The Steward of Blackwood Hall

Chapter twenty-eight - Dance of devotion

Then the music began, and Anabelle raised her eyes to meet his as the first couples at the other end of the line took up the sequence of movements.

He held her gaze, his mind whispering wordless promises before he allowed his focus to travel down her neck and along the delicate bones towards her shoulder, like a caress.

Anabelle blushed, as though he was actually touching her in front of an audience of her neighbours rather than standing on the opposite side of the dance.

With the eyes of Haltford upon them he could not feel her tempting softness within his embrace, nor taste the sweetness of her lips. But he could listen to Anabelle's enticing laughter as they danced, and admire the grace of her movements; convinced that his betrothed was beyond doubt the most beautiful woman he had ever known.

As they came together he said, "You dance very well, Miss Latimer."

The progression of steps moved her to his right, but her eyes never left his. "Do I? I have had so few opportunities to practice. I am pleased to hear you do not find me lacking in such a vital accomplishment."

"I am certain that would be impossible."

She laughed as the music concluded. "As you are far from an impartial observer I would hardly expect you to say otherwise."

He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. "Any partiality on my part ought to be forgiven in a soon-to-be devoted husband."

Adorably flustered, Anabelle could only nod and smile as the musicians struck up the second piece of music.

During the dance, no matter where or when Fielding weaved around and across the other dancers, Anabelle's presence was a steady flame. The closer they moved, the greater the warmth, until he touched her hand. Then, the heat would spark between their fingers, fusing them together for a brief moment before they returned to their places in the set.

The dance was almost complete when a shrill discordance at the side of the room marred the atmosphere, like a thistle growing amid a field of daffodils. Heads turned and the dancers lost their concentration, stepping outside the pattern and losing their place.

As Anabelle heard the raised voices behind her, he saw her shoulders stiffen and the hint of a frown cross her brow. Separated by a generous length of oak parquetry, he wondered which member of the Latimer family was responsible for the disruption to her equanimity this time.

The couples clapped as the music and the set came to an end. He would have preferred to pull Anabelle off the dance floor and into his arms; to smooth away the worry and wrap her in his love and protection. Instead, he accepted the fingers she entrusted to his grasp and steered her back to her mother's side.

He assumed the bird-like squawk of indignation had originated with Mrs Latimer, but he was wrong. The Latimer matriarch betrayed barely a ripple of concern as she faced down the shorter woman who stood before her.

Miss Margaret Mountford cast a disdainful glare at her adversary. "I realise it is easy to become confused and disoriented, particularly in a small room such as this where the air is so oppressive. Ah, here is Mr. Fielding now. I am sure he will clear up this trifling matter for us." There was a note of triumph in Margaret Mountford's tone as she turned her wide smile towards him. "Mrs Latimer was just telling me your good news. It appears I should offer my felicitations."

Her statement—wrapped in a challenge and tied with a generous length of scepticism—invited him to put the older woman firmly in her place. He had not intentionally neglected to tell Henry's sisters of his betrothal that afternoon. The thought had simply never crossed his mind. With hindsight he ought to have known better, but his desire to write to his family had overridden every other consideration.