her fingers, make his apologies, and dash away to the sanctuary of his rooms.
And yet, now that he had Poppy’s fingers in his own, he could not find the strength of will to make himself release them. It was the same queer feeling that had overtaken him when he’d bidden her farewell the night before.
Having adjusted their arms to her satisfaction, his sister scurried back to the pianoforte and began to play. He mouthed an apology at Poppy and then, at her reluctant nod, began to guide her through the first mincing steps, hoping he remembered them himself.
The dainty prances of the minuet were nothing short of absurd for a man of his proportions, and his tall frame had never felt larger or less elegant as he went bounding through the steps and bows, arm held out aloft.
He noticed Poppy’s lip twitch at the sight of him. She darted her eyes away, kindly attempting not to laugh. He snickered. She choked back a snort. And then they both lost their composure entirely.
The music clanged to a stop. Constance glared at them over her shoulder. “There is nothing humorous about the minuet, children. Do collect yourselves.”
Poppy looked guiltily down at her feet, then glanced up at him with a devilish glint in her eye, biting that lower lip of hers in a way that made him want to remake the kinds of mistakes he had sworn off many years ago. He gave her a wink and took her hand as the music resumed.
The awkwardness fell away and he became absorbed in the feel of her hand meeting his, in the sight of her small, inward smile as she became more confident in the steps. All at once it was a pleasure to dance with Poppy Cavendish, Constance’s jangled style of musicianship notwithstanding.
They both looked up in surprise when the music came to an end.
“Well done,” Constance sang out. “Shall we try a gigue next?”
“I should return home,” Poppy said. “It’s growing late.”
He was shocked to feel a momentary twinge of disappointment. Certainly it was the first time in his life he had ever regretted missing the opportunity to dance a gigue.
“Very well. I will ring for the carriage,” Constance said.
“There is no need. I rode my horse,” Poppy said.
“Well, you mustn’t ride back alone,” Constance said, aghast. “Good heavens, the ideas you have in that gorgeous head. And they say I am eccentric. Archer, you’ll escort Miss Cavendish home?”
His sister’s face was a caricature of innocence, all wide-eyed, guileless placidity. The face of a person who had hatched a plot and felt it was proceeding along in a swimming manner. He glanced at Poppy to see if she noticed his sister’s obvious chicanery, but instead saw that her face was a careful study of blankness.
How curious.
He was no particular expert in the fairer sex, but in business it behooved one to be perceptive. And if he was not mistaken, Miss Cavendish wore the face of someone who wanted him to escort her, and did not want to admit that she wanted it.
Which meant that he absolutely, categorically would be escorting her to her door.
“Of course I will see Miss Cavendish home,” he said, waving his sister away.
Constance shot him a smug grin and went off, humming a minuet as she left.
“There’s really no need for you to accompany me,” Poppy said when Constance was gone. “It’s not yet dark and I’m an excellent horsewoman.”
“I have no doubt. But given the hour, I would be derelict in my duties as host if I let you ride home unescorted. If you would prefer to take a carriage, I will see that a groom returns your horse to Bantham Park.”