Page 23 of Bewitching Benedict (The Lovelorn Lads #1)
His eyes were very blue, searching her face.
Claire had the sudden brief fear that she might have sprouted an unseemly blemish, but he seemed to find no fault in what he saw.
The sound of the music faded again, but, as the dance didn't stop this time, Claire thought it must be herself fading away from the party, seeing and hearing nothing beyond her partner.
Or very little beyond him, at least: somewhere there was upset happening, a dissonant note in the general good humor of the gathered crowd.
Such unpleasantry could have nothing to do with her, though, not when Mr Fairburn's hands and gaze were holding hers.
"Yes," she whispered after what felt like the longest time, no longer certain of what she was responding to, only that the answer was, "Yes, of course, Mr Fairburn. Of course, I will."
Relief and delight swept Benedict's face.
He lifted her hands to his lips, kissing her glove-clad fingers.
"Thank heavens, Miss Dalton. You have made me a happy man.
I don't think I could have borne your easy camaraderie with the other Lads a moment longer if you excluded me by your lack of forgiveness.
I shall sleep more easily at night now."
Forgiveness. Claire shook herself, trying to put a meaning to the word, then remembered what Mr Fairburn had sought all along.
"Forgiveness," she said in a brightly tripping voice.
"Yes, of course. I'm glad to put your heart at ease…
" The gaiety faded before she had finished speaking, and she thought she saw comprehension flash in Mr Fairburn's eyes.
Before it could be pursued, however, a piercing shriek echoed against the high ceilings and the dance crowd parted in time to allow Claire and Benedict to watch Miss Priscilla Hurst deliver a resounding slap across the face of one Mr Jack Graham.
Claire could not possibly be escorted home by Jack Graham: that was Charles's sole thought in the shocked silence that followed Miss Hurst's assault on Mr Graham.
It made no difference what Graham's crime was.
To have a woman apply violence to him suggested that he had invited it, and was therefore a dangerously inappropriate escort.
Unforgivably, Charles abandoned his own dance partner and began pushing his way through the crowd, searching for his cousin.
He found Cringlewood and O'Brien first, both of them shaking their heads without him having to ask: they didn't know where Claire was either.
Neither did he have to ask them to help him look.
With apologies to their dance partners—more than Charles had offered—they slipped away to look for Claire as well.
It was Vincent, though, not only the tallest of the Lads but easily one of the tallest men at the party, who saw her first, waved Charles down, and mouthed, Fairburn, in reassurance.
A fist he had not known clenched released its grip on Charles's heart.
Benedict wouldn't be fool enough to let Claire return to Graham, even if he was escorting the other party in the altercation.
Following Vincent's gestures, Charles found Fairburn and Claire in the heart of the dance crowd, both of them still shocked and unmoving even as the rest of the dance began to gather itself back into motion around them.
Charles stepped up behind them, putting an arm around Claire's waist. She looked up to see who it was, gave a glad gasp of surprise, and buried her face against Charles's chest.
"It's all right," Charles murmured to Fairburn. "I've got her. Go to Miss Hurst. Have O'Brien and Vincent deal with Graham. Not Cringlewood, for God's sake. Don't drag him into this. Bad enough that he's responsible for him being here."
"No," Claire said in a shaking voice, "I'm responsible. I must know, Charles. I must know why?—"
"You," Charles said with a sharp clarity, "did all you could to avoid Mr Graham as an escort to this party, and I brushed your every argument away without hearing a word of it.
The fault could well be considered mine.
As to what has happened, we shall learn that soon enough.
Go, Fairburn. Claire, come with me." He knew the authority in his voice was difficult to resist. It had stood him well at the front and did no less good in the confines of a house party.
Fairburn, whose compliance had never been in doubt, cast an agonized glance at Claire, then went. Claire, trembling, chose not to look up as Charles escorted her off the dance floor. "I don't want to stay," she whispered. "Is it cowardly of me to leave?"
A knife twisted in Charles's gut. "It's only men who are cowards if they retreat, cousin. Women are considered wise to do so, especially if their reputations are at stake."
"But so is a man's, if he retreats. His reputation is ruined. How terrible it must be, Charles! How dreadful to face guns and cannons and to know that running will destroy his reputation, when I dare not even stay and face the curious eyes of Society! How unfair!"
She could not know, Charles told himself; none of them save Vincent and O'Brien really knew , though there was plenty of talk.
Men his age did not come back from the front, pale, withdrawn, but without visible injury, and not cause talk, but that talk would never have reached his cousin's ears.
Not, at least, in the little time she had been in London.
So all he said was, "It may be unfair, but it at least allows you to retreat, Claire, and right now that's the best thing to do.
Come. Come, Worthington will have our coats and the carriage ready by the time we reach the door.
Now stand tall, Claire. We're out of the dancing hall now and no one in these rooms saw the altercation.
They don't know it was your escort involved, and so if you look proud and confident no one will have a word to say against you.
Can you do that? Can you do that, Claire?
Good girl," he said as she straightened, and if there had been tears on her face, they were now no more than drying smudges on his coat.
"There we go. There we are. A few more moments, cousin, and all will be well. "
All would not be well, not until he had the truth of Jack Graham's story, but that was hardly the thing to say to Claire just now. True to his expectations, Worthington awaited them at the door with cloaks and coats alike, and without comment escorted them to the Daltons' waiting carriage.
Within it, Claire collapsed against Charles's side again, not crying, but shaking with nerves. Charles pressed his hand against her hair, and wished for a way to confess his empathy without betraying his secrets.