“But the volta is scandalous.” His coughing fit under control, Father braced his hands on his hips. “It’s much too intimate for a family party.”
Mother made an impatient noise. “Queen Elizabeth and Queen Henrietta Maria both enjoyed the volta. It’s a good Royalist dance.”
“It’s settled, then.” Chrystabel clapped her hands. “Music, please!”
Joseph couldn’t believe his ears. It was settled? Just because Chrystabel had said so? Not even here a full day, the interfering chit apparently thought herself lord of the manor—and no one was objecting. When the musicians raised their instruments, even Joseph moved toward the center of the room. And before he knew what was happening, he found himself beginning the galliard, a series of small leaps, jumps, and hops that could be performed without a partner.
When the beat changed to signal the partner portion of the dance, he made sure to pair up with Creath first, as was only proper. Right palm to right palm, they circled each other.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asked.
“As much as possible, I suppose.” They switched to go the other direction, touching left palms this time. “Under the circumstances.”
They didn’t discuss the circumstances—not there in that room. He, Creath, and his parents had all agreed the betrothal should be kept secret from their guests, as they didn’t want to risk word reaching Sir Leonard. What the Trevors didn’t know, they couldn’t spread to others after leaving Tremayne.
As the dance dictated, Joseph pulled Creath close, lifted her, and twirled her around. This was the part of the volta that his father found scandalous. Each of the three times he lifted her, Creath’s exhilarated giggles escalated, making him smile. He was growing accustomed to the idea of marrying her.
Sort of.
They parted ways for another set of the energetic galliard steps. When the music changed again, he found himself paired with Chrystabel.
“Your father is very conservative,” she said without preamble, raising her arm. Their hands came together palm-to-palm.
Touching Chrystabel felt so different from touching Creath that he was momentarily struck dumb. But he recovered his composure quickly as they began circling each other. “My father is indeed conservative. In fact, that’s why we live so far out here in the wilderness. Father and Grandfather thought it safest to avoid Cromwell’s notice during the war, thus they took us as far from the fighting as possible.”
Her eyes flickered. “He didn’t fight? My brother and father both fought in the war. Father died defending the king.”
Joseph’s memory flashed to when he’d accused her of being a secret Roundhead at supper. He felt immediately awful for teasing her. But he refused to feel ashamed for the difficult choices his family had made.
“My grandfather wasn’t willing to risk his heir—or his grandchildren, for that matter. And after he passed, the earldom’s well-being rested on my father remaining alive, at least until I was grown enough to take over if the need arose.”
She leveled him her with her dark, wide-set gaze. “Meaning you placed the earldom ahead of the country.”
He didn’t like how that you made him a culprit. For pity’s sake, he’d been a mere boy when they’d come to Tremayne.
But then he remembered no one was a culprit, because the Ashcrofts had done nothing wrong. How did she keep twisting him around in this manner?
“I suppose yours is one interpretation,” he retorted as they reversed direction. “Mine might be that while other Royalists were busy killing people, we were protecting people instead. Not only our family, but the hundreds of others who depend on our lands and resources to survive.”
“You think Grosmont has no dependents?” Her breath was coming faster, from annoyance or exercise or something else, he knew not. “We care about our people, too, but we made sacrifices for our king.”
He shrugged. “And we chose not to make sacrifices for a hopeless cause.”
Her mouth fell open in a little O that said more than words how astonished she was to hear any Royalist call the monarchy a hopeless cause.
As he pulled her close for the first lift, his heart pounded in his ears—from exertion, he was sure. His hands encircled her waist, feeling the warmth of her skin through stiff, wooly fabric. When he raised her aloft and twirled, her big white collar fluttered in his face.
He felt the oddest urge to rip the stupid thing off her.
Following the third lift, it was a relief to part ways. Though the fire in the big hearth was down to embers, he was feeling overheated. His feet taking up the galliard, he wondered if he’d drunk too much wine. Or was it the stress of his impending marriage? Something must be affecting him, because he’d never acted so quarrelsome in his life, much less been afflicted with any violent, inexplicable urges.
The Ashcroft family motto was Interroga Conformationem, which was Latin for “Question Convention.” Joseph had often thought it an unfitting motto for his family—and wondered when it might have fit and how they’d come to be so altered. For these days, in most things, the Ashcrofts were very conventional indeed.
In contrast, he had never met a girl who questioned convention as much as Chrystabel did.
His next partner was his mother. “Lady Chrystabel is delightful, don’t you think?” Mother said as they circled together.
“Delightful?”
Mother’s carefully dressed curls bounced with her nod. “She’s so honest and refreshing.”
“Those aren’t the words I would have chosen,” he quipped.
“Oh?” When Mother smiled, he noticed she wasn’t a bit out of breath. For that matter, neither was he, and he no longer felt overwarm, either. “Which words come to mind?”
“Impulsive,” was his first choice. They changed direction. “Interfering. Irresponsible.”
“That’s a lot of i words,” Mother said with a rare sparkle in her eye. “Have you any more?”
“Naturally.” He grinned, enjoying this playful side of her. “Irritating, irrational, impertinent—”
“Irresistible?” she suggested slyly.
Joseph’s mouth gaped
