Page 46 of Beguiling the Baron

The other onlookers must have sensed his bristling presence, for they gave him space—and a good view of the dancing. The couples had broken up and were now dancing with other people in their sets. Tia was being swung vigorously about by a young man in fustian breeches, and she was laughing back into his pleasant, sun-browned face. Hal chewed on the inside of his cheek. He wanted to put his fist in that face. Some other fellow seized Tia—a much older gentleman this time, but equally unsuitable.

The basket handle creaked from the pressure of his fingers. Thankfully the music had ceased. But the dancers showed no sign of leaving the floor, and almost immediately the fiddle struck up another, even faster melody. Polly was scooped up by a jovial-looking boy, while a dark-haired man with silver buttons and a striped waistcoat bowed in front of Tia.

The basket hit the ground with a thud. Hal leapt onto the stage, swept the fellow aside, and grasped Tia by both hands. “Come away now,” he hissed. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.”

“No.” She pulled him toward her in time with the music, then pushed him away again. “You are making a spectacle of both of us. Now dance. I’ll tell you the steps—if I can remember them.”

This was intolerable. But people had blocked him in on every side, so he had no alternative but to comply.

Never taking his eyes off her, he worked through the measure—and was bumped into and had his toes trodden on. His dignity was truly shattered when a large woman wearing an appalling bonnet lost her balance and collapsed into his arms.

Tia, damn her, laughed. As did Polly, the woman, and everyone else who noticed. When he glanced around, he discovered lots of people were losing their balance, making mistakes and guffawing about it. Clearly, dignity had no meaning at a dance at a rural fair.

He thought about the chilly, formal affairs he’d attended in the ballrooms of the ton, the multitudinous rules, and interminable etiquette—and his mouth twitched. There were no such rules here, and everyone was enjoying being liberated. He was relishing holding Tia about the waist and swinging her around when the music stopped.

They came to a halt, breathless and grinning at each other.

“Papa? Will you dance with me now?”

He cast Tia a horrified look.

She avoided his gaze. “I’d better rescue our basket or the sweets and toys will be gone.”

“Traitor,” he murmured after her before taking his daughter’s outspread hands and rejoining the set, struggling to mask his chagrin. But Polly was thoroughly enjoying herself, particularly because the difference in their heights meant he often had to propel her through the air, making her squeal in delight.

In his daughter’s face, he could see what Mary must have been like when she was a child, full of joy and optimism, completely unaware she would meet an early and unexpected end. The familiar pain of loss and guilt clawed at his chest, but with every sinew of his being, he fought against them, for the sake of his child, for the sake of the lovely young woman observing them from the edge of the stage.

Someone tripped and cannoned into someone else, and for a moment the dance was in uproar and people burst into laughter as they collided with each other, turned the wrong way, and struggled to right themselves.

A small, breathless voice piped up, “I like it when you look like that, Papa.”

“Am I looking happy? I shall cease this instant. It is most unbecoming for a gentleman of my status to look cheerful in a place such as this.”

“No, I know you’re joking with me.” She poked him. “No, promenade right, Papa, promenade right.”

Finally, the torment ended, and he was able to rejoin Tia. He raised an eyebrow, daring her to laugh at him.

Instead, he surprised an expression on her face that was not amusement. Were her brown eyes moist?

“Is there something wrong, Miss Wyndham?”

“No, no, not at all. I think we should go home now before Polly becomes tired and disagreeable.” What was that odd catch in her voice?

“Is she as disagreeable as me?” he asked, hoping to restore Tia to her normal, playful self.

“No, sir. Impossible.”

Excellent, an insult. Her good humor had returned. He hadn’t liked the other expression—it reeked of despair and loneliness. What had rendered her thus at such a jovial time? Had she been reminded of the dismal days in Selbury Poorhouse?

They should leave, lest they all become tired and maudlin.

He held out his arm, expecting to be given the basket to carry, but instead found Tia had wrapped her hand about his elbow. It was a thrill to have her so close to him again.

He held out his other hand to relieve her of the basket, but suddenly that was occupied as well, by a smaller, decidedly sticky, hand. Polly grinned up at him winsomely, so he gripped her firmly, pressed Tia’s hand against his ribs, and escorted them through the crowd.

Was this what it was like to be part of a genuine, loving family? Or was it only a fleeting moment, a memory to be treasured but not repeated? If only he could be sure he held Tia’s heart. If only he knew whether or not Polly could come to love her papa.

Yet, if he unlocked his heart, fully opened it to them both, wouldn’t he be opening himself up to more pain?