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While Tommy Wardour could hardly be foisted upon Mr. Langworthy in this setting, Mrs. Dere did the next best thing, which was always to put Tommy in the same three-couple set so Mr. Langworthy could set him right.

And by orchestrating the sets and partners, Mrs. Dere ensured Sarah would always be found going through the figures with, or in the vicinity of, Dr. Rearden.

It is better thus, Sarah told herself. Mrs. Dere can’t make me marry Dr. Rearden, nor make him marry me, but it is just as well I do not dance with Mr. Langworthy.

Still, though they belonged to different sets, it was impossible for him not to float in and out of her vision, being so much taller than the children in his group, apart from gangling Tom Ellis.

And by virtue of his height, it was just as impossible for Langworthy not to see Sarah.

There being only one ticklish part of The Black Nag—the three-person hey near the end of the pattern—Langworthy was lulled by Tommy’s early lack of errors.

He let his eyes wander Sarah-ward, with the unfortunate consequence that he missed his own cue and Tommy collided with him, bouncing off to stumble into Harold Lane.

Down they both went. Tommy and Harold’s partners shrieked, causing Mrs. Chauncey to fumble a chord and lose her place in the music.

The dance halted.

“My new stockings!” cried Harold, pointing. “Tommy’s buckle tore them.”

Mrs. Dere threw Tommy such a withering glare that the boy shrank and Langworthy felt it his duty to come forward. “It was my fault, madam. I was—distracted—and failed to vacate the place Tommy was meant to occupy.”

Of course she could neither glare nor bellow at him, so instead she snapped at the footman. “Wood! Where is the housewife? Let us put a few stitches in Master Harold’s stocking so we may proceed.”

Wood in turn snapped his fingers at Wrigley lurking in the corner, and the boy darted out, unrolling the housewife as he came.

Mrs. Dere’s lips parted, probably considering whether she wanted a bungler like Wrigley wielding a needle anywhere near her young guest, but to her surprise the lad knelt nimbly, pinched together the ragged sides of the tear and whipped the rent shut with stitches so tidy and expert that the mistress of Perryfield was not the only one to blink in amazement.

The task done, the footboy backed away, stooped in a half-bow with head lowered, rolling the housewife up. In this humble posture Wrigley’s backside narrowly missed knocking down a flower-filled vase, but it did miss, and the dance could resume.

Millison’s Jig followed The Black Nag. After which came The Boatman.

As the dancers found their feet, they began to enjoy themselves.

The children started to laugh and tease and make faces.

Little mistakes became cause for good-natured amusement, rather than embarrassment.

Even Mrs. Dere relaxed into smiles, not even noticing when Wood had to tell Wrigley twice to crack open one of the casements for air because the footboy was shuffling his feet to the music.

Indeed, Sarah began to think she might be the only one present who still felt any anxiety.

Because she did feel anxious.

There was Mrs. Dere, nodding at her encouragingly, whenever Sarah and Dr. Rearden shared a word.

There was Dr. Rearden himself, excessively amiable to her (it seemed to her stretched nerves), his cheeks warm with exertion and his whiskers in full froth.

There was the baron, serene and untroubled, as if he had forgotten all about asking Sarah whether she might like Mr. Langworthy—but how could he have forgotten?

And there was Sarah herself, contrary and troubled.

Indeed, the only other dancer not enjoying an exuberance of high spirits seemed to be Mr. Langworthy, but because she could only steal peeps at him and because the figures kept them in constant motion, it was hard for Sarah to be certain.

Only once did his gaze cross hers, though that once it crossed and held.

He gave a tiny shrug, and his mouth twisted in—what? —derision? Ruefulness?

Nowhere on Mrs. Dere’s diagram was Sarah paired with him, but when it came time for the first longways duple minor dance The Indian Queen, her heart began to hammer.

He might not be her partner, but as he and Mrs. Barstow stood some ways below Sarah and Tom Ellis, they would progress up the room while she and Tom went down, culminating in one or two blissful (or wretched) times through the pattern when Mr. Langworthy would be her corner.

When they would face each other and take both hands in a turn and pass each other in rights and lefts.

She was pitiful to look forward to so little, and yet she did, even praying Mrs. Dere would let them dance it through twice!

At a ball with twenty couples it would take too long, but with nine… ?

Too quickly it passed. She thought perhaps he gave her hands the merest squeeze in taking them, but, no, Dr. Lane held them just as firmly when he was her corner. And little Harold Lane positively wrung them in comparison.

But she had not imagined the intensity of Mr. Langworthy’s eyes when they met hers for that fleeting encounter, had she?

Yes, she must have, she decided later, after Master Harold gave her a dead set with his eyes, like a magician working a complicated enchantment.

Either the boy’s dancing master had emphasized the importance of meeting one’s partner’s gaze or Harold Lane was embarking early on a career as a lady-killer.

When The Indian Queen ended, Mrs. Dere clapped her hands for attention. “Let us step across the passage for a little refreshment and to give Mrs. Chauncey a rest, please.”

“There’s tarts and a jelly and sandwiches and chocolate and syllabub,” cried Peter to the other children, and the baron laughed and told them to lead the way.

“Mrs. Sebastian?”

Sarah turned to find Dr. Rearden offering his arm, and she forced a smile.

Impatience was rising within her, overpowering her uncertainty.

This might be one of the last times she saw or spoke with Mr. Langworthy, and she was wasting it!

Wasting it in politeness and self-reproach and timidity!

What did it matter if Mrs. Dere disapproved?

What did it matter if the baron guessed at her heart?

The ball would end; Mr. Langworthy would return to Portsmouth; and Sarah would have no more than memories the rest of her life, and not even many of them.

She would not let it be so.

She had lived more than two years on memories already, and even though there were so many of them, and even with the physical existence of Sebastian’s letters to remind her, and even with Bash—dear Bash—memories were no longer enough.

She would speak to him. The moment she could do so, short of threading her way across the parlor to his side, shoving everyone else out of the way.

“Can I fetch you something, Mrs. Sebastian?” asked Dr. Rearden.

“Yes, please,” she answered promptly. “Something to drink. Anything.”

Heaving a breath to have got rid of him so easily, she tried to peer past Dr. Lane and the baron and the ancient Blodgett, who was creaking around with a dish of tiny mince pies, only to hear her name called.

She turned, and there was Mr. Langworthy.

“Mince pie?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” she breathed through suddenly numb lips.

“Ah.” To her surprise, he extended an arm over Blodgett’s shoulder and plucked a pie from the footman’s plate. “Have you a handkerchief to hold it?”

“Er—” To have him all at once beside her, when she had been thinking she must go and seek him, deprived her of speech. Mutely, she shook her head.

“Better just—pop it in, then,” he said. “It’s not much bigger than a thumbnail, and no one’s looking. Here—open up.”

To her own amazement, she obeyed, her lips parting as if he had spoken the Open Sesame . It must have surprised him as well, for his own mouth curled in a delicious grin.

“There we go,” he murmured. “How very, very inviting.”

As gently as if touching a soap bubble, his fingers carried the savory dainty to her lips, which opened wider to receive it, her face flushing and her own fingertips rising to prevent anything tumbling out.

They brushed his; her scarlet deepened. She could not tell if the drumming in her ears was the children running about or her own wayward heart.

“Sarah,” he whispered.