“Much.” She rises to kiss his cheek. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Miranda Hastings?”
His companions use the excuse to ogle me. Norrington’s gaze sweeps over me so fast I doubt he could identify my hair color two minutes later.
“Delighted to meet you, Miss Hastings,” Norrington says.
And that is it. He does not ask who I am or where I’m from or what my connection might be to Emily. His niece is a young woman, and I am a young woman, and if she has made a suitable local friend, that is all that matters. He speaks to Emily for another moment, and then she is hooking her arm in mine and leading me off to see the dance floor, which is not yet in use as the musicians are still preparing.
“Do you dance?” she asks. Then, “Oh, that is a silly question. Every girl in London must dance and dance beautifully.”
“I will not saybeautifully. I dance well enough. It is one of those things where my interest outstrips my aptitude.”
She grins. “I think I can say that about all my interests. I am also but a fair dancer. I would be better if I had better partners. The choices here are...” She looks around the knots of middle-aged men. “Underwhelming.”
Before I can reply, she grips my arm. “I am certainhewould be an excellent dancer.”
I follow her gaze but see only an elderly couple. She sees where I’m looking and giggles.
“No, silly, not him. The young Frenchman I told you about.” She sighs dreamily. “He is so graceful and charming. I know he would be heavenly on the dance floor. If only he could be here.”
Nicolasishere, somewhere. Safely here, I presume, as I have not heard any uproar or cries that sent Norrington running. We separated well out of sight of the estate, and Nicolas made his way from there.
I have also seen no sign of the elder Lord Norrington’s ghost. That isn’t unexpected. Spirits exist in a nether realm that is not quite the same as ours, and while he is able to travel more than poor Andrés, he will still be restricted in many ways. He had hoped to meet us before I entered the house. I am trying not to fret about that. I will need him for the rest of this adventure.
I will also need to slip away from Emily, which I am quickly realizing will not be easy. She is quite glued to my side.
I let her talk about Nicolas and how wonderful a dancer he would make. I agree—I would love to take a turn on the dance floor with him. Sadly, that will not be happening, and so I listen to her and then steer conversation toward other potential partners. That seems to be the best way to slip from her side—when the dancing starts, I must be sure her card is full. Which would work better if she had a card. Do they come into fashion later? I certainly cannot ask, so I only inquire whether there is a local method of scheduling one’s dances.
“Uncle says such things are for London balls and society seasons. I am fortunate he even hires musicians. If he had his way, there would be no dancing. The music does interfere with business conversations, after all.”
As if on cue, the musicians strike the first note. And in a blink, there is a young man in front of Emily, asking for the dance. Perfect.
I am about to tell her to have fun when a sweaty-faced man of forty appears in front of me.
“Can you dance?” he says, in the same doubtful tone with which one might inquire whether a sow can fly.
“I fear not,” I say. “I have twisted—”
Emily is already being led onto the dance floor and doesn’t hear my excuse, interrupting with, “She dances very well, sir. Join us!”
I try not to grimace. Before I can try again, the gentleman has me by the hand, which makes me jump, the casual contact quite untoward in my own world.
“Come on, then,” he says, as if he’s leading that sow to market.
I have no choice but to dance. And because I do not lack pride, I have no choice but to show him howwellI dance. I told Emily that my interest outstripped my aptitude. That is only because my interest is “exceptional,” and my aptitude is merely “quite good.” Quite good in London is different from quite good in the country, and in trying to show this lout that yes, I can dance, I attract far more attention than I intended, and I find myself unable to leave the dance floor, as both Emily and I have a line of prospective partners waiting.
This is most inconvenient. Let it be a lesson to me that there are times when my pride must take the blow. It will survive.
I am on my fifth dance when a figure appears at my shoulder, giving me a start.
It is the ghost.
“You must stop dancing,” he says, looking alarmed. “A country dance does not last into the wee hours of the morning. You have work to do.”
I try not to glower at him. It’s not as if I want to be dancing. Also not as if he’s been here, ready to show me around.
He is right, though, that I must get out of this. There is only one thing to do. Swallow my pride and lie.
When the dance ends, I feign breathing heavily, hand to my chest. “Oh my, I have quite overtaxed myself. I fear I must sit down.”