“Of course.” He bowed low. “Miss Sophie, may I claim you for the next dance?”
“You may.” Sophie dropped a little curtsy. “Until then?”
He smiled, flashing brilliant teeth, and moved away.
“Whatever is the matter?” Sophie huffed, her brows drawn together in annoyance.
“You were standing entirely too close to Lieutenant Marable. What if Captain Brookes had seen you?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders, refusing to reply.
Harriet sighed. “Promise me one thing. Be courteous to the captain tonight. Do not provoke him to anger by flirting with another man.”
“I won’t provoke anyone. I want to enjoy myself.”
“Do not enjoy yourself at Captain Brookes’s expense.” Exasperation surged through Harriet. How dare Sophie toy with the emotions of a good man?
Sophie flinched. “I will not deliberately hurt him.”
The lively little orchestra struck up the next dance, a cotillion, and Harriet watched Sophie glide off toward the dance floor with Lieutenant Marable. Her high spirits evaporated like a puff of smoke. Embarrassment at being left alone rooted her to the spot. Her blue gown was too noticeable. She must look ridiculous. What was the phrase? Mutton dressed as lamb? Harriet’s face heated and little drops of perspiration pricked the roots of her hair. Perhaps she should find a comfortable spot to wedge herself, where she could stay unnoticed. After all, she perfected the art of being a wallflower during her London season.
“Miss Harriet?” A pleasant voice rumbled, bringing a smile to Harriet’s face.
“Captain Brookes.” She sighed with relief, turning to face him. He held two glasses in his hand and extended one to her with a smile.
“Would you care to sit down?” He motioned away from the dance floor with a brief nod of his head.
“Most definitely.” She wove her way through the throngs of people, spying two empty chairs along the wall. She sank down in one, patting the seat of the other with her gloved hand.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He sat beside her, taking a long draft of his drink.
“To be honest, Captain, no, I am not.” She took a tiny sip of her punch, allowing it to flow through her body, restoring her spirit.
“Why not?” He turned to face her squarely, cocking one eyebrow.
“Balls are not my favorite pastime, I’m afraid.” She took another refreshing taste. “Even during my London season, I never enjoyed attending one.” She cast a worried look over the dancers. Would Brookes spy Sophie in the cotillion with his ghost?
“I have not attended a ball since Waterloo,” he commiserated. “The Duchess of Richmond hosted one the night before the battle.”
“Before the battle!” Harriet echoed, caught off guard. “That seems a rather frivolous occupation before entering the fray.”
“It was.” He took another drink of his wine. “In the midst of the general merrymaking, we learned Bonaparte had crossed the frontier.”
“What did you do?” Harriet leaned toward him.
“Wellington and the Duke of Richmond shut themselves up in a dressing room, strategizing. Then Wellington decided we would attack on the morrow. I left when I got word so I had time to make my men ready.”
“Of course,” Harriet replied, gently urging him to keep talking.
“But many of the men elected to stay until dawn. They didn’t have time to change clothes, and fought in evening dress. The strangest thing of all was that, of all the men who danced that night, I reckon half were dead or wounded by the next evening. I was one of the lucky ones.”
His matter-of-fact voice cut her deeply. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her, surprise opening his gray-green eyes wide. “Why are you sorry? That is a soldier’s lot in life.”
Harriet shook her head. “It seems a terrible waste, is all.” Her voice sounded so thick she hardly recognized it.
“No tears at a ball.” He took the glass from her hands. “I apologize for bringing the matter up at all. It seems strange to me, that this is the first ball I have attended since that fateful night.”
She swallowed and nodded her head.
“Would you like more punch? I might take another glass of wine myself.” He stood up, looking down at her expectantly.
“Yes, if you please.”
In his absence, she struggled to regain her composure. Flicking a glance over the crowded ballroom, she spotted Sophie, still dancing with Lieutenant Marable. A flash of anger suffused her, leaving her breathless. Did her petulant sister, so young and so headstrong, deserve a man like Captain Brookes?
Brookes strode across the ballroom, balancing the two drinks carefully while he navigated the throng. He halted in his tracks, staring at the dance floor. Ah, he had seen Sophie dancing merrily with someone else. Harriet could not turn away.
Brookes stared at the couple a moment longer. His head swiveled toward Harriet, his green eyes locking with her gaze. An inscrutable expression crossed his face. Then he vanished. Harriet peered around sharply. She could no longer pick out his broad shoulders in the crowd. She cast her eyes down, studying her blue kid slippers with intensity. Where he went was no concern of hers, was it? Perhaps he found a pretty dancing partner to incite Sophie’s jealousy.
Two very masculine feet shod in black leather appeared next to hers. She raised her head, heat rising to her cheeks.
“Miss Harriet.” Captain Brookes cleared his throat. He started again, speaking in an even tone, “Would you do me the honor of reserving the next dance for me?”
Chapter Nine
Brookes stood before Harriet, extending his hand. She cast her azure eyes up to him, and he willed his countenance to remain impassive. He refused to allow Harriet to read into his soul and discover his inner turmoil. Seeing Sophie with another man—a man who could have been him a few years ago—fired Brookes with an overwhelming urge to prove himself. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. Could he manage a dance? Riding a horse never troubled him but the hops and skips of a country dance presented a challenge that set his heart racing and his palms sweating. Hedging his bets, he requested a minuet of the orchestra. ’Twas the slowest dance in his recollection.
Time ceased to move. Only Harriet would break the spell. After an eternity, she slipped her hand into his, rising gracefully from the chair. “I would be honored, Captain.” Her touch, even through their gloved hands, sent tingles up his arm. He breathed deeply of her violet scent, willing himself to remain steady and composed.
They wound their way through the press of the crowd to the cleared area in the middle of the room. “A minuet, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the
