his voice. She glanced up at him to find that there was indeed a hint of a curve to his lips. There was even a flash of a ridiculously attractive dimple in his cheeks.
And she also realised she should not have looked at him. Up close he really was absurdly handsome, with a face as lean and carefully chiselled as a classical statue. His gleaming mahogany hair, which he usually ruthlessly combed down, betrayed a thick, soft wave in the damp air, tempting a touch. She wondered whimsically if he wore those spectacles in a vain attempt to keep ladies from fainting at his feet.
‘You do not find them dull, Sir David?’ Emma said, feeling foolish that she could find nothing even slightly cleverer to say.
‘Not at all. Everyone, male or female, needs interests in life to keep their minds sharp,’ he said. ‘I was fortunate enough to grow up living near an uncle who boasts a library of over five thousand volumes. Perhaps you have heard of him? Mr Charles Sansom at Sansom House.’
‘Five thousand books!’ Emma cried, much louder than she intended. ‘That must be a truly amazing sight. Has he any special interests?’
‘Greek and Roman antiquities are a favourite of his, but he has a selection on nearly every topic. Including, I would imagine, botany,’ he said, his smile growing. Emma had never seen him look so young and open before and she unconsciously swayed closer to him. ‘He always let us read whatever we liked when we visited him, though I fear my sister seldom took him up on the offer.’
Emma glanced across the room toward Miss Louisa Marton, who was easy to spot in her elaborately feathered turban. She was talking with her bosom bow, Miss Maude Cole, the beauty of the neighbourhood with her red-gold curls, sky-blue eyes and fine gowns. They in turn were looking back at Emma and whispering behind their fans.
Just like all those silly girls at school had done.
‘I would imagine not,’ Emma murmured. She had never heard Miss Marton or Miss Cole talk of anything but hats or the weather. ‘Does your uncle still live nearby, Sir David? I should so love to meet him one day.’
‘He does, Miss Bancroft, though I fear he has become quite reclusive in his advancing age. He still sometimes purchases volumes at Mr Lorne’s shop, though, so perhaps you will encounter him there one day. He would find you most interesting.’
Before Emma could answer, the orchestra, a local group of musicians more noted for their enthusiasm than their talent, launched into the opening strains of a mazurka.
‘Oh, I do love such a lively dance,’ Jane said. Emma saw that her sister looked towards the forming set with a wistful look on her face. ‘A mazurka was the first dance I—’
Suddenly Jane broke off with a strange little laugh and Emma wondered if she had often danced a mazurka with her husband in London. Surely even though she never mentioned her husband she had to think of him often.
‘Jane...’ Emma began.
Sir David turned to Jane with one of his gentle smiles. ‘Perhaps you would care to dance, Lady Ramsay? My skills at the mazurka are quite rusty, but I would be honoured if you would be my partner.’
For a second, Jane seemed to hesitate, a flash of what looked like temptation in her eyes, and Emma felt an unwelcome pang of jealousy. Jealousy—of Jane! Loathing herself for that feeling, she pushed it away and made herself smile.
‘Oh, no, I fear my dancing days are quite behind me,’ Jane said. ‘But books are not the only thing Emma studied at school. They also had a fine dancing master.’
A horrid dancing master. Emma didn’t like him intruding on every moment of her life like this. Would she ever forget him?
‘Then perhaps Miss Bancroft would do me the honour,’ Sir David said politely. He turned to Emma and half-held out his hand.
And she suddenly longed so much to know what it felt like to have his hand on hers. To be close to him as he led her in the turns and whirls of the dance. Surely he would be strong and steady, never letting her fall, so warm and safe. Maybe he would even smile at her again and those beautiful grey eyes would gleam with admiration as he looked at her. She wanted all those things so very much.
She hadn’t felt such romantic yearnings since—since Mr Milne first arrived at her school. And look at what disasters that led to. No, she couldn’t trust her feelings, her impulsive emotions, ever again.
Emma fell back a step, shaking her head, and Sir David’s hand dropped back to his side. His smile faded and he looked solemn and inscrutable again.
‘I—I don’t care to dance tonight,’ Emma stammered, confused by old memories and new emotions she didn’t understand. She had made a mistake with Mr Milne, a mistake in trusting him and her feelings. She needed to learn how to be cautious and calm, like Jane. Like Sir David.
‘Of course not, Miss Bancroft,’ Sir David said quietly. ‘I quite understand.’
‘David, dear,’ Miss Louisa Marton said. Emma spun around to find that Miss Marton and Miss Cole had suddenly appeared beside them from the midst of the crowd. She’d been so distracted she hadn’t even noticed them approach. Miss Cole watched them with a coolly amused smile on her beautiful face, making Emma feel even more flustered.
‘David, dear,’ Louisa said again. ‘Do you not remember that Miss Cole promised you the mazurka? You were quite adamant that she save it for you and I know how much both of you have looked forward to it.’
Sir David gave Emma one more quizzical glance before he turned away to offer his hand to Miss Cole instead. ‘Of course. Most delighted, Miss Cole.’
Emma watched him walk away, Miss Cole laughing and sparkling up at him with an easy flirtatiousness Emma knew she herself could never match. She felt suddenly cold in the crowded, overheated room and rubbed at her bare arms.
‘I know you think Sir David is rather dull, Emma,’ Jane said quietly, ‘but truly he is quite nice. You should have danced with him.’
‘I am a terrible dancer,’ Emma said, trying to sound light and uncaring. ‘No doubt I would have trod on his toes and he would have felt the need to lecture me on decorum.’
Jane shook her head, but Emma knew she couldn’t really put into words her true feelings, her fears of what might happen if she got too close to the handsome, intriguing Sir David Marton. She didn’t even know herself what those true feelings were. She only knew David Marton wasn’t the sort of man for her.
* * *
Emma Bancroft was a most unusual young lady.
David tried to catch a glimpse of her over the heads of the other dancers gathered around him, but the bright glow of her golden hair had vanished. He almost laughed at himself for the sharp pang of disappointment at her disappearance. He was too old, too responsible, to think about a flighty, pretty girl like Miss Bancroft. A girl who obviously didn’t much like him.
Yet the disappointment was there, unmistakably. When she was near, she always intrigued him. What was she thinking when she studied the world around her so closely? Her sister said she studied botany, among other interests, and David found himself most curious to know what those interests were. He wanted to know far too much about her and that couldn’t be.
He had no place for someone like Emma Bancroft in his life now and she had
