Redfield had looked both pleased and happy. Joseph would have led Portia straight into the ballroom afterward since that was where most of the houseguests were gathering, and the outside guests were beginning to arrive. But she needed to return to her room to have her maid make some adjustments to her hair and to fetch her fan, and so Joseph wandered into the ballroom alone. He mingled with the other guests. It was not really difficult to be sociable and genial, to look as if he were enjoying himself—it all came as naturally to him as breathing. The Earl and Countess of Redfield, to everyone’s delight, danced the opening set with their guests, a slow and stately and old-fashioned quadrille. Portia was punishing him, Joseph thought when the set began, by being late and stranding him on the sidelines. He had, of course, elicited the opening set with her. He went and talked with his mother and Aunt Clara and a couple of Kit’s aunts. He soon had them laughing. Claudia was not dancing either. He had tried to stay far away from her since her arrival with the party from Lindsey Hall. He had not, though, been able to keep his mind off her. And now that he was standing in one place, talking and listening, he could not keep his eyes from her either. She looked very severe even though she was wearing the prettier of her evening gowns. She was standing alone, watching the dancing. It amazed him that he had not seen through her disguise the moment he first set eyes on her in Bath. For that very upright, disciplined body was warm and supple and passion-filled, and that face with its regular, stern features and intelligent g ray eyes was beautiful. She was beautiful. Just last night, about this time… He deliberately shifted position so that he stood with his back to her. And he looked toward the ballroom doors. There was still no sign of Portia. He danced the next set with Gwen, who liked to dance despite her limp, and was pleased to see that Claudia was dancing with Rosthorn. When the set was over, he took Gwen to join a group that included Lauren and the Whitleafs. He commended Lauren on the festive appearance of the ballroom and on the early success of the evening. Should he have a maid sent up to Portia’s room, he wondered, to make sure she had not eaten something that disagreed with her or met with some accident? It was strange indeed that she would miss a whole hour of the ball. But before he could make up his mind to take action, he felt a light touch on his shoulder and turned to find one of the footmen bowing to him and holding out a folded piece of paper. “I was asked to deliver this to you, my lord,” he said, “after the second set.” “Thank you,” Joseph said, taking it. A reply to his note to Claudia, was it? He excused himself, turned away from the group, broke the seal, and opened the single sheet. It was from Portia—his eyes moved down to her signature first. He sincerely hoped she was not ill. His mind was already moving ahead to the summoning of a physician—without disrupting the ball, it was to be hoped. “Lord Attingsborough,” he read, “it is with regret that I must inform you that upon mature reflection I find I cannot and will not endure the insult of a bastard daughter flaunted before me by my own affianced husband. I also have no wish to remain longer in a home in which only the Duke of Anburey and Lord and Lady Sutton were properly shocked by your vulgarity and prepared to take you to task for it. I will therefore be leaving before the ball begins. I am going with the Duke of McLeith, who has obliged me by offering to take me to Scotland to marry me. I will not flatter you by declaring myself to be your obedient servant.” And then her signature. He folded the paper. Claudia, he noticed at a glance, was doing exactly the same thing some distance away. “Anything wrong, Joseph?” Lauren asked, setting a hand on his arm. “No, nothing,” he said, turning his head to smile at her. “Portia has gone, that is all. She has eloped with McLeith.” Which was an odd way of answering her question, he realized even as he spoke. But his head was buzzing. “Excuse me?” he said even as her eyes widened and her mouth formed into an O. He hurried from the ballroom and took the stairs two at a time up to the next floor. He knocked on Portia’s door and, when there was no answer, opened it cautiously. It was in darkness, but even in just the dim light of the moon from outside it was clear to him that she really was gone. Nothing adorned the top of either the dressing table or the table beside the bed. The wardrobe was empty. Foolish woman, he thought. Foolish woman! Elopement was not the way to go. In the eyes of the world she would have broken off her engagement to him in order to run off to Scotland with another man. She would be beyond the social pale. She would be ostracized. Portia of all people—so very proper and correct in all her dealings with society. And McLeith! Should he go after them? But they had at least an hour’s head start, probably longer. And what was the point, even if he caught up with them? They were both mature adults. Perhaps she would find some measure of happiness with McLeith. She would, after all, be married to a duke immediately instead of having to wait for the death of his father. And she would presumably live in Scotland, where perhaps the social stigma of having eloped would not attach so strongly to her. But foolish Portia, he thought, standing at the window looking out onto a darkened lawn. She might have broken off her engagement and returned to her parents and then announced her forthcoming marriage to McLeith. It was unlike her to be rashly impulsive. He liked her the better for it. Claudia’s letter, he assumed, had been from McLeith. He allowed his thoughts to dwell on her unchecked for the first time since his return to Alvesley last night. He hardly dared believe in his freedom. Even now he might go back down to the ballroom to find Portia there, come to her senses and come back to Alvesley and him. There was only one way of finding out, he supposed.
At first Claudia had been rather relieved when Charlie did not appear to claim the opening set she had promised him. She really did not want this morning’s question renewed. But then, after the set had begun, she felt somewhat annoyed. A gentleman she had met at the picnic yesterday had solicited her hand, and she had rejected him with the explanation that she had already promised the set. It felt a little humiliating to be forced to stand alone watching everyone else below the age of fifty dancing. And perhaps that gentleman would think she had lied and simply did not wish to dance with him. Charlie really ought not to have put her in such an awkward position. It was not courteous, and she would tell him so when he finally came. Of course, the thought did cross her mind that perhaps he was punishing her for her rejection of his proposal this morning. But he had asked her for the set after she had said a very firm no. She danced the next set—a vigorous country dance—with the Earl of Rosthorn and had just joined Anne and Sydnam afterward when someone tapped her lightly on the shoulder. It was a footman, who had brought her a note. From Charlie? From Joseph? Charlie had still not put in an appearance. “Excuse me,” she said, turning away slightly for some privacy and then breaking the seal and unfolding the letter. It was from Charlie. She ignored a very slight feeling of disappointment. “My dearest Claudia,” he had written, “it seems rather just to me that I should suffer now as perhaps you suffered eighteen years ago. For while I suffered then too, I was essentially the rejecter, as you are now. And it feels wretched to love yet be rejected. I will not wait for your answer this evening. You have already given it and I would not distress you by forcing you to repeat it. Miss Hunt is unhappy too. She feels, quite rightly, that she has been badly used here. We have been able to offer each other some comfort today. And perhaps we will be able to continue to do so for a lifetime. By the time you read this, we ought to be well on our way to Scotland, where we will marry without delay. She will, I believe, be a conscientious wife and duchess, and I will be a dutiful husband. I wish you well, Claudia. You will always be to me the sister I never had, the friend who made my growing years happy ones, and the lover who might have been had fate not intervened. Forgive me if you will for failing to keep my promise to dance with you this evening. Your humble, obedient servant, McLeith (Charlie).” Oh, goodness. She folded the letter into its original folds. Oh, goodness gracious. “Is anything wrong, Claudia?” Anne placed a hand on her arm. “Nothing.” She smiled. “Charlie is gone. He has eloped with Miss Hunt.” She was waving the letter before her rather like a fan. She did not know what to do with it. “I expect,” Sydnam said, taking it from her and sliding it into his pocket, “tea is being served in the refreshment room. Come with Anne and me, Claudia, and I will fetch you a cup.” “Oh, goodness,” she said. “Thank you. Yes. That would be just the thing. Thank you.” He offered his arm and she took it before remembering that he did not have another arm to offer Anne. She looked around the ballroom. Charlie was definitely not here. Neither was Miss Hunt. Joseph had disappeared too. Did he know yet?
Portia was not in the ballroom. Neither was McLeith. Or Claudia. Sets were forming for the next dance, and the elder of the vicar’s two daughters had no partner, though she smiled brightly at her mother’s side as if being a wallflower was the happiest fate she could possibly imagine. Joseph went and bowed to the mother and asked if he might have the honor of leading her daughter out. Claudia returned to the ballroom with Anne and Sydnam Butler while he was dancing and coaxing laughter as well as smiles from the vicar’s daughter. By the time he had returned the girl to her mother and made himself agreeable to them for a while, Susanna and Whitleaf, Gwen, and Lily and Neville were also part of Claudia’s group. And from the way they all turned to watch him as he approached, Joseph understood that Lauren must have found her voice after he left her earlier. “Well, Joe,” Neville said, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Well, Nev.” Joseph inclined his head to Claudia, who curtsied slightly in return. “I can see the word is out.” “Only among a few of us,” Gwen assured him. “Lauren and Kit do not want the earl and countess to be told yet. This is their evening and it must not be spoiled in any way.” “I am not about to step up onto the orchestra dais,” Joseph said, “and make a public announcement.” “This is a lovely ball,” Susanna said. “And the next set is to be a waltz.” Whitleaf took her hand, set it on his sleeve, and patted it. “We had better take our places, then,” he said. No one moved—including the Whitleafs. “Miss Martin.” Joseph bowed. “Would you do me the honor of waltzing with me?” Despite the noise of conversation and laughter with which they were surrounded, it seemed to Joseph that every
