She had never liked the shortened form of her name. Nessie Dew sounded like such a… plain woman. But even so, it was none of his business what her family and friends chose to call her.
The men on either side of Viscount Lyngate looked awed and slightly uncomfortable. So would the ladies on either side of her if she turned her head to look, Vanessa guessed.
He was going to ruin the assembly for them all. They had been looking forward to it so very much. Yet it meant less than nothing to him. He was looking up and down the lines, not even trying to hide his boredom.
Oh, dear. She was not usually so harsh in her judgments, especially of strangers - not that she saw many of those. Why were her thoughts about Viscount Lyngate so… well, spiteful? Was it because she felt too embarrassed to admit to herself that she had very nearly tumbled into love with him?
How very ridiculous /that /would have been - the classic case of Beauty and the Beast, with no one in any doubt at all about which was which.
She reminded herself suddenly that she had been all too eager to give in to the urging of her in-laws and Meg and Kate that she come to the assembly tonight. And after she /had /given in, she had hoped with bated breath and crossed fingers that someone would ask her to dance.
Well, someone had asked her even if he /had /been more or less coerced.
And he could not possibly be more handsome or more distinguished in every way. One could say that her wildest dream for the evening had come true.
She would enjoy herself then, regardless.
Suddenly she was aware of her family and friends and neighbors about her, all dressed in their best finery, all in a festive mood. She was aware of the fires crackling in the two hearths and the candles guttering in the draft from the door. She was aware of the smells of perfumes and food.
And she was aware of the gentleman standing opposite her waiting for the music to begin. And looking at her from beneath those drooped eyelids.
She was /not /going to allow him to believe that she was in awe of him.
She was /not /going to allow him to render her speechless and incoherent.
The music began, and Vanessa smiled with deliberate brilliance and prepared for as much conversation as the measures of the dance would allow.
But most of all she gave herself up to the sheer joy of dancing again.
Of all the partners with whom he might have chosen to dance, Elliott reflected as the music struck up and the line of gentlemen bowed while the line of ladies curtsied, Mrs. Vanessa Dew - /Nessie, /for the love of God! - would surely not have been one of them.
She was Sir Humphrey's daughter-in-law. That was bad enough. She was also an insignificant dab of a woman of medium height, who was altogether too slender and too small-breasted for his taste, her hair too mousy, her features too plain. Her eyes were a nondescript gray. And lavender as a color definitely did not suit her. Even if it had, the dress itself was hideous. She was not in the first blush of youth either.
She was the very antithesis of Anna and indeed of any lady with whom he usually chose to dance at /ton /balls.
But here he was dancing with her anyway. George would have spoken up if he had not, he supposed, but it had been obvious whom Dew had expected to speak up. And so he had been the performing monkey after all.
That fact did not make him feel any more cheerful about the evening's revelries.
And then, just as they began to dance, Mrs. Dew smiled dazzlingly at him, and he was forced to admit that perhaps she was not quite the antidote he had taken her for. It was not a flirtatious smile, he was relieved to notice when after the first moment she looked away from him and smiled in the same way at everything and everyone, as if she had never enjoyed herself more in her life. She fairly sparkled.
How anyone could find even a small measure of delight in such an insipid rural entertainment escaped his understanding, but perhaps she had little with which to compare it.
The rooms were small and cramped, the walls and ceilings bare of ornament - except for one large and hideous sketch over the fireplace of an obese Cupid shooting his arrows. The air was slightly musty as if the rooms were shut up for most of the year - as they doubtless were. The music was enthusiastic but inferior - the violin was half a tone out of tune and the pianist had a tendency to gallop along as if she were anxious to finish the piece before she could hit any wrong notes.
Several candles came close to dying every time a door was opened and a draft attacked them. Everyone talked at once - and at ear-shattering volume. And it seemed that everyone was very much aware of his presence and was at great pains not to show it.
Mrs. Dew danced well at least. She was light on her feet and there was rhythm and grace in her movements.
He wondered idly if her husband had been the eldest son. How had she attracted him? Did her father have money? Had she married him, perhaps, because she had expected to be Lady Dew one day?
George, he could see, was dancing with the lady who had been standing with Mrs. Dew - the eldest daughter of a family whose name Elliott could not recall. And if she was the beauty of the family, heaven help the rest of them.
The younger of the two Huxtable sisters - Miss Katherine Huxtable - was also dancing. The elder was not but stood watching with Lady Dew. He had not been introduced to the third sister. She must have remained at home.
The elder Miss Huxtable was extremely handsome but was certainly no young girl - just as one might expect, of course, of the senior sibling of a family in which the parents were both deceased. She had probably been responsible for the care of the others for a number of years. He could feel some sympathy for her. Miss Katherine Huxtable looked somewhat like her though she was considerably younger and more animated. She also was ravishingly beautiful despite a faded, shabby gown that someone had tried to disguise with new ribbon.
Stephen Huxtable was indeed a young cub. Tall and slender and coltish, he was seventeen years old and looked it. He was also very attractive to the young ladies despite his youth. They had clustered about him before the dancing began, and though he had chosen a partner, there were two other young ladies on either side of her in the line who were giving him at least as much attention as they were giving their own more plodding partners.
His laughter wafted down the line toward Elliott, causing him to purse his lips. He hoped the laughter did not denote a careless mind and a shallow character. He had already lived through a difficult year. Let there not be something equally trying in store for him for the next four. "You came to Throckbridge at an auspicious time, my lord," Mrs. Dew said when the figures of the dance brought them together for a few moments.
Because it was St. Valentine's Day, he supposed, and there was a dance at the assembly rooms of the inn where he had the great good fortune to be staying. "Indeed, ma'am." He raised his eyebrows. "Auspicious for /us, /perhaps." She laughed as they parted company, and he understood that his tone, if not his words, had been less than gracious. "I have not danced in more than two years," she told him when they came together again and joined hands in order to turn once about, "and am quite, quite determined to enjoy it no matter what. You are a good dancer." He raised his eyebrows again but made no reply. What did one say to such an unexpected compliment? But then what had she meant by that /no matter what/?
She laughed once more as they returned to their places. "You are not, I perceive," she said the next time, "a conversationalist, my lord." "I find it impossible to converse meaningfully in thirty-second bursts, ma'am," he told her, an edge to his voice. Particularly when every villager appeared to be shrieking at every other villager with no one left to listen - and the orchestra played louder to drown them out. He had never heard such a hideous din in his whole life.
Predictably, she laughed. "But if you wish," he said, "I will pay you a compliment each time we meet. Thirty seconds will suffice for that." They parted before she could reply, but instead of being quelled by his words, as he had intended, she laughed across at him with her eyes while Huxtable twirled his partner down the set and they all prepared to dance the figures over again. "Most ladies," he said the next time he met his partner and turned back-to-back with her, "have to wear jewels in their hair to make it sparkle. The natural gold in yours does it for you." It was a rather outrageous claim since her hair was distinctly mousy, though the candlelight /did /flatter it, it was true. "Oh, well done," she said. "You outshine every other lady present in every imaginable way," he told her the time after that. "Ah, not so well done," she protested. "No lady of sense likes to be so atrociously flattered. Only those who are conceited." "You are not conceited, then?" he asked her. She had precious little to be conceited about, it was true. "You may certainly tell me, if you wish, that I am ravishingly beautiful," she said, turning her laughing face up to his, "but not that I am more ravishingly beautiful than anyone else. That would be too obvious a lie and I might disbelieve you and fall into a decline." He looked at her with unwilling appreciation as she danced away. She had a certain wit, it would appear. He almost laughed aloud, in fact. "You are quite ravishingly beautiful, ma'am," he told her as they clasped hands at the top of the set. "Thank you, sir." She smiled at him. "You are kind." "But then," he said as he began to twirl her down between the lines, "so is every other lady present tonight - without exception." She threw back her head and laughed with glee, and for a brief moment he smiled back.