The Vanishing at Loxby Manor by Abigail Wilson (grave mercy .TXT) 📕

and Lord Kendal purposefully dismissed us. It was Honora’s sheepish gaze that graced our exit, butshe didn’t say a word.

Piers motioned me through the ballroom door, and we made our way into the throngs of people. He kept a look of indifferenceacross his face, but he couldn’t deceive me, not completely. Some part of him had hoped to be acknowledged by Kendal. It wouldhave gone a long way toward salvaging his reputation, but Kendal would not be so kind.

I considered each hard face around us. Years had passed since the fateful moment Piers had been labeled a coward, and yetpolite society in East Whitloe would never forget. I could only imagine what he’d suffered through while I was away—all forme.

He tried a smile. “Would you do me the honor of the first dance? After that, I daresay I shall retire to the card room asI shan’t burden any other partners.”

I lifted my chin. “I shall be pleased with a dance of course, but there will be no card room for you after that. You mustwait with me until I can approach Lord Kendal for our walk in the garden. I’ve no intention of dancing with anyone else thisevening either.”

Piers rubbed a chalk drawing on the floor with the toe of his pump before moving close to my ear where I would be sure to hear him. “I don’t need your pity if that’s what this is. I’m not a lost puppy, you know.”

“Don’t be absurd.” I pinched his arm. “Trust me, I’ve had quite enough smiling and nodding over the years. If anyone wantsto secure my affections, they can very well do so off the dance floor and out of this maddening noise.”

A smile creased his lips, and he leaned in once again. “Are you trying to make me believe you don’t like dancing?”

“I simply like hearing what people are saying, and the older I get, the less and less patience I have for pretending.”

He paused this time before returning close to me. “You know, I didn’t think it possible, but I believe I like you even bettersince you’ve returned from Ceylon. That adventurous spirit of yours has turned into a shrewd one, and God help the man whotries to harness it.”

As Piers pulled back, I could hardly look at him, let alone breathe. What did he mean by such a statement? Perhaps Mr. Cavanaghwas right about my effect on Piers. He had found a way to shake off his isolation, and it had loosened his tongue.

He offered me his arm as the noise of the room barreled into our conversation. “Shall . . . take a turn . . . the room?” Heleaned in close once again. “I’d like to give everyone their chance to cut me at the outset. That way I can focus on the taskat hand. We’re here for Seline. All the rest of this is simply a distraction.”

I’d never experienced the full censure of polite society, not until then—the searing glares followed by the turn of the shoulder, then the comments, spoken just loud enough for others to hear. We’d only crossed the length of one wall before Piers was forced to halt our progression, bending his head to ask me if I thought it wise to continue as his partner. He did not want to completely ruin my reputation in a matter of minutes. But he didn’t understand the emotions broiling in my chest. Quite frankly, I didn’t understand my desire to spite them all, to find some way to defend him.

After my attack I’d closeted myself away in my family’s home in Ceylon. I thought that somehow my friends and acquaintanceswould take one look at me and know instantly what had happened, yet here I was holding the arm of a man who bore his own publichumiliation with dignity and grace. It may have taken him a few years to do so, but the courage he displayed was freeing—notonly for him but for me.

I urged Piers onward across the room. The dancing would begin soon, and quite suddenly I was looking forward to sharing themoment with him—for it wasn’t only his moment of triumph; it would be mine as well.

The musicians in the balcony cradled their instruments, poised to begin the first dance. Piers found my hand as the performersstruck up a short march signaling the dancers to take the floor. Honora Gervey called out a waltz, and the lull of the crowdswafted into the background, my heartbeat pounding its way to my ears.

Though the waltz had been introduced at Almack’s last year, I had yet to perform the steps in company. I shot a glance atPiers and he gave me one of his rather entrancing smiles, that perfect mix of humor and anticipation. Thank goodness I’d agreedto join him.

The collective gaze of the people in the room prickled down my back as I placed my left hand on his upper arm, my right touching his gloved fingertips, but Piers swiftly grasped my entire hand. The subtle change brought a rush of warmth to my cheeks and my eyes to his face. I’d heard the various debates about the waltz—the degree of personal familiarity that rendered it liable to abuse—but I hadn’t understood the arguments. Not really. Not until that moment. Not until I met his eyes.

Various couples took their places around us and the music began. The steps were slow at first and my feet felt almost sluggish,but Piers kept me moving and smiling. He maintained his promise and said nothing as we twirled around the dance floor; however,something more important passed between us—the first spark of uncomplicated happiness.

Awash with nerves, I felt tears forming in my eyes as the small discovery blossomed in my heart. This was what I had beenyearning for; not Piers exactly, not simple attraction to a man, but a connection, something real, something secure. I swayedto the music as the tempo increased. For the first time in five years, I felt alive.

The music ended all too quickly and the lines returned to Piers’s face.