A Christmas Waltz Read online

  “All right,” she said after pondering the situation and finding it rather exciting. “We shall only ever tell each other the truth. You start. Ask me a question.”

  He apparently had not considered this and took a few seconds to ponder what his question should be. “Do you know Miss Katherine Engle?”

  “Yes, she is a few years older than I am and good friends with my cousin Elizabeth, Pauly’s younger sister. I mean, Lord Norman’s younger sister, Miss Elizabeth.” She really needed to do better at using proper names. It was so difficult when she had known people on such a casual basis. Did no one understand that?

  “What is Miss Engle like?” he asked, directing her thoughts back to him yet again. She was thinking in too many directions tonight.

  “Pretty,” Marta said, though it was a trite answer. One only had to look on Katherine’s bright face and golden hair to know she was pretty. “Well-mannered . . . but she is dumb as wood and rarely has a nice word for anyone, from what I have seen of her.”

  He looked startled, and though Marta felt a moment of regret, this had been his idea, and she did like surprising him. “Really?” he asked.

  “Sadly, yes,” Marta said with a frown. “She only ever had nannies, not a governess to educate her, and I think it makes her petty about other people’s successes. She can’t carry a conversation for more than a few minutes and can never remember the rules for any card games. She spends a ridiculous amount of time giggling or blinking because she hasn’t followed the conversation, but then she critiques everyone’s clothes and family members. My sister believes her simple-minded, but I do not agree. I think she is just empty-headed and spiteful about that, but pretty enough to make a match, I think, so long as she keeps her caustic side away from a man’s notice. She likely will, as many men prefer an empty-headed wife so long as she does not eat too much dessert.”

  “Well, I would not.” D’Artagnan frowned slightly before meeting her eye and smiling, which went a long way to helping her feel better about saying so much. “I am glad to know your experience with the young woman in question before I invested any more time.”

  Mother would throw Marta out the tower window if she knew what she had said.

  “Now it is your turn to ask me something,” he said.

  “Well.” She looked around in attempt to find something to prompt a question she hadn’t yet thought about. “What is your favorite thing about Christmas?”

  “Mince pies, the ones with actual mincemeat, like those served tonight.”

  Marta screwed up her face. “I hate the ones with meat—Mother has our cook make them with all the same fruits and spices but none of the meat. It’s disgusting to think of meat with raisins—it’s the one Christmas treat I have no interest in sampling.”

  He smiled again and turned her rather sharply, giving her another moment of dizziness in the process. “You are too young to know a good thing, then.”

  “That is uncalled for,” she said, trying not to show the depth of the offense, since she knew he had meant it to be a mild jest. She hated being reminded that she was young . . . and yet hadn’t she been irritated to be told it was time to be grown as well?

  “We are being honest, remember?” He winked, and she felt the oddest sensation travel down her spine. Probably from the spin that had preceded the wink. And the cider. Surely.

  “Right. I do have a more important question for you, actually.” She straightened and looked him dead in the eye as he raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Did Pauly ask you to dance with me?”

  The color in his cheeks kept their pledge of honesty without him confirming her suspicion out loud.

  “Never mind,” she said with a somewhat insincere laugh to cover the discomfort, shaking her head and looking over his shoulder again. Perhaps she had not truly wanted to know if that was why D’Artagnan had approached her with so much resolution when he’d asked for the dance.

  Marta caught a glimpse of her mother watching them. She looked as pleased as a child with a peppermint stick to see Marta waltzing like the woman of quality her mother so wanted her to be. And D’Artagnan was still holding her in a way she liked very much, even if he had only asked her to dance because of her cousin. The embarrassment faded, leaving behind the wish that she had not asked. Since she had asked, however, she needed to try and make it right before the dance ended.

  She looked back at D’Artagnan—she really should learn his actual name—and smiled. “It was kind of you to do so. Other men asked me to dance after you signed my card, and even though I am at this ball against my will, it would have been embarrassing to have stood at the sidelines all evening. I thank you both for your kindness and your honesty in telling me the truth.”

  “Norman asked that I specifically take the waltz. Since it is at the end of the evening after the cider has flowed so freely, he wanted to make sure that your waltz partner would be a gentleman.”

  “Oh, of course,” Marta said with all the grown-upness she could manage. “I am very glad.”

  “The only reason I would not have thought to ask you otherwise would be our age difference. I am quite a bit older than you are.”

  “I know.”

  He pulled his eyebrows together. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Only what you said, that you are quite a bit older than I am.”

  “I said that to explain why I may not have asked you to dance if not for Norman’s encouragement, but I feel I have been insulted.”

  “Insulted?” she repeated, lifting her eyebrows. “You are the one who said you were old. I only agreed.”

  “I did not say I was old, simply that I was older than you. I am only five and twenty.”

  Marta’s eyes went wide. She had thought he could not be more than two and twenty. At five and twenty, he was nine years older than Marta! Might as well be a decade. Goodness.

  “That is not as old as you think it is,” he defended.

  He was very wrong about that, but he was already on the defensive, so she decided to take a different path to convince him. “You are finished with your schooling, then?” she asked.

  He paused a moment at what must seem to him a change of topic. “Yes, I finished at Cambridge last year.”

  She gave him a smug look. “I was wearing braids last year. A man who is finished at university is quite old in comparison to a girl just out of short frocks.”

  They lapsed into silence, and he would not meet her eye, which became more uncomfortable with every step.

  “I did not mean to hurt your feelings, and you have to believe me because we’ve made a pledge to one another to only tell the truth.”

  “You did not hurt my feelings,” he said, though stiffly.

  “I do not think that is true, and you promised to tell the truth.”

  He let out a sigh. “Perhaps there is wisdom in a little bit of dishonesty, then.” He paused. “Most men do not marry until they are nearer to thirty years old.”

  “Is that true?” she said with a bit of alarm as her mood took another pitch. If she had been told this before, she had not considered it in relation to herself. “But I am to have a season in London this spring and find a husband! Do you mean to tell me I shall marry a man nearly twice my age?” Were any of her sisters’ husbands that old when they married? She’d never thought to notice.

  He confirmed her fears by saying nothing at all.

  “Goodness,” she said, blinking against the tears certainly brought on by the late hour and cider and aching feet she was going to blame for all her ills this night. “The best years of my life are behind me, then, aren’t they?”

  “Of course not,” he said with a sincerity that had her finding his eyes again, this time in search of reassurance. “Marriage is a good and enjoyable institution for most, and you will have a wonderful time in London.”

  “I shan’t have a wonderful time if I am to be courted by men even older than you!”

  His jaw tightened, but she was too worried about herself
to consider his feelings anymore. “I must beg Mother to let me wait a few more years at least. I’m not even grown-up enough to say the right things to the simplest of questions, such as how I am enjoying a ball. How can I become an old man’s wife?”

  “You are making too much of this, Miss Connell,” he said, and though she recognized the tone as patronizing, she felt half starved for any solace, and so she did not complain. “At sixteen you are not expected to make a match—many girls have two or three seasons before they make an arrangement—which means you have plenty of time to add a few more years to your own roster and become comfortable with the sort of man ready to marry. Set your goal to simply enjoy yourself amid all these new places and people and experiences London will hold for you. There is much to learn about society, but it should be a thrilling experience, not a frightening one.”

  “You make it sound so easy.”

  He chuckled. “Nothing is ever easy, but enjoying the moments you find yourself in is the surest way to find happiness in life.”

  “And you are happy with your life?”

  His smile fell a little. “I am . . . content. Perhaps if I were better at taking my own advice and enjoying the moments I am in rather than thinking too much of what might happen next, I would be happier.”

  She wasn’t sure she understood what he said beyond the overall tenet of him not following his own advice; she was used to such types of advice from her family. The music swelled to the crest that would soon lead to its conclusion. “Could we amend our pledge of honesty for just one thing?” she asked, hoping to lighten the weight she’d inadvertently placed on what had been a lovely dance thus far but was nearly over.

  He gave her a half smile that put her instantly at ease. “I suppose.”

  She smiled in return. “This is my first waltz at my first Yuletide Ball, and I would enjoy this moment very much if I could believe your name is D’Artagnan, even though I’m quite sure it isn’t.”

  He laughed again and she felt herself relax. “So be it,” he said with a sharp nod. “You may think of me any way you want, so long as you suspend thinking of me as an old man.”

  She grinned. “I will do my best.”

  The music ended, and he escorted her to the edge of the floor, where her beaming mother waited. Their interaction must have appeared completely appropriate, for her mother to be so pleased.

  “Thank you for a most enjoyable dance, Miss Connell,” D’Artagnan said, bowing over her hand. “Perhaps I will see you in London.”

  “I hope so,” she said eagerly, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “It would be wonderful to see someone there I recognized and with whom I could share my truthful impressions.”

  “I shall add that to my very short list of reasons to go to Town, then. Happy Christmas, Miss Connell.”

  She beamed back at him. “Happy Christmas, D’Artagnan. Thank you for the waltz!”

  Second

  David

  David recognized Miss Connell the moment she entered the ballroom with her parents and, presumably, one of her older sisters—as there were just enough similar features to identify the three women as a set. That the recognition came so easily did not keep him from staring, however. The too-tight curls and uncomfortable shifting in her holiday gown from last year’s Yuletide Ball had been replaced with a softer style to her hair and a dress that fit her curvier shape without any need for adjustment. Last year, she’d been a child putting a toe into an adult world she did not feel included her. Now she was a young woman, with grace and poise that centered her among equals. Yet that same mischievous air he’d found so amusing last year lit the space around her, drawing his attention even more than her presentation.

  David had been coming to the Yuletide Ball thrown each year by Lord Norman’s family for five years now, and the magic of the season never disappointed. He hadn’t planned to sign Miss Connell’s dance card for the Christmas waltz—he did not owe Norman a favor this year—but his curiosity suddenly propelled him across the dance floor. The golden ribbon used as part of the ballroom decorations glittered in the candlelight as though lit from within, and the smell of pine cast a further spell upon the evening.

  “It is lovely to see you again,” Miss Connell said as she handed over her card without his having to make the request. Her smile was coy, her overall air more confident. Did she still pretend his name was D’Artagnan? He hoped so; playing the part of a romantic hero was not the worst role he could imagine, though he was, of course, far too old—no, mature—to play such games. He knew Miss Connell’s given name was Marta, a pretty enough name. If he were to imagine her name as something more . . . blast, he truly was too mature for such games. He could not think of her as anything but Miss Marta Connell. So be it.

  “As it is to see you, Miss Connell.” He finished writing in his name with the impossibly small pencil and handed the card back. He was trying to think of what else to say when she looked past his shoulder and smiled at someone behind him. A quick glance at the object of her attention revealed that he was not the only man who had noticed her entrance. He bowed to her and stepped away, glad he’d acted when he had and a bit uncomfortable with her new popularity.

  David danced most sets with other ladies in attendance. Miss Connell danced every set. They handed off to one another a few times and shared a smile and a nod each time. The change in her confidence was remarkable and intriguing.

  When the conductor announced the Christmas waltz, David crossed the floor as he had the year before and presented himself with a bow. Miss Connell was grinning when he straightened, then repaired her expression to one of polite greeting when her mother looked their direction. He nodded his understanding of keeping up the formal appearance and put out his arm, which she took. They took their place on the floor and in position, then started in time with the orchestra. She followed his steps with a bit more grace than she had last year, though he’d had no complaint before. Was she a bit taller? He seemed to meet her eye a bit easier than he had last Christmas.

  “So, Miss Connell, how are you enjoying the Yuletide Ball this year?”

  “I am having a rather good time, actually.”

  “You sound surprised to admit it.”

  She raised her shapely brows, and though he noted that she still had a round, girlish face, it was less a child’s face and more that of a woman. “I have been thinking all night of how petulant I was last year. It is astounding how much can change in only twelve months.”

  “Yes, it is quite astounding.” He was careful not to meet her eye for fear she would see just how changed he found her. “Did you enjoy your season in London, then?”

  “Far more than I expected, thanks to your advice.”

  He snapped his gaze back to hers as he led them between two couples. “My advice?”

  “To enjoy the moments rather than focus too much on a match.” She cocked her head to the side. “Did you forget that you’d told me?”

  “In fact, I had,” he said, though now that she’d mentioned it, he could recall wisps of that counsel he himself was not very good at following. He’d meant to reassure her in that moment more than he’d expected her to take the advice to heart, but it felt good to know he had said something useful. “Tell me all about your season,” he said as he turned her again.

  She recounted balls and soirees and favorite places—Vauxhall Gardens, which David agreed was a stunning attraction and almost worthy of a trip to the city. She told him of friends she had made and events she had attended, such as the Royal Theater and a balloon ascension. She wore a sheer white dress over a gold underdress tonight, and the gold caught the candlelight here and there, adding sparkle to her commentary.

  “And no old men proposed marriage?” he asked when she had finished her accounting.

  “Only one,” she said with a laugh. “But he was quite drunk, and his wife fetched him a short time later and thankfully bore me no ill will.”

  David laughed, easily imagining the scene of a ball in s
ome London townhouse and an old man enamored by her youthful energy. Men could be such scoundrels. “I imagine you shall return to London again this year, then? Since you were not caught on any man’s hook that first time through.”

  “We will return in March,” she confirmed with a nod. She caught the eye of someone else on the dance floor and gave a little nod. He did not look to see who it was but feared it was one of her admirers. Did any of those men paying her attention remember the awkward, outspoken girl she’d been last year? It gave him a sense of confidence of connection to feel that he knew her better than any of them. Did knowing him give her any such feeling?

  “Mother wants me to be more serious this time.” She made a fearsome scowl he assumed was meant to mimic her mother, and he laughed. She repaired her expression back to the one of Confident Debutante. “But I am only seventeen and in no hurry to marry.”

  “There is no shame in taking your time.”

  “Well, I am very glad that someone agrees with me. I’m afraid my family does not.” She shrugged, obviously not too worried about anyone’s opinions. “And what of you?” Miss Connell asked. “What has changed for you this past year? I imagine you must have had very important things to do since you never did come to see me in London.”

  “Do not act so surprised. I warned you that I do not enjoy Town.”

  “Yes, you said that you had few reasons to draw you to the city, but I thought you might come to see me.”

  It was such an innocent comment, devoid of the implications it might have held should someone else have made it. She gave a slight pout she would likely perfect after her next season in London. He would enjoy the remaining aspects of her youth while they lasted. “I must beg your forgiveness, then. I’m afraid that life had other plans, and I did not think you were counting on my appearance. It seems that you had an enjoyable time without me.”