Page 45 of The Runaway Duchess

Ball? His frown was automatic. Muriel had turned the whole house, no, the whole village, upside down for a ball? And now she was issuing commands?

Christ, he’d have to apologize to Tomas. What must his cousin be thinking? His houseguest was the pixie.

She stopped halfway down the staircase.

“You look so consternated,” she said to them all. “I should have made it more clear—you are most certainly invited.”

Loveday appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Muriel, do you think this shawl . . .” She trailed off, spotting the men on the landing.

“I think so!” Davy burst out heartily. A jackanapes, perhaps, but an endearing jackanapes.

Neal’s frown smoothed at Davy’s dazzled expression and Loveday’s answering blush. She did look uncommonly well. Something different about her hair. It was loose, that was it. A few pieces twisted back over her ears, but aside from that, curls tumbling on her shoulders. The lavender wrap brought out the green in her hazel eyes.

Muriel was surveying Davy and Loveday, the hint of a smile curving the bow of her lips. Loveday’s hair was her handiwork, of course, and that lavender tulle had been magicked out of her massive trunk.

Neal turned to Tomas, who’d put his foot up on the bottom stair and was leaning against the banister. Consternation was giving way to mirth. Neal could see that no apology would be necessary.

“What shall I wear?” Tomas asked Neal, then broke into laughter. “The better question is—what shall you wear? Grandpa’s Hessians will pair strangely with your London kit.”

“I didn’t pack much in the way of London kit.” Neal’s gaze wandered back to Muriel. She’d done up her own hair into a bright crown. “Do you have a pair of Grandpa’s pantaloons and a frock coat? I’ll go as a historical figure.”

He addressed Muriel. “Is it a fancy-dress ball, by any chance?”

Smiling, she descended to the bottom stair. “It’s eclectic, really. Wear what you like. Within limits, of course.” She swept him with her eyes to make sure he understood that his present pitch-stained attire was thoroughly out-of-bounds.

Did she think him that much of a boor? He preferred mountaintops to mansions, yes, but had no trouble navigating either. If Muriel Pendrake wanted a man who could dance, she didn’t need to take herself back to London, or Paris. He would suffice. More than suffice.

“All right, lads,” he said to Davy and Tomas. “We’ve got our marching orders. Let’s fall to it.”

He bowed to Muriel. “I, for one, wouldn’t dream of missing the first quadrille.”

Chapter Eight

By the fourth dance, Lavinia had ceased to fret about the depressing venue. More and more people were crushing into the assembly room, calling out greetings, depositing coats and hats higgledy-piggledy, undaunted by the lack of a proper cloakroom. Some newcomers joined the dancers, while others leaned against the walls and heckled them good-naturedly, tapping their feet and tipping back bottles of beer and spirits. Thank God so many young men had thought to bring their own refreshment. The first wave of partygoers had drained the jugs. Everywhere Lavinia looked: people enjoying themselves. No one complained about the crooked floor, or about the unpleasant humidity that, along with the smoke from the lamps, produced a visible fug. The musicians played with a lively tempo, more often than not, the same lively tempo.

The ball was a success.

And Neal—Neal waltzed like a prince. Or not precisely like a prince. He glissaded smoothly as any peer of the realm, but his revolutions and counterrevolutions seemed designed to dizzy her. Also, his facial expression wasn’t royal. No fixed little smile or lordly sneer. He laughed as they turned, as though his supreme gracefulness made him the victor in some riotous contest. She wanted to feel annoyed, but he never missed a step, never hopped, or kicked up his heels, or made a brusque or jerky movement. He was waltzing perfection, if waltzing was compatible with that uninhibited glee, the sort of glee one expected on the sports field, not in the ballroom.

Of course, this wasn’t a ballroom. Maybe his boisterous, muscular approach modulated brilliantly for an evening in a guildhall. Certainly, he was getting his share of appreciative heckles.

Spinning in Neal’s arms, Lavinia glimpsed a row of girls on the room’s perimeter. They wore garishly bright dresses and hardly seemed forlorn in regard to their unpartnered states. Forward was more like it.

“You’re a brave, fine man, Neal Traymayne,” one called out as they swept past, a buxom girl with thick dark braids and a daring smile. Her friends giggled and hid their faces.

But of course, Neal was a kind of prince in Kyncastle, one of the London Traymaynes. For the ball, he’d donned a dark coat—the same he’d worn at that horrid inn—and his cravat was fresh, white, and passably knotted. With those hundred-year-old boots, and that raffish grin, he looked a rough-hewn cavalier. Every girl in the valley no doubt hovered in her doorway and sighed when he came to visit, hoping he’d happen along.

She and Neal should dance with other partners. Appalling etiquette this, the two of them, coupled for the quadrille, waltzing every waltz.

It wasn’t that she wanted to keep him from the rustic maidens. Of course not. It was that she was also perfection at the dance. She’d languished a whole Season, denied access to the spheres in which she used to shine. Now she’d entered a separate sphere—small and a bit dingy, but vibrant all the same—and she could feel her blood humming, just as it had before. She couldn’t bear to bumble about with a lesser partner. It was too lovely, how she and Neal twirled together, his hand light on her waist, her torso arched back from his, everything about their position, their movements, elegant and exquisitely balanced.

She wanted to dance with him forever.

Just then, he swung them deftly into the center of the room, out of the path of a careening duo with flapping arms. From the shout that went up, she guessed they’d careened on to endanger a less-agile couple.

Neal laughed down at her, steering without seeming to calculate, relying on his impressive physical intuition. The same physical intuition that made it possible for him to descend sheer rock walls and skim the tops of waves.