Waltzing with the Wallflower(4)
Author: Rachel Van Dyken

When a large gloved hand reached around her and twisted the skirt free from the branch, brushing her hand as it did so, she retracted hers quickly with a gasp. Her gaze darted to his and to the floor again. Her words tangled in her throat and tripped over one another on their way out of her mouth. “I’m sor— Thank y—I mean, pardon me, my lord.”

“Not at all, m’lady. Glad to be of service.” Cordelia dared not speak again for fear of humiliating herself further. Undoubtedly another mess of undecipherable utterances would only speed her already determined fate as an old maid. So she did the only thing she could think of. She spun on her heel and fled, weaving in and out of the throng of debutantes, having no real direction until she caught sight of her aunt sitting among the other matrons.

The sea of debutantes began to part as if she were being led by Moses himself. Cordelia realized she failed in her effort to escape. Fear gripped her, making it impossible for her to look up. She kept her gaze on the path before her and made a beeline to where her aunt waited, imagining she could feel the heat from the man following close behind her.

As she neared her sponsor, the woman’s eyes widened in recognition and a patronizing smile spread across her red lips. She did not return Cordelia’s gaze but rested hers instead on the man behind her.

“Lord Hawthorne, so lovely to see you again,” she crooned with a low curtsy, dropping her fan in a most inappropriate fashion.

“Lady Trowbridge,” he said then reached for her hand and kissed it chastely. “How do you fare this evening?” Cordelia peeked at him out of the corner of her eye. His brown wavy hair hung unfashionably long, teasing the edge of his collar. That would make him the elder of the two men, the Earl of Hawthorne, though both men were regarded highly by the bulk of the ton. What could he possibly want with her?

She wasn’t so daft as to believe she would be of interest to anyone other than Sir Bryan, the stench of Cumberland. Which would leave only the man’s pure morbid curiosity.

“Would you be so kind as to introduce me to your lovely charge?” Cordelia again felt the surge of embarrassment warm her neck and cheeks. Her gaze dropped to her hands. She busied herself with straightening her gloves and pretended not to hear Lord Hawthorne’s request.

“Certainly, my lord,” Lady Trowbridge replied. Cordelia’s gaze darted to her aunt’s face just in time to catch her wicked grin. “May I present my niece? Lady Cordelia Edwards.” She nudged Cordelia with an elbow.

Cordelia curtsied awkwardly, losing her balance. Flailing her arms forward, she caught Lord Hawthorne’s arm at the last moment and saved herself from falling flat on her face.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as she righted herself and realized at the same moment she still clutched his arm. She released her hold immediately, snapping her shaking hand behind her back with a gasp.

Then he laughed. Her humiliation was complete.

The only thing worse would have been if she had fallen prostrate, throwing her skirts up in the air and offering the whole of the ton a brilliant view of her drawers.

She closed her eyes to hold back the barrage of tears, which were certain to come.

“Lady Cordelia,” he said as he reached for her hand. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.” His mocking smile made her stomach churn. Once more she prayed she would melt into the marble floor, never to be heard from again.

“Manners, Cordelia,” her aunt said with another sharp poke to Cordelia’s ribs.

“The honor is mine, my lord,” Cordelia managed to squeak out, keeping her gaze firmly on his Hessian boots as he pressed his lips to her gloved fingers.

“Will you dance, my lady?”

Cordelia shook her head in adamant refusal, but Lady Trowbridge shoved at her from behind with surprising force.

“Of course she will, my lord! Cordelia, dance with the gentleman!”

He offered his elbow. She stood paralyzed. Her aunt grabbed her hand and settled it firmly on his arm. Then with another push, sent her onto the dance floor with the Earl of Hawthorne as the orchestra began to play.

Oh, sweet Mary. A waltz.

Her heart felt wedged in her throat. She swallowed against it to no avail. Why was he dancing… no, why was he waltzing with her? And why, in Heaven’s name, did her aunt give permission for such a scandalous display? She was supposed to be protecting her!

As Cordelia’s mind raced, Lord Hawthorne escorted her to the center of the dance floor. He stopped and turned to her, placing his hand on her waist. She felt her whole body tighten in response, stiffening against the far too familiar touch. He took her other hand in his, clutching it in his vice grip.

Cordelia’s heart beat a hollow rhythm. She could feel the burning gazes of everyone in the great hall boring into her with disgust. The man would surely be ruined after this blatant disregard for the opinion of the ton.

Curiosity began to nag at her, competing with embarrassment for attention. Almost involuntarily, she glanced at his face again. A mistake. The man was startlingly handsome and he stared directly at her, something she was not expecting.

He was also smiling. Not a mocking smile like before, but true and genuine. For an instant, Cordelia lost herself in his sea green eyes. Eyes so green but for the golden corona that outlined them to perfection.

"I believe the idea is to move one’s feet," he whispered, startling her from her perusal of him.

Somehow she managed a weak smile and dropped her gaze again, then stepped to follow his lead. She had never waltzed before, though she had seen it done many times in the past four weeks from her hiding place near the wall. The pace was faster than she expected.

When Lord Hawthorne tightened a hand on her waist, pulling her closer to him, the breath caught in her throat. Gathering her courage, she looked him in the eye and with a trembling breathless voice she demanded, “Why are you dancing with me?”

He didn’t answer right away, and she looked beyond him to the piercing stares directed at her. Her ears burned with humiliation, and the tears threatened from behind her eyes. “Will you please…” She faltered, but found her voice again. “Please. Leave me alone.”

What was she expecting him to do? An honor bound man would never leave her standing alone on the dance floor. Even she, with her little knowledge and experience in such matters, knew that. Her throat constricted again, making each intake of breath a struggle. Would the dance never end?

“I will not. Not until your dance card is filled.”