assumed I had you to thank for the invitation, Atwood,” Roddington replied. “The Duke of Warwick is hardly within the circle of my acquaintances.”
“I had a feeling you might enjoy yourself this evening.” Carter looked around the room. “Most men of Warwick’s rank know how to throw an exceptional party.”
“Aren’t you the son of a duke?” Roddington asked.
Carter turned in surprise. It was hardly a secret, but he was startled that the major would be aware of the connection. “Yes, my father is the Duke of Hansborough.”
“Yet we try not to hold it against him,” Benton interjected in a dry tone.
“Is the duke here?” Roddy inquired casually.
“Somewhere.” Carter’s mouth twisted. “We are not much in agreement these days, my father and I. Especially when it comes to the subject of finding a marriageable young lady.”
The major’s eyes widened slightly. “For you or for him?”
For him? Carter nearly choked on his tongue. The idea of his widowed father taking a bride was something that had never once entered his mind. Though he supposed it was a reasonable question. Carter’s mother had been dead for many years. And his father was not yet an old man. In fact, men older than the duke had successfully married and even fathered additional children.
Dawson picked up the thread of the conversation. “That’s a rather intriguing suggestion. If the duke was saddled with a young bride to chase around, he wouldn’t be half as interested in what you were doing. What do you think, Atwood?”
Carter stared at Dawson dumbly. What did he think of the idea? It was bullshit, pure and simple. His father had deeply loved his wife and was devoted to honoring her memory. He would never, nor should he, consider replacing her.
“I think marriage is far too much on everyone’s minds these days,” Carter said sharply, refusing to examine his feelings on the matter too closely. “Come, gentlemen, let’s engage in a few obligatory dances and then leave the ball to find some true entertainment.”
Dorothea absently fingered the white satin ribbon on the skirt of her gown and drew herself farther into the corner. She had deliberately left the next few dances unclaimed on her card, leaving herself the option of resting or perhaps partnering with someone who had not presented himself to her. Like the Marquess of Atwood?
“Miss Ellingham?”
Trying to hide her yelp of shock, Dorothea nearly bit through her tongue. Gracious, he’s here! She offered him a polite curtsy. “Good evening, my lord.” She kept her expression cool, fearing she would be unable to smile without looking and feeling like a total ninny. “How good of you to attend my ball.”
“I would not have missed it for anything. Please, allow me to introduce a friend, Major Gregory Roddington, a recent hero of the war.”
Distractedly, Dorothea turned her attention to the handsome man beside the marquess. He bowed to her and smiled.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Ellingham. They are playing a quadrille. Would you do me the honor of standing up with me?” the major asked. “Though I’m afraid I can claim no great skill on the dance floor, I promise to try and execute the steps in the correct order.”
“Ah, but can you avoid crushing my toes, Major Roddington?” she asked with a flirtatious tilt of her chin.
“I can try,” he answered with a twinkling grin.
Dorothea swallowed a small sigh of disappointment. The major seemed to be a very pleasant, affable man, but it was Atwood’s attention she craved, not his friend’s. How marvelous it would be to dance, and flirt, with the marquess. But he had not asked her.
“I shall be delighted to dance with you, sir.” Pasting a bright smile on her face, Dorothea allowed the major to lead her onto the dance floor.
They assumed their places. Major Roddington initially set himself on the wrong side. The gentleman on his left gave him a sharp poke, pointing out the error. Hastily changing positions, the major favored her with a sheepish grin.
Dorothea’s answering smile held true warmth. Perhaps it was better to be paired with the major. He seemed a kind man. He was handsome in an unpolished, rugged way, with a trim, fit physique. She liked how he smiled at his ineptitude, for it was a rare treat indeed to encounter a man who did not take himself so seriously.
The music began and each couple bowed elegantly. Hands held, they came together in the pattern of the dance. They crossed next to each other, took a few steps forward, then back.
Dorothea pivoted gracefully on the ball of her foot, turned to the man on her right, and came face-to-face with the Marquess of Atwood. She sucked in a sharp breath. He appeared not to notice as he took her hand.
And squeezed it playfully. Good heavens! She gazed intently at the marquess, certain she must be mistaken at what had happened. Or wistful?
Regaining her composure, Dorothea repeated the dance pattern. She waited breathlessly as her hand once again was clasped within the palm of the marquess’s large one. And then…another squeeze, followed by a gentle caress.
Dorothea’s feet stumbled as she missed a step. The major sent her a sympathetic glance. Had he seen what happened? No, that was unlikely. He was concentrating too hard on where to place his feet and when to turn. She swallowed. Why did Lord Atwood keep touching her in such a manner? Was he flirting? Teasing? But if he was interested in her, then why hadn’t he asked her to dance?
Deciding the only way to complete the dance successfully, Dorothea concluded she must ignore Atwood and focus her attention exclusively on the major. When the steps next brought them close, she smiled charmingly at Major Roddington, tilting her head deliberately to one side. Her best side. The side that she always thought showcased her features to their fullest advantage.
“How are your toes faring, Miss Ellingham?” the major whispered.
“They are quite safe at the moment,” she whispered back. “I think you are far too modest in your assessment of your dancing skills.”
He laughed, and she caught a quick glimpse of a most appealing dimple in his cheek. “You are very well-mannered, young lady.”
“Nonsense. I applaud your effort.”
“You must forgive my lack of entertaining conversation.” The major smiled as he turned to face her again. “I confess, I am counting the steps. Which I know is terribly gauche.”
They twirled, then met again. “At least you are counting silently in your head,” Dorothea quipped. “I know of at least two gentlemen who mutter the numbers under their breath as they dance. ’Tis most distracting.”
“Are you insulting the major?” Lord Atwood interjected.
The unexpected question seemed to startle Roddington as much as Dorothea. He missed his footing and did indeed step on her toe. Dorothea skillfully hid her wince.
She was forced to wait until the figures drew them together before she could answer the marquess. “Stop being such a pest, my lord, and pay attention to your own partner.”
