Page 17 of A Secret Correspondence (Hearts of Harewood #4)

Chapter Thirteen

Samuel could not have been more grateful for the way Miss Farrow responded to him. He twirled her about the ballroom for the second time that evening, catching sight of his mother’s overjoyed expression in the crowd as they passed down the line of dancers.

“You are very graceful on your feet, Miss Farrow.”

“Thank you,” she said, dipping her chin modestly. Thus far, Lady Faversham’s ball had been a triumph. Samuel and Miss Farrow’s relationship was progressing at an entirely natural and rapid rate.

Three evenings prior, they had spent the entirety of the card night together, chatting on the sofa or partnering in whist. They had been drawn into a game of speculation, but he didn’t recall who won, for he had been busy trying to find a way to mention the letters.

The conversation never seemed to bend that direction.

Instead, Samuel continued to write to her throughout the week, leaving his notes in the kissing gate wall.

To his delight, she continued to write back.

Now, she smiled at him with joy. Her deep burgundy satin was ruched at the hem, swinging prettily when she moved, and complimented her dark hair well. The instruments came to a stop as the song drew to a close. They bowed to one another and everyone turned toward the orchestra to applaud.

“I am parched,” Miss Farrow said, shifting so her shoulder brushed him.

“Shall I fetch you a glass of ratafia?”

“That would be splendid.”

Samuel offered his elbow, and she placed her white-gloved fingers gently around his arm, hardly touching him as he led her toward her mother. Once she was deposited with her chaperone, he left to retrieve the drinks. Halfway to the table of refreshments, Samuel stopped in his tracks.

Marguerite was here.

In a ballgown.

She stole his breath. She wore a simple pale blue dress that complemented her fair blonde hair.

It was the exact shade of her icy blue eyes, and together they were striking.

Her skin was clear and smooth, her lips and cheeks a pleasant hue of pink, her hair styled upon the crown of her head with curls left bouncing at her temples.

She smiled at something Ruth said, and her face lit up, glowing with humor.

Samuel had to catch his breath. Marguerite was stunning. The woman was incredibly beautiful, but in this setting, with the candles glowing on each wall and the chandeliers above them, she was radiant.

One of the Frenchmen who made up Lady Faversham’s visiting party approached Marguerite and handed her a cup, which she took graciously and brought to her lips. Samuel’s stomach tightened with…no, surely that was not jealousy.

Marguerite glanced over the rim of her cup. Her pale blue eyes landed on Samuel as though she had felt the weight of his gaze .

He formed a smile on his face. There was nothing for it now but to greet her.

“This is quite the party,” he said, sliding into the group between his cousin Ruth and Marguerite, dipping a bow to them all. “I vow I have not seen so great a crush in Hampshire in an age.”

“Good evening, Mr. Harding,” Marguerite said. “Have you had the pleasure of making Mr. Leclair’s acquaintance?”

“Briefly,” Samuel said, tipping his head. “You bring a good deal of excitement with you to our country.”

The Frenchman nodded in like. “My friends have brought the excitement. I fear I am along for the journey.”

“That is the position I would choose to be in,” Ruth said.

Oliver slid his arm around his wife’s waist. “I believe you promised me this dance.”

“So I did.” She smiled up at him, the stars in her eyes enough to make Samuel’s chest contract with envy. It was a good thing he loved them both so dearly. He shoved the image of his own wedding from his mind. Perhaps it would be sooner than he had believed possible.

Marguerite sipped her drink and looked away, her eyes skirting over the gathered crowd.

“May I have this dance, Madame Perreau?” Samuel couldn’t help himself.

She looked at him sharply, surprised. “I have already promised it to Mr. Leclair.”

“The next set, then?”

She nodded, but her eyebrows drew together.

“I look forward to it.” He dipped his head and turned away from the group. If he did not return with Miss Farrow’s drink shortly, she would wonder what had become of him.

Gads, he was currently wondering what had come over him. His mind was in a muddle. The jealousy he had felt at seeing his friends happily married lingered, only he was not thinking of Oliver and Ruth…he was picturing Leclair bringing Marguerite a drink.

Samuel wanted to be the one bringing her a drink.

It was utterly ridiculous. What claim had he to any feelings of the sort?

He had known the woman for a few years now, but their relationship had only shifted into friendship when her cat had thrown him from his horse a mere few weeks ago.

After that, it seemed she had been steadily thrown in his path.

Yes, they conversed easily and he enjoyed their time together, but that did not account for his current feelings.

Being awakened by his own cat nearly every morning did not help to keep her far from his thoughts.

Surely that was the explanation. Cats. Nothing else. Only cats.

Besides, friends could dance. It did not need to mean anything.

Samuel retrieved a glass of ratafia and carried it to Miss Farrow. He found her near the space he had left her, his mother already speaking to her mother.

“Your drink,” he said.

“Thank you.” Her fingers brushed his when they took the cup. Her smile was soft.

Samuel smiled in return, dropping his hands to rest behind his back.

“We have a lovely garden,” Mother said. “Small, but it is a pleasant area to take our tea, is it not, Samuel?”

“Indeed. Quite lovely.” He could not recall the last time anyone in his family had been in the garden. He did not know if there were any flowers out there at all.

“I should love to see it,” Miss Farrow said.

“Come for tea on Tuesday,” Mother offered.

Mrs. Farrow gave her daughter an unreadable expression, her feather bobbing in her eagerness. “We would like that dearly. Will you be joining us, Mr. Harding? ”

“I would not miss it,” he promised. “How could I? The garden will boast the most beautiful blooms of the year that day.”

“Oh, you,” Mrs. Farrow said, giggling. “So charming.”

Samuel gave her a dashing grin. He pulled his watch from his pocket, the fobs tinkling on the chain as he flipped the lid open and checked the time.

His attention was drawn toward the center of the room, where the dancers could be found, as he tucked the watch back into his pocket.

Marguerite was easy to spot. Her pale blue dress was bright against the sea of dark coats, her blonde hair like a beacon.

He watched her glide gracefully across the floor. She must have attended the Locksley assemblies, or perhaps she had attended dances with her husband in the past, for she knew the steps well.

Leclair spoke quietly to her, and her expression remained neutral, her mouth unmoving. Did Samuel detect a hint of distress in her brow, or was he merely searching for it?

The moment the set came to a close, he watched Leclair lead Marguerite from the floor and excused himself from the Farrows.

But when Samuel reached the place Leclair had led her, she was nowhere to be seen.

The next set had begun. The dancers formed two lines and moved in proper order, but still, Samuel could not see Marguerite. Lord and Lady Faversham held court at the front of the room, speaking to a handful of locals. Leclair stood near a pillar, speaking to a gentleman Samuel did not know.

Marguerite had all but disappeared. Samuel backed toward the wall and looked at each face in the area, but she was nowhere to be seen. Her blonde hair was not difficult to spot. Surely if she were in the room, he would find her.

She could not have forgotten their dance already, could she? Oh, dear. Was she avoiding him?

He leaned against the wall and surveyed the dancers. Marguerite was not the woman he had planned to propose to this evening, so it hardly mattered if she disappeared during their promised dance.

However, she was still his friend. It would be natural for him to ascertain that she was safe.

He eyed the door only a few feet away and reached for the handle just as it turned, allowing a servant to enter the room bearing a tray of small cakes.

Samuel pushed from the wall, slipped into the corridor, and nearly collided with Marguerite.

He took her by the shoulders to steady them both, and she looked up, fear flashing in her eyes. It quickly disappeared, but Samuel did not miss the fierceness of it.

“You ran from our dance,” he said, somewhat flippantly. “Should I be hurt to find you hiding here?”

“I am not hiding.” She straightened, taking a step back along the wall so Samuel’s hands would drop from her shoulders. “I needed some air.”

He peered into her eyes. She was hiding something, but he would not press her too much. “The balcony is open. I believe the autumn air is plenty cool out there.”

“Yes, but traveling through the crowd to reach it seemed impossible. This door was open and far closer. I took advantage of an opportunity when no one was looking.”

Samuel drew in a breath to keep his voice calm, but inside his heart began to pound. “Did Leclair do anything to harm you?”

“No, of course not.” She shook her head vehemently.

Samuel weighed his words. He lowered his head, peering into her eyes, and lowered his voice. “You cannot expect me to easily accept that nothing untoward occurred during your set when you required an escape directly after it.”

Marguerite’s troubled brow wrinkled, and Samuel fought the desire to smooth it with his thumb.

She glanced behind him, where servants were using the door to carry trays of food into the ballroom and empty trays out of it.

A veritable army of liveried footmen streamed past them, but his attention was fastened on her.

She looked into his eyes. “I was reminded of unhappy memories, that is all. Mr. Leclair has done nothing but put me in a bitter mood. Forgive my rudeness for not being present when our set began.”

“You are forgiven,” he said at once. Nothing about her demeanor was putting him at ease, though.

He had not known Marguerite to be anything but formidable.

She faced dragons each day in her shop and managed them with finesse.

To be felled by a memory was startling. “Shall I fetch Ruth and Oliver? Would you like to be taken home?”

“No, of course not. I only needed a moment to collect myself.”

“We need not dance. I was told the garden is open if you would prefer to spend our set there. Lady Faversham boasts of her hedge maze, but there is an Italian garden as well, with people walking in it. It would be an appropriate way to pass the time.”

Marguerite looked past him, down the corridor, her expression full of concern.

“Unless you would rather find a quiet chair and rest?” he questioned. It took restraint not to press her for more information. What was so troubling about her past that made her pale skin void of all color? Had Leclair said something to frighten her, or to put her out of countenance?

Shaking her head, Marguerite placed her hand upon his arm. “ A walk in the garden sounds pleasant. I am surprised they would leave it open at this time of the year.”

“I do not imagine anyone will remain outdoors for long. But the ballroom is hot, so a moment in the fresh air is nice. Shall we return behind the next servant and their overloaded tray? I will lead you toward the doors, and we can walk the garden as long as you need to restore your constitution, Marguerite.”

Her blue eyes snapped to him. Swallowing, she nodded her approval.

It was a blessing no one else had come upon them in the corridor like this, and when the next tall footman approached from the antechamber, Samuel stepped behind him and through the door into the ballroom, Marguerite just behind.

If anyone noticed their entrance, they were ignored.

Samuel believed the footman and the pillars did much to protect them from the view of most people in the room.

He offered Marguerite his bent elbow, and she placed a trembling hand on his arm.

“Fresh air, madam?” he said loudly.

“Yes. Thank you, sir.”