The waltz was another matter entirely. To be sure, no London ball would be complete without the fashionable German dance—at least, so said Kitty Morecombe, whose recollections of her own London Seasons never failed to spark a most unworthy sense of envy in Daphne’s breast even as she tried (not entirely successfully) to convince herself that Kitty did not mean to gloat. But this was no London ball—not by a long chalk—and most of those present at Sir Valerian’s fête would have had no opportunity to learn the steps. Even Daphne, whose own dancing-master had praised the grace with which she executed the figures, had never had an opportunity to demonstrate her skills in public. Still, the prospect of seeing her daughter twirling about the room in Sir Valerian’s embrace had worked strongly upon Mrs. Drinkard’s mind, and she had finally determined that one—but only one—waltz would be played. It was this dance that Daphne had promised to Mr. Tisdale.
Now, however, as she performed the steps of the Scottish reel with Sir Valerian, she wondered if the eagerly anticipated dance would come and go before Mr. Tisdale had even put in an appearance. She could not imagine what might be keeping him so long; she had thought he would be following them immediately after dinner, and although they had been driven to the fête while he would be obliged to travel the distance on foot, surely it could not take so very—
This worrisome train of thought was interrupted when a slight stirring near the door attracted her attention. She missed a step and barreled into Sir Valerian’s chest.
“Miss Drinkard?” He caught her arms to steady her. “Are you all right?”
She raised glowing eyes to his. “Oh, yes! I’m quite all right. I—I beg your pardon. I’m not usually so clumsy. I can’t—I can’t think what came over me.”
He glanced in the direction where her attention had been fixed at the time of her stumble, and saw a golden-haired stranger clad in evening attire. No, not a stranger; his newly appointed personal secretary, dressed in garments that, besides being fully two decades out of date, had obviously been made for someone else.
“Oh?” Sir Valerian regarded Daphne with one eyebrow lifted. “Can you not?”
It was perhaps fortunate that the movements of the dance required them to separate and return to their places in the line, for Daphne could think of nothing to say in response to this home question. She turned with positive relief to the squire, diagonally opposite her, with whom she must now take a turn, and by the time the dance brought her back to Sir Valerian, she had had time to compose herself. Still, an eternity seemed to pass before the violins ground to a halt and Sir Valerian escorted her back to her mother.
“What a handsome couple you made!” exclaimed Mrs. Drinkard after he had thanked her for the dance and taken himself off to solicit the vicar’s daughter for the next set. “What, pray, did he say to bring such a blush to your cheeks?”
“Why—why nothing, Mama. If I was blushing, it was because I had failed to mind my steps, with disastrous results. Did you not see me crash into the poor man? If I was blushing, it was because I was ready to sink with mortification!”
Mrs. Drinkard gave her a rapturous look. “And oh!—the way he caught you in his arms! It was exceedingly clever of you, my dear. But mind, I think you a very sly minx!”
“But—I didn’t—”
“Depend upon it, we shall have you betrothed by midnight!”
“I should not presume—” Daphne protested, resolving nevertheless to give Sir Valerian a wide berth until that hour, just in case. Her demurrals were cut short as the violins began a song in three-quarter time, and in the next instant he was there.
“I’ve come to claim my waltz, Miss Drinkard,” Theo said, bowing over her hand. “I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
“N-no, indeed! Mama, if you will excuse me—”
Her mother looked less than pleased at this latest development, but as it would have been shockingly rag-mannered for Daphne to have danced twice in succession with the same partner, even had Sir Valerian solicited her hand for the waltz, there was little she could do but nod her consent and trust that the sight of Daphne in the arms of his secretary would spur that parliamentary hopeful to declare himself without further delay.
As for Daphne, Sir Valerian occupied no more place in her thoughts than he did in her affections. “You are very late, Mr. Tisdale,” she chided Theo as he led her onto the floor. “I had almost given you up.”
“And miss my waltz? Never!” he declared. “But there was a little matter of dress to attend to. It took longer than I intended.”
“It was time well spent, for you look very fine,” she assured him.
“Twenty years out of date, at the very least,” he confessed, grinning ruefully at her. “Fortunately for me, gentlemen’s fashions don’t change so very quickly.”
Daphne could not fail to read into this remark an unflattering awareness of her own three-year-old gown. “So is mine out of date. At least, Kitty—Lady Dandridge, I should say, who was my particular friend before she went to London and married Lord Dandridge—she says no one is wearing gowns with only one flounce around the hem anymore.”
“I shouldn’t like to disparage your friends, but she sounds to me like a spiteful old cat,” he said, his arm tightening protectively about her waist. “And even if it were true,
