The Secret Mistress

“I do know the steps,” he assured her.

“I know all the keys on a pianoforte and every note on a sheet of music,” she told him. “But somewhere between my eyes and my head at the one extreme and my fingers on the other, the message gets lost. Or scrambled anyway. I was the despair of my governesses. It seems I can never ever be a proper lady if I am not an accomplished musician.”

“You are kind,” he said.

“And you can never be a proper gentleman,” she said, “because when you dance your legs turn to wood.”

“It is that noticeable?” he asked. “But it must be. You feigned a sprained ankle rather than have to continue dancing with me at your come-out ball.”

“I turned my ankle,” she said, “to save you from the embarrassment of having to dance on. But you danced with other partners afterward, and so my sacrifice was in vain. Can there be anything more romantic than the waltz, do you suppose? Unless it is a waltz beneath the stars and colored lamps?”

Cousin Leonard and the Countess of Heyward were gazing into each other’s eyes as they danced. They were probably quite unaware of anyone else around them—or even of the stars and lamps.

A waltzing couple must always maintain a proper distance from each other even though their hands must touch throughout and indeed the gentleman must keep one hand on the lady’s waist and she must keep one hand on his shoulder. Those hands must never move after being properly placed, even by as much as half an inch.

Angeline could hear the rules listed in the severe voice of Miss Pratt, who had taught her the waltz even though she very strongly disapproved of it.

There was not even a sliver of air between Tresham and Lady Eagan as they waltzed. And not only his hand was resting on her waist. His whole arm was. Her hand was not on his shoulder at all, but against the back of his neck. There were only a few slivers of air between their faces.

Angeline sighed inwardly and fanned her face. And she wondered if Tresham had accepted his invitation only because Cousin Belinda was to be here. Was it possible that he had seen her since Rosalie’s wedding?

“Romantic?” Lord Heyward said in answer to her question. “It is just a dance.”

She looked at him sidelong.

“Do you not believe in romance, Lord Heyward?” she asked.

He hesitated.

“I believe in love,” he said, “and commitment and affection and fidelity and … comfort. I believe in happy marital relationships. I know a few, though not as many as I could wish. But romance? It sounds altogether too giddy to me, the sort of thing that leads people into falling in love, whatever that means, and acting without considered judgment and often ensuring an unhappy life for themselves trapped in a lifelong connection that quickly reveals romance and falling in love to be just a sad illusion. I have known a few of those connections.”

Oh, dear.

Angeline fanned her face again.

“Perhaps,” she said, “it is possible to be happy and in love, Lord Heyward. Perhaps romance can lead to love and affection and commitment and … What else did you list? Ah, yes, and to comfort. In a rare case. Do you not think?”

“I have no evidence of that,” he said. “But I suppose it is human nature to wish that you were right. To hope that you are right. It is perhaps wiser always to try to think and speak and act with good sense and judgment.”

“But wishes, hopes, and dreams are what give us the will and the courage to go on,” she said. “I would not want to go on without dreams.”

He was looking directly at her, she found when she turned her head toward him, having just witnessed Tresham for the merest moment denying even those few slivers of air space between his face and Belinda’s.

“Dreams can only lead one astray and cause ultimate despair, Lady Angeline,” he said. “But you are young. You have just made your debut into society, and the whole of a possibly glittering future is ahead of you. I would not wish to deny you your dreams. But have a care. They can be dashed in one impulsive moment.”

Oh, she thought as she gazed into his eyes, what had he dreamed? And what had happened to dash those dreams? He spoke as though he were not young.

But he believed in love. And she had seen that it was true. He loved his family.

He just did not believe in romantic love. How foolish of him.

She smiled brightly at him.

“I will not force you to waltz, Lord Heyward,” she said, “but I will sigh and look thoroughly forlorn if you do not at least offer to take me walking. We are in the loveliest place in the whole wide world, and I have scarcely seen any of it.”

He got to his feet again and offered his arm.

“Neither have I,” he said. “This is my first visit here too.”

“Then we will explore together,” she said, rising and taking his arm and glancing Rosalie’s way. Over Mr. Lynd’s shoulder, Rosalie met her glance and nodded her approval. Mrs. Lynd was also smiling their way.

Tresham was whispering something in Cousin Belinda’s ear. At least, Angeline assumed he was whispering. He would not need to speak aloud when his mouth was one inch away from her ear.

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT was entirely his fault, Edward admitted to himself later. He acted with uncharacteristic impulsiveness, and he reaped the consequences.

They strolled up the main avenue along with dozens of other revelers. Vauxhall Gardens was really not half as bad as he had expected. Perhaps it would look tawdry, or just very ordinary, in the daylight, but at night it had its appeal, he had to admit. The colored lamps were a particular inspiration. And the straight, wide avenue and the trees that bordered it were impressive and well kept. Everyone appeared to be in high spirits, but there was no obvious vulgarity. No one was noticeably foxed. The music formed a pleasant background to conversation.

It seemed to be a place intended purely for innocent enjoyment. There was nothing really wrong with that, was there? Sometimes life was to be simply enjoyed. He was enjoying himself. It was a surprising admission, but when he tested it in his mind, he found it was true.

Lady Angeline Dudley chattered on about everything in sight. Edward found that he did not mind. He even enjoyed listening to her enthusiasm. Sheer innocent exuberance was all too rare a commodity, he thought. Most people of his acquaintance were, to a greater or lesser degree, jaded. Including, perhaps, himself.

There must be something very pleasant about being able to go even beyond enjoyment to see all this as magical, as she clearly did, to be filled to the brim with unalloyed happiness. He almost wished he could be like her. It felt strangely … what was the word? Comforting? It felt strangely comforting to be within her aura, to have all that chatter, all that exuberance, all that sparkle directed at him—dull old sobersides that he was.

He had been feeling rather down for a few days and consequently had alarmed his family by neglecting to attend either a ball or a soiree they had particularly wanted him to attend. Though they had consoled themselves with the fact that Lady Angeline Dudley would be here tonight