Page 80 of My Fair Lord

Florence had hushed her, glancing at her father. Estelle had a habit of talking loudly even when she was whispering but it didn’t matter as Clayton was distracted with making over-the-top overtures to Sapphire.

“No, I’m not going to elope”—a spasm in her belly made her stiffen—“but you’ll see soon enough.”

Now she swept back into the ballroom after her chat with Ned, displaying a confidence she didn’t feel, and searched out her next partner.

She recognised a few of the names. The Vanderbilt was a surprise. Johnny Clancy, who she had known since childhood, would be easy to dance with, and of course Ned. Lord Stretford was on her card, which slightly marred her pleasure, but he was not until the last dance so she could avoid talking with him for too long afterwards. She just had to hope that her father did not insist on discussing the engagement with him during the evening.

She had the whole evening mapped out in her head.

It would be a simple matter to dance with Ned, contrive to finish near her father, and then let Twemlow take over and introduce him. Then she could leave them to become acquainted while she danced with her next partner, a Granelli, who she hadn’t met before. She’d have a quick trip to the powder room then return to Ned and her father to see how they were getting on. She would offer him an invitation to join them for afternoon tea, which her father would readily agree to. It was at the end of the afternoon tea that she would reveal the trick. The roots of her hair tingled. Ned had something to tell her too. She could barely wait to discover what he was going to reveal. Perhaps he had already found another commission which would keep him in the city.

She turned her attention to the room. Twemlow was basking in the adulation of a quartet of elderly belles who were all rapt. No doubt he was making much of his title to them. Cordelia was dancing in the arms of her friend Eli Levitt. Cordelia glowed in a way that she didn’t when she was with Twemlow and it made Florence melancholy to see. Mr Levitt was a kind man, not overly burdened with looks but with a dazzling sense of humour and good prospects. If he had not been Jewish, Clayton would surely have blessed the marriage—if Mr Levitt had owned an English country estate and a title, of course.

Until that moment Florence hadn’t fully understood what her sister had sacrificed in order to keep her father happy. No doubt her marriage to Twemlow was happy, but it could have been blissful if she had been allowed to choose the man she loved. What right did Florence have to throw a tantrum and demand to be treated differently than Cordelia?

Perhaps she should grow up a little and resign herself to marrying Lord Stretford.

She enjoyed dancing with her varied partners, but it was only when Ned led her onto the dance floor that she truly came alive. When they danced together, it felt like she was returning home where she belonged. Remembering the way Cordelia and Mr Levitt had danced together, she knew that even if she married another man, she would never love him as much as she had grown to love Ned.

They danced past Estelle, who was dancing with a tall striking man with extremely pale hair and skin like skimmed milk.

“From Iceland,” Estelle mouthed, raising her eyebrows.

Florence giggled. Estelle had scandalised her mother by threatening to elope with a Hindu man from the Indian colonies, with black hair and brown skin. Now she had chosen a dance partner who was almost the opposite and Florence wondered if she was doing it deliberately to spite her parents.

They met again on the other side of the dance floor and this time Estelle looked at Ned and then rolled her eyes back, mouthing, “Heavenly.”

Again, Florence try not to smile but nodded. Ned was heavenly. Gorgeous, light on his feet, and every inch the born aristocrat.

As the music died away, Ned executed a perfect bow. Florence thought that if there had been a way of recording the scene so that it could be shown again to future generations, she would have done so that everyone could learn to be so graceful. She curtsied. Her heart fluttered with excitement and trepidation.

“Are you ready?” she murmured. “I can see my father standing close by. There’s no time like the present.”

“Yes of course. I shall regale him by reciting all the introductions I know and impress him with my knowledge of when to use my snail spoons.” He winked at her devilishly.

Despite the lump in her throat, a giggle somehow managed to pull its way past the blockage.

“Don’t make me laugh,” she said. “You’re always joking.”

She thought about it some more. “Actually, do keep making me laugh. You do it so well. I don’t want you to ever stop. I need to laugh.” Florence looked away momentarily, checking whether anyone was in earshot to hear them talking so intimately. When she looked back, she was struck by the force of his expression.

“Florence, whatever you do with your life, find a man who makes you laugh. The fellow that knows how to do that will truly understand you.”

The prospect of imminent loss was like a fist clawing at her heart. It was Ned who held the invisible threads to her heart, and though he could not be aware of it, he was pulling her towards him more with every kindness, every tease, every touch.

Clayton Wakechild was standing with Twemlow and Cordelia. As Florence and Ned walked up to the group, she noticed Cordelia crossing her fingers briefly. Behind them, fresh couples assembled on the dance floor. A couple of people paused and looked at Florence and Ned. If she achieved nothing else, she would have created the impression that she was a woman capable of attracting a dance partner of his calibre.

As she approached her father, he smiled then looked at Ned and furrowed his brows. Florence hesitated, realising with horror that she had forgotten entirely in which direction the introduction should go. Should she beg Twemlow to introduce her father to the viscount, or the other way around? It was all going to go dreadfully wrong. She was wrong. This sort of thing couldn’t be taught. It had to be ingrained from birth.

Fortunately Clayton, unaware that he was about to break protocol and not understanding the apparent status of his daughter’s partner, stepped forward.

“Young man, I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an introduction.”

Florence looked at Twemlow as a signal for help. He stepped forward.

“Miss Wakechild, I must say you’re looking lovely tonight. Positively the most enchanting creature in the whole of New York City. And I see you have found our good friend, Telford.”

He turned to Ned. “Lord Telford, may I introduce Mr Wakechild, the father of our delightful Miss Wakechild.”