Page 22 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)

She was an excellent dancer, he discovered again.

Better than he, though he considered himself a reasonably graceful man.

Perhaps it was her height, or the elegant sweep of her ice-green gown, or that the cotillion suited her particular demands of exercise, but as they stepped around one another, bowing and curtsying, gloved fingertips brushing, Benedict began to think he could become reasonably fond of the chilly Miss Hurst. It would not be one of those nonsensically romantic arrangements, but romance was always secondary to practicality within their station anyway.

It was crass, he supposed, to wonder what Miss Hurst's dowry was, but marriage was commerce, as Great-Aunt Nancy's pending bequest had made painfully clear to him.

He supposed that his mother would discover the details of her dowry, and once she had approved them, he would find the opportune moment and propose to?—

"Miss Dalton!" The lines of the dance had shifted, putting him in the middle of the dance floor instead of on its margin where they had begun. Miss Claire Dalton was suddenly and briefly his partner as the dance's steps exchanged their positions again.

"Mr Fairburn," she replied with less obvious surprise, and that was the total of their conversation. He saw her again, petite and pretty, over Miss Hurst's shoulder, and then the complicated shifting patterns of the set took her away entirely.

Miss Hurst's face had, in the moments Benedict had been away from her, gone rigid and white.

By this he deduced that, as he had met Miss Dalton, she had most likely met Jack Graham, who no doubt squired Miss Dalton again tonight.

Unable to ask so directly, he murmured, "Are you well, Miss Hurst?

" and watched her shake off her rigidity as a bird might ruffle snow away from its feathers.

"I am. Forgive me. I twisted my ankle and the pain was quite sharp, but I am well now."

This was a blatant untruth, but there was no polite way to press the matter. Instead, Benedict asked, "Shall I escort you from the floor, then? I would hate to give you a limp in the first set of the evening."

"That might be for the best," Miss Hurst agreed quietly, and so without delay Benedict helped her through the ranks of dancers and found seating.

Drinks were procured from a passing servant and Benedict, solicitously, enquired as to whether he ought to call a doctor to look at Miss Hurst's ankle.

He thought, but couldn't be certain, that he detected the faintest hint of exasperation at the charade that, having begun, Miss Hurst could not easily extract herself from.

"No, I'm sure that won't be necessary. Some rest is all I need. Thank you for your thoughtfulness."

"Miss Hurst! I mean, my dear Priscilla!" Claire Dalton appeared from the dance floor, her eyes large with concern.

Benedict jolted to his feet and bowed. The curtsy Miss Dalton gave in return was exceedingly perfunctory, all her attention for Miss Hurst. "I couldn't help but see that you retreated from the dance, and I had the most terrible fear for you! Are you well?"

"I am. A foolish little turn of my ankle, nothing more. I shall be right as rain in a few minutes." Miss Hurst's gaze wandered beyond Claire. "You've abandoned your dance partner?"

"Oh, only momentarily. I shall return to him straightaway, but I had to see for myself that you were not in distress. Take care of her, Mr Fairburn, for she is my friend, you know."

"Yes, of course," Benedict said automatically before blurting, "Perhaps you would do me the honor of a dance later, Miss Dalton?"

"Oh." Miss Dalton blinked at him as if only seeing him for the first time.

She glanced at Miss Hurst, at her card, and finally to Benedict.

"Yes, I suppose so. The second of the second set, if that's suitable to you.

I am obliged to, oh, most of the other Lads before then.

" He perceived the faintest chiding in the observation, as if he had been lax in failing to ask earlier.

"Thank you, Mr Fairburn. Priscilla, do save me a set in which we might sit and talk. I should like that so much."

"The third of the second," Miss Hurst promised. "After your dance with Mr Fairburn."

"Splendid! I shall see you then. And now I had best go find Mr Graham again before he's entirely lost on the dance floor." With no further ado Miss Dalton hurried back to the dancing, leaving both Benedict and Miss Hurst looking after her.

"She's a sweet creature, isn't she?" asked Miss Hurst. "A little countrified, perhaps, with that willingness to make friends quickly, but sweet."

"Surely it's better to make friends too easily than not make them at all."

Benedict had not meant the words to cut, but Miss Hurst's pale face grew paler yet. Very softly, she said, "Perhaps you might find a physician to examine my ankle after all, Mr Fairburn. I think I should sit a while longer. For my health."

Cursing himself, Benedict did as he was bidden.

Cousin Charles was circumspect, Mr Vincent too reserved, and Mr Ackerman still too beautiful for Claire to even dare speak to him as they danced, and so from them, Claire learned not a single word of the Lads' adventures in the dance hall the night before.

Nor would the young Earl-in-waiting Nathaniel Cringlewood engage with the topic beyond the obvious falsehood regarding a carriage door and a clumsy footman, and while Mr O'Brien was clearly inclined by nature to tell a woman whatever she wanted to hear, Vincent had given him a surprisingly effective quelling look as he escorted her onto the dance floor.

Under the burden of that look, even O'Brien would say nothing of interest.

Fortunately, Mr Evander Hewitt had no compunctions at all against spreading gossip about his own friends.

Over the course of their dance together, he told a rather embellished version of the previous night's events.

By the time the dance ended, the Lads, with their fists alone, had vanquished a battalion of thirty, all of them armed to the teeth, and had themselves escaped grievous bodily injury largely thanks to Hewitt's own battle prowess.

The story, growing more outrageous with each spin and turn, was told with such bland insincerity that twice Claire clung to his arm for support, giggling helplessly when she ought to have been sedately stepping away.

By the time she was delivered to her escort she could barely stand from contained laughter, and had to beg for a seat before she swooned.

"Mr Hewitt amuses you," Jack Graham said with a touch of priggishness that sent Claire into shoulder-shaking silent laughter again.

"Mr Hewitt is a dreadful man," she whispered when she had control of herself again.

"He tells awful lies all the time, and doesn't care a whit for anyone's feelings.

He should be ashamed of himself and he's not, and while I know I should loathe him, he's so outrageously duplicitous that I cannot help but be, yes, amused by him.

Thank goodness that you are a gentleman, Mr Graham.

I could not bear a man like Mr Hewitt for longer than the space of a single dance.

But there is something refreshing about a dreadful companion, is there not? At least it isn't dull."

"Speaking of which," Graham said softly.

Claire looked up to see Mr Fairburn approaching to claim his dance.

Miss Hurst was at his elbow, her expression unreadable, and Claire wondered whether Mr Graham had meant Fairburn or Hurst by his comment.

There was no time to ask: the other couple was there, pleasantries were being exchanged, and then Claire was on Fairburn's arm and floating out to the dance floor.

They took their places within the lines and, as one, both looked toward Miss Hurst and Mr Graham, who stood close enough to look intimate were it not for the intensely upright carriages of them both.

"I wonder," Claire began, but then so too did the music begin, and her thoughts were lost to the steps of the dance.

"You appeared to be enjoying your dance with Hewitt," Benedict said when the opportunity arose, and Claire, in the spaces available, replied, "He told me—with some adornment—how you came by that bruised eye, Mr Fairburn. I am in awe of the Lads now. I had no idea you were so formidable."

It might well hurt to blush when one's eye was so swollen, she decided as Mr Fairburn's expression grew briefly and distinctly pained. "I would like to assure you that I do not usually embroil myself in common fisticuffs, Miss Dalton."

"Any more than you usually insult young women before you have met them?" Claire asked archly. "Miss Fairburn believes I should forgive you, Mr Fairburn."

"You seem to have forgiven Hewitt." Mr Fairburn appeared to be struggling with, and defeating—if only just—petulance.

A silent beat in the music brought the sounds of the party to them with startling clarity: laughter and someone's shrill, angry voice cut above the general roar of the music and the dance began again.

"I believe I shall never forgive Hewitt," Claire said thoughtfully.

"However, it is nearly impossible to retain my anger at a soul who cares so little for my opinion of him.

There is no use in retaining anger toward such a creature.

But it matters to you, so I find it much easier to stay angry at you. Isn't that silly?"

"Yes," Benedict replied slowly, as if thinking her response through, "but it is also honest. And you are correct: I do care.

So I wonder, Miss Dalton, if you might—" The dance took them apart, as it had done throughout.

When they came back together, Benedict continued as if his speech had been unbroken.

"If you might consider forgiving me, which would do my heart unspeakable good. "