“Indeed,” Vincent said.
There was only the slightest pause before Francis Wilde bowed again. “Miss Brannock, will you grant me the next dance?”
Amy’s true feelings were as eager as her smile. “Thank you, sir.” She took his offered hand.
That left Elizabeth standing before Edward Wilde, whose emotions were plain to her. Though the strangeness of it . . . the gentleman’s interest in her was, indeed, for her. Not her money, her family, or her brown curls. He might have been as intent as a hunting hound, but the attention was honest. This as much as anything startled her. Perhaps he simply had not been in the neighborhood long enough to hear of her fortune or her oddness.
“Miss Weston, I would not be left behind by my brother, if you will do me the honor?”
She did not think twice before taking his hand. Yes, her stomach might still be roiling. But the feeling was not dread this time. Edward Wilde’s touch was light, as if he knew that any pressure on her hand would incite panic. If she wanted to flee, he would not hold her. This comforted her to a degree that surprised her. In turn, Mr. Wilde’s feelings also settled.
She would engage him in conversation, if she only knew what to say. She did not have Amy’s open nature, alas. The benefit of dancing was that she could pretend to be so engrossed in the music and where she placed her feet that she need not speak.
The couples lined up; Elizabeth repeated steps to herself, watched others for the proper cues.
Mr. Wilde’s gaze kept drawing her. In spite of herself, she kept wanting to look at him. To study him. To learn exactly why he was so different from anyone she’d ever met. He and his brothers, really, but he was the one standing before her.
Of course, she stumbled. It was the part of the dance where one crossed over with one’s opposite partner, and one was meant to look into his eyes and not at one’s feet. She always feared losing her place or running into the other gentleman, and that was what happened—she took a wrong step, saw herself about to collide, and quickly moved to avoid it, which meant she lost the rhythm of the entire sequence and ruined the figure for her partner and the other couple besides.
Mr. Wilde rescued her. He did so deftly and without fuss, when the next bar of music came and it was his and the other lady’s turn to cross over, he touched her elbow and pressed her over while nodding to exactly the spot she should have been, next to him, before the music told them to turn half a circle back to their original places. What was more, he did not express contempt or pity, as others before him had done when they tried to dance around her mistakes. He did not leer, did not roll his eyes, and his emotion was . . . sympathy. If he smiled, it was not to laugh at her, but out of understanding, that there was nothing more difficult than remembering where to put one’s feet while others were watching you.
The other gentleman, however, chuckled, passing a mocking glance to his lady. The usual behavior that Elizabeth had come to expect.
And Edward Wilde growled at him.
She distinctly heard the burr in his throat. He glared hard at the other man, who stopped, wide-eyed and trembling, before his partner pushed him into the next phrase of the dance.
“I beg your pardon,” Edward whispered hoarsely, and they crossed over with the next couple in the row. Far from granting him pardon, she wanted to thank him.
She did not make another mistake for the rest of the dance. When Mr. Edward Wilde asked for the next dance as well, she accepted.
Propriety dictated that for the third dance he move to a new partner, and Elizabeth politely declared that she must rest. Much of the company was watching her as she found a chair to sit and catch her breath. She realized this was because she was smiling. Those in attendance had known her since her girlhood, and they were shocked—no, that was too strong a word, more they were all astonishment—because she was not slouching. Might she even be enjoying herself? Because of this new gentleman? When he wasn’t dancing, Edward Wilde stalked the edges of the room, glaring at any who dared look at him, until the light-haired brother touched his arm and brought him back to himself.
The music ended, and Elizabeth looked up from her seat to find Mr. Wilde—the dark-haired Wilde, Edward—and Amy approaching.
He said, “Miss Brannock asked me to escort her to sit beside her best friend, so here we are. Might I be so bold as to bring you both refreshment?”
“Oh yes, please, that would be lovely,” Amy said, patting Elizabeth’s wrist. “Wouldn’t it, Beth?”
“Oh yes,” Elizabeth said. “Thank you.”
Mr. Wilde made a bow and went away.
Amy took both of Elizabeth’s hands in her own and gave her a smile large enough to knock her over. “Well?”
Elizabeth bit her lip. “Well what?”
“What do you think of Mr. Wilde?” she said with mock frustration.
“Which one?”
“Oh, Elizabeth!”
“He is very kind.”
Amy seemed to be nonplussed at this. “I will take that to mean you like him.”
They had to leave off then, because Mr. Wilde returned—along with his brother, Mr. Wilde. This could become quite confusing, Elizabeth reflected. She couldn’t tell by looking who was eldest. They seemed of an age.