Christmas Betrothals: Mistletoe Magic. Amanda McCabe

her shoulder.

      He was three or four couples behind them, partnering a pretty girl whom she knew to be the younger one of the Parker sisters and he looked for all the world as if he might actually be enjoying the dance. Certainly the Parker girl was, her colour high and her eyes flashing, the dimples in her cheeks easily on show.

      Perhaps he had been here all night and made no effort to single her out. Perhaps this sharp knowledge she felt when he was near her was not reciprocated. Stepping forwards, she gained in ground on the couple in front of her and Graham’s hand closed upon her own, slowing her down. Concentrate, she admonished herself. Concentrate and pretend that Lucas Clairmont is not there, that you do not care for him, this reckless colonial who can only do your reputation harm.

      For the next few figures in the dance she felt her confidence return, then drain away altogether as he winked at her when she caught his eyes across the small space between them. She turned away quickly, not deigning any reply, and listened to some inconsequential thing her partner was relaying to her, trying to give the impression of the free-and-fancy woman she did not feel at all. When the dance ended she curtsied and allowed Graham to take her hand and lead her back to the shelter of her aunt, a courtesy she rarely took part in.

      ‘You look flushed, my dear,’ Jean said as she finished off a sizeable glass of lemonade, followed by a strawberry bonbon. The first strains of a waltz filled the air and Lillian looked at her card. The initials she had written there stared back at her.

      ‘Your partner for this next dance is rather tardy.’ Aunt Jean looked around expectantly. ‘Ahh, here he is now.’

      Lillian’s head whipped upwards as Luc Clairmont strode into view beside them, and again she was mesmerised by his reckless golden eyes.

      ‘Miss Davenport,’ he said before turning to her companion. ‘Ma’am.’

      Her aunt’s mouth had dropped open, the red of the strawberry bonbon strangely marking her tongue.

      ‘Aunt Jean, let me introduce you to Mr Lucas Clairmont, from America. Mr Clairmont this is my aunt, Lady Taylor-Reid.’

      Again Luc bowed his head. ‘Pleased to meet you, ma’am.’

      Her aunt flushed strangely. ‘How long have you been in England, Mr Clairmont?’

      ‘Only a few weeks’

      ‘Do you like it?’

      ‘Indeed I do.’ He looked straight at her, the dimple in his cheek deeper than she had seen it, the gold of his eyes glinting in mirth.

      The music had now begun in earnest, the dance getting underway and, excusing herself, she allowed Lucas to guide her through the throngs of people.

      On the floor his hand laced around her waist and she felt the warmth of it like a burn. In England it was proper for couples to stand a good foot apart, but the American way seemed different as he brought her close, his free hand taking her fingers and clasping them tight.

      ‘I had thought I would have no chance for a waltz with you, Lillian. How is it that your card is empty on the best dance of them all?’

      She ignored his familiar use of her name, reasoning that as no one else had heard him use it, it could do no harm.

      ‘It was a mix-up,’ she replied as they swirled effortlessly around the room. He was a good dancer! No wonder the Parker sister had looked so thrilled.

      ‘Are there other mix-ups on your card?’

      She laughed, surprised by his candour. ‘Actually, I have the last waltz free …’

      ‘Pencil me in,’ he replied, sweeping her around the top corner of the room, her petticoat swirling to one side with the movement of it, an elation building that she had never before felt in dancing.

      Safe. Strong. The outline of his muscles could be seen against the black of his jacket and felt in the hard power of his thighs. A man who had not grown up in the salons of courtly life but in a tougher place of work and need. Even his clothes mirrored a disregard for the height of fashion, his jacket not the best of cuts and his shoes a dull matt black. Just a ‘little dressed,’ she thought, his apparel of a make that held no pretension to arrogance or ornament. She saw that he had tied his neckcloth simply and that his gloves were removed.

      She wished she had done the same and then she might feel the touch of his skin against her own, but the thought withered with the onslaught of his next words.

      ‘I am bound for Virginia before too much longer. I have passage on a ship in late December and, if the seas are kind, I may see Hampton by the middle of February.’

      ‘Hampton is your home?’ She tried to keep the question light and her disappointment hidden.

      ‘No. My place is up on the James River, near Richmond.’

      ‘And your family?’

      When he did not answer and the light in his eyes dimmed with her words, she tried another tack. ‘I had a friend once who left London for a home in Philadelphia. Is that somewhere near?’

      ‘Somewhere …’ he answered, whirling her around one last time before the music stopped. Bowing to her as their hands dropped away from each other, he asked, ‘May I escort you back to your aunt? Your father does not look too happy with my dancing style.’

      Lillian smiled and did not look over at her father for fear that he might beckon her back. ‘No. I have not supped yet and find myself hungry.’

      The break in the music allowed him the luxury of choice. If he wanted to slip away he could, and if he wanted to accompany her to the supper room he had only to take her arm. She was pleased when he did that, allowing herself to be manoeuvred towards the refreshment room.

      Once there she was at a loss as to what to say next, his admission of travelling home so soon having taken the wind from her sails. She saw the Parker girls and their friends behind him some little distance away and noticed that they watched her intently.

      When he handed her a plate she thanked him, though he did not take one, helping himself to a generous drink of lemonade instead.

      ‘Are you in London over Christmas?’ His question was one she had been asked all the night, a conversation topic of little real value and, when compared to the communion they had enjoyed the last time of meeting, disappointing.

      She nodded. ‘We usually repair to Fairley Manor, our country seat in Hertfordshire, in the first week of January.’ When he smiled all of the magic returned in a flood.

      ‘Nathaniel Lindsay is to give a house party at his country estate in Kent on the weekend of November the twentieth. Will you be there?’

      ‘The Earl of St Auburn? I do not know if I have an invite …’

      ‘I could send you one.’

      Shock mixed with delight and ran straight through into the chambers of her heart.

      ‘It is not proper.’

      ‘But you will come anyway?’

      He did not move closer or raise his voice, he did not reach out for her hand or brush his arm against her own as he so easily could here at this crowded refreshment table, and because of it, the invite was even the more clandestine. Real. A measure taken to transport her from this place to another one.

      An interruption by the Countess of Horsham meant that she could not answer him, and when he excused himself from their company she let him go, fixing her glance upon the tasteless biscuit on her plate.

      Alice watched him, however, and the smile on her lips was unwelcome. ‘I had heard you witnessed the fellow in a contretemps the other evening? Do you know him, Lillian, know anything of his family and his living?’

      ‘Just a little. He is a good friend of the Earl of St Auburn.’

      ‘Indeed. There are other rumours that I have heard, too. It seems he may have inherited a substantial