The Incomparable Countess. Mary Nichols

will you please stop worrying and enjoy this dance, you are as stiff as a ramrod.’

      ‘I’m sorry.’ She smiled and allowed the music to take over and it wasn’t until the end of the dance, when Percy raised her from a deep curtsy, that she saw the Duke of Loscoe, standing in the open doorway, surveying the crowd. Her earnest hope that he would be otherwise engaged on the night had gone unanswered.

      He was immaculately clad in black. His superfine coat looked as though he had been poured into it, so closely did it fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist. His trousers, strapped beneath his dancing shoes, emphasised his muscular thighs and long legs and proved that, for a man who had lived in the country for years, he was very much abreast of fashion. A rose-coloured waistcoat, embroidered in gold thread, and a fantastically tied cravat of the finest silk completed a look which had all the young ladies sighing, notwithstanding he was known to be forty years old.

      ‘Complete to a shade,’ Percy remarked drily.

      Frances excused herself and went, as a good hostess, to greet the Duke and make him welcome. ‘Your Grace, I am sorry I left my post and was not waiting to greet you. I thought everyone who was coming had arrived.’

      He smiled down at her. ‘Is that a rebuke for my tardiness, my lady? If so, I beg forgiveness. My business kept me longer than I intended.’

      ‘Goodness no, you are not late, but punctual as ever. It is I who am at fault for assuming everyone was here and beginning the proceedings too early.’ That, she thought, would tell him that she had not been looking out for him and had not even noticed his non-arrival.

      ‘Then you must make amends by dancing with me.’

      There was no help for it and it was better to have it over and done with before her courage left her. She laid her fingers upon the hand he held out to her and allowed him to lead her into the dance just beginning.

      Time stood still—more than that, it seemed to go backwards as they did the steps of a stately minuet, just as they had done in that Season seventeen years before. She felt a young girl again, but though the years had passed, inside she had not changed. The same things still excited and thrilled her, the same things made her sad; it was only on the outside she was older and she hoped wiser, able to meet both joy and calamity with serenity.

      ‘Over all the years, this is what I remember most about you,’ he murmured. ‘The graceful way you move when you dance.’

      ‘Really, my lord?’ she said, deciding to accept the compliment as a tease and answer in like manner. ‘Is that all?’

      ‘No, it is far from all, but I doubt you want to hear what other things I remember.’

      She should bring the conversation to an end, she knew that, but the seventeen-year-old inside her loved compliments and it was the seventeen-year-old inside her who was holding sway at that moment. She looked up at him and laughed. ‘Are they so dreadful, these other things, that I should be ashamed of them?’

      ‘Not dreadful at all, but delightful. The way you laugh, which is more like a husky chuckle. And the way your hair curls in your neck so lovingly and the way your eyes light up when you are animated. And your mouth. I do not think I can begin to describe that…’

      She stumbled, but his firm hand held her upright and she was able to bring her steps and her swiftly beating heart under control. ‘Loscoe, I do believe you are trying to flirt with me.’

      ‘Of course,’ he said solemnly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes. ‘And you are not indifferent, are you?’

      She wished he had not used that word. The years rolled on and the seventeen-year-old faded to be replaced by the mature woman, the cool Society hostess. ‘Every woman likes compliments, but she would be a ninny to take them seriously, especially when they are delivered by someone so obviously skilled in the art.’

      ‘You think I am skilled? My goodness, that must mean your swains are singularly inept for I have been buried in the country for years and am sadly out of practice.’

      ‘Then I should hate to be one of this Season’s innocents, if you are going to practise on them. Heartbreak does not come easy when you are seventeen.’

      ‘I have no intention of breaking anyone’s heart,’ he said, serious now. ‘I cannot think why you should imagine that I would.’

      ‘It is said you are looking for a new wife and that is why you are come to London.’

      ‘Now, do you know, that is news to me.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘And you speak of being seventeen. Is that significant?’

      She, who prided herself on the way she could guide a conversation, keep everything light when it needed to be light and serious when seriousness was called for, seemed to have lost control of this one. ‘Not especially, but I think you are expected to make your choice from this Season’s debutantes.’

      ‘Am I indeed? I wonder what Lavinia would say to a stepmother who is little older than herself.’ He smiled. ‘Can you imagine it?’

      Frances smiled to herself. Lady Lavinia would make short work of anyone who could not master her. ‘I am only twelve years older than my stepdaughter and we are very fond of each other,’ she said.

      ‘Ah, but you are you.’

      ‘And what does that mean?’

      The dance was coming to and end and he did not answer, as she dipped into a deep curtsy and he bowed with a flourish and offered his arm to escort her from the floor. ‘I shall come back for the waltz before supper,’ he said, as he relinquished her.

      She could not help it; she had to have the last word. ‘My, how can someone buried in the country for goodness knows how many years know the steps of the waltz?’

      His smile, as he turned from her, faded almost to a grimace. She still had the power to make him tremble with desire, but she was so elegantly detached, so cool, that even her banter was meant to put him in his place, inform him that she, just as well as he, could flirt and mean nothing by it. But his compliments had been genuine; he had surprised himself when he uttered them. Had he really been harbouring such memories for seventeen years?

      He shook himself and strode across the floor to where Lady Willoughby guarded her daughter and bowed before them. ‘Miss Willoughby, may I request the pleasure of this country dance?’

      Felicity, prompted by her mother, sank into a deep curtsy, her face red with pleasure, then laid her hand upon his arm to be led onto the floor, which set the mamas a-twitter again.

      Frances watched them, feeling drained. He had been arrogant seventeen years before and he was arrogant now. He had enjoyed making her squirm, enjoyed the buzz of conversation which followed him wherever he went, positively glowed with satisfaction when he was surrounded by sycophantic mamas, all trying to put forward their daughters. Surely he would not marry one of them?

      It was not beyond the bounds of possibility. After all, she had married George and he had been older than Marcus was now. It often happened when a widower needed heirs or someone to be a second mother to the heirs he already had: he chose a very young lady. Wives who were young were usually also strong, able to bear children and look after elderly husbands when they became frail. They did it for the jointure they would receive on becoming a widow. And widows had more freedom than spinsters. As she did. She valued that freedom.

      Smiling, she mingled with her guests, thanking them for coming and engaging them in light conversation before moving on. She looked in on the card players, but they hardly noticed her so absorbed were they. When she returned to the ballroom, she found Percy leaning nonchalantly against a pillar, surveying the scene through his quizzing glass.

      ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked him.

      ‘His Grace, the Duke of Loscoe,’ he said. ‘Already there is speculation about which he will choose.’

      ‘And what do you think?’

      ‘I