Page 23 of The Unassuming Curator

Mr. Buckland smiled. “And are they garnering the lady all the attention she hoped?”

“I believe they must be, for she has been surrounded by guests all evening. You can see her on the left side of the ballroom now, wearing a purple gown.”

He turned his head to look. “Near the large potted plant in the corner?”

Emily followed his gaze. There were at least half a dozen ladies clustered together near the miniature tree, and although two of them were dressed in shades of deep blue, not one was wearing a purple gown.

“No. She is standing closer to the refreshment table.”

His attention shifted, and she saw his expression clear. “I see the feathers, and I understand your wonder. They are quite extraordinary.”

“Yes.”

They were almost as lavish as the older lady’s purple gown, which she had considered impossible to miss. And yet, for Mr. Buckland, it had not appeared to stand out among the other gowns. Her thoughts went back to the gemstones they’d viewed at the museum a couple of days before. The amethyst had been a similar color to Lady Finchley’s dress, and he had specifically asked her if she could tell it apart from the other rocks.

The musicians played the first notes of the allemande, and his hazel eyes met hers. Was it possible that Mr. Buckland experienced some kind of difficulty with his eyesight?

“Are you ready?” he asked.

She blinked and nodded. He took her hand. An unexpected frisson of awareness skittered up her arm. The music swelled, and suddenly, they were moving, stepping forward, back, circling each other, and coming together again. She forgot to count steps. There was no need. His fingers were strong, but his grip was gentle, and he guided her through the dance with a fluidity she’d never before experienced.

The music came to an end, and all around her, ladies were curtsying. Emily followed suit, her thoughts in a whirl. How had the dance finished so soon? She was not ready to end her time with Mr. Buckland. Especially if it meant that she would be forced to dance with any more gentlemen like Lord Culham.

She raised her head. He was watching her, a strange expression on his face.

“You dance beautifully, Miss Norton,” he said.

“You are very kind to say so. It’s a fairly recently acquired skill and one that has not come without several run-ins with rather unyielding pieces of furniture.”

He chuckled and offered her his arm. “No one would ever suspect it.”

As they started toward the edge of the ballroom, Emily’s dread of reentering the milling throng mounted, and seemingly of their own volition, her footsteps slowed. She’d been introduced to more people than she had any hope of remembering this evening. Already, she recalled only a small fraction of their names.

“It’s a bit much, isn’t it?”

Mr. Buckland’s quietly spoken question took her off guard. She turned to look at him. He had slackened his pace to match hers, and she saw understanding in his eyes.

“It is rather,” she admitted. “I have never seen so many people in one place. I am far more used to sitting quietly by the river at Dunsbourne Manor than I am to socializing in vast groups.”

“There are those who find large crowds and a long evening of dancing enlivening,” he said. “But I would contend that they are fewer in number than those who consider them challenging.”

“Do you really think so?” It was hard to imagine that many of the smiling ladies and gentlemen were hiding a fraction of the discomfort she had been experiencing since entering the ballroom.

“I know so,” he said. “And as I am one of them, may I ask if—out of the goodness of your heart—you would be willing to facilitate my escape for a few minutes by taking the air on the patio with me?”

Emily could not contain her smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

Mr. Buckland did not hesitate. Veering away from a tall, thin gentleman who seemed intent on intercepting them, he guided her past a group of chatting ladies and toward the distant french doors. An elderly gentleman returning from the refreshment table with two glasses of punch crossed their path. He greeted Mr. Buckland briefly before handing one of the glasses to a lady in purple. Lady Finchley. Even if she had not seen the fluffy ostrich feathers sway, Emily would have recognized the lady’s distinctive purple gown. She frowned. The same gown Mr. Buckland had failed to identify.

They had almost reached the exit. Mr. Buckland reached for the door, and Emily marshaled her courage. “I realize that we have not known each other long, but as you are the possessor of one of my secrets, may I be so forward as to ask you a personal question?”

“Something greater than learning that I would rather be in a quiet room with a collection of rocks and dried plants than at one of London’s most popular balls?” he asked.

“Seeing as I would make the same choice in a heartbeat, I do not consider that a very great secret. Besides, you have only recently attempted to convince me that yours is a popularly held opinion.”

“Fair enough.” He waited for her to walk out ahead of him. “What is it that you wish to ask me?”

She stepped onto the patio and breathed in the fresh air. Shadows flitted across the circles of light on the flagstones, and the murmur of voices reached her from the darkness. A breeze lifted her curls from her shoulder, the sudden drop in temperature sending a shiver down her spine.