Carving for Miss Coventry by Deborah M. Hathaway

Chapter Twenty-Three

Marianne’s smile disappeared. Her nerves had continued to mount from the very moment she’d begun to dress, but now, with her dream right before her, she could hardly breathe. “I feel as if I might be sick.”

She backed away from Mr. Steele, and he lowered his arm.

“I do not think I can go through with this after all.”

He approached her with a kind smile. “I’m sure it is only a bout of nerves.”

She pressed a hand to her stomach, shaking her head. “What if it isn’t? What if this is a sign from Heaven?”

Mr. Steele was silent as she continued.

“Suppose I am recognized? Or that I draw attention to myself because I do not remember any of the dance steps? Suppose I lose my freedom even more, or you lose your work? What then?”

Her stomach twisted and pulled apart until Mr. Steele reached forward, resting his hand just above her elbow and ending the storm raging within.

“What are you really afraid of, Miss Coventry?”

Marianne was worried that someone would discover them, but they had taken every precaution—even to the effort of watching from the window to observe the guests entering the assembly. She’d also practiced countless dances over the years in her chamber at night, so that was not where her concern truly lay either.

But how had Mr. Steele known that there was something more, some deeper turmoil inside her heart?

She blinked away unexpected tears and watched the dancers moving past the doorway before them, her voice coming out in a whisper. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, building it up within my mind to be a glorious affair. But what if it fails to live up to the ideal I’ve created? What if I’ve spent my entire life living for this moment that ends up a disappointment?”

As she voiced her concerns, her heart contorted. She backed away, ready to flee upstairs, unwilling to face the disillusionment that would inevitably follow attending the dance.

But Mr. Steele reached forward, crooking a finger to raise her chin. “How could anything ever be a disappointment when you are involved?” His eyes softened, and the tightness in her chest dispelled as he continued. “I know you well enough to say that in everything you do, your passion for life and your ability to see joy and splendor in the ordinary, makes every experience with you a memorable, unforgettable delight.”

Marianne had always prided her optimism, but lately, her positivity was flailing, lost at sea, dimming within the darkness. To have Mr. Steele say such kind words, to have him still see the hopefulness within her, meant more than he could ever know.

She blinked away her welling tears with an embarrassed smile. “Thank you. That means a great deal to me.”

He reached within his jacket and produced a handkerchief for her, which she readily accepted.

When she had composed herself—honestly, she’d never cried so much than with this man—she drew a settling breath and looked toward the dance hall.

“Well then, shall we? Before I lose my nerve once again?”

He offered his arm once more, and she tucked her gloved hand around his forearm before they made for the side door of the hall. He placed his free hand to rest atop hers, a simple gesture, though it pulsed comfort throughout her soul.

The hall was not as grand as Daffley Park’s ballroom, but it was clean, bright, and decorated in a way that welcomed Marianne to the quaint, comfortable environment.

Fresh flowers hung near the sconces in baskets, light flickering against them and spreading their scent throughout the crowded room to shroud out the many moving bodies. The chandelier extended even more light, bouncing against the diamond-paned windows situated low in the walls.

At one end of the room, a tapestry hung from the ceiling, covering the entire length of the wall in a depiction of a hunter riding atop a rearing stallion. In the center of the hall, the set of dancers moved about in synchronized movements, airy gowns and coattails gliding behind elegant women and dashing men, smiles and sparkling eyes abounding.

“Whom will you dance with first?” Mr. Steele asked, his gaze averted.

Marianne glanced up at him. Did he not wish to dance with her? “I suppose I must wait until I am introduced to someone.”

He nodded, his jaw twitching. He chewed his lower lip as if hesitating. “I know it is not considered so very polite to dance with one’s spouse, but as we are not truly wedded, and if…if you’d prefer to have the first with me, that may provide you with more confidence, perhaps. If you’d like.”

A smile inched across her lips. When had Mr. Steele ever been so vulnerable? Did he really think she’d choose to dance with anyone but him?

“The way I see it,” she began, “we’ve already broken so many of Society’s rules, why not break another?”

Finally, his eyes met hers. “I do enjoy your logic.”

The music ended, then the next dance was announced.

“The Hopeless!” cried a voice from the front of the set.

Marianne breathed a sigh of relief. She knew the dance well, as it was one of her favorites.

Mr. Steele raised his hand to hers, and she accepted it, placing her gloved fingers atop his as they walked toward the dance floor.

“Are you ready, Mrs. Hickenbottom?”

“Absolutely.” Marianne beamed. How she enjoyed playing his wife.

They faced each other in the middle of the set, taking a quick glance around them. There were so many people, so many chances for them to be found out, but as Marianne recognized not a soul, the tension in her shoulders eased.

Instead of watching for faces she’d recognize, she began to admire fluffy feathers and the ribbons in women’s hair. Instead of fearing discovery, she smiled at those around her.

This dance, it had hardly begun, and yet, it was exactly as she’d imagined it would be. No, it was better. For instead of being with her parents, walking one step behind them and dancing with whomever they wished, she was dancing with whom she wished—no one else but the handsome woodcarver before her.

Father and Beatrice both had it wrong. They believed Marianne wished for her turn to be at the center of all the attention. But this was what Marianne wanted—to simply be seen and heard. She wanted the freedom to dance, to socialize, to be a part of something exciting and memorable. With Mr. Steele, she was given all of that.

The strings at the top of the dance hall sounded loudly above the conversation around them, and Marianne glanced at Mr. Steele, his bright eyes already on her.

The dance began, and they moved from side to side in slow steps. For the next movement, Mr. Steele reached out toward her, and Marianne’s stomach jolted forward, as if her body was just as eager to be closer to the man. They held softly onto each other’s fingers, Mr. Steele giving her hand a slight squeeze, though she was not sure if it had been intentional.

Their contact broke with the next few movements, but they returned soon to hold one another’s hands. This time, his eyes watched her with such intensity, she could hardly breathe. What he was thinking of, she had no idea, but she knew exactly where her thoughts strayed.

She’d imagined for so long what it would be like to dance with a gentleman. To have his perfectly tailored suit, pressed and nearly shining because it was so black. His crisp, white cravat would be perfectly tied, and his collar would be worn fashionably high.

In contrast, Mr. Steele wore a blue jacket she’d seen twice before, his cravat was simply tied, and his collar was of a sensible height.

And he was not a gentleman.

Yet, Marianne found it very difficult to be bothered at all. Mr. Steele could rival any gentleman there that evening tenfold, not only with his manners and conversation, but also with his kindness and selfless behavior.

When the dance ended, she clapped toward the musicians, then she and Mr. Steele left the floor.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he questioned.

“As if you need to ask, Mr. Hickenbottom,” she said with a knowing smile.

They hardly had a moment to themselves off the floor before an older gentleman with thick brows introduced himself as Mr. Wilson, the Master of Ceremonies.

“Mr. and Mrs. Hickenbottom,” Mr. Steele introduced next.

“I’ve a gentleman who wishes to dance with you, Mrs. Hickenbottom, if you are so inclined this evening.”

Instead of the excitement she’d expected at being sought out, an odd emptiness filled her chest, as if she lost something but didn’t know exactly what.

“Of course,” she said, forcing a smile with a glance in Mr. Steele’s direction.

He was looking around the crowds himself. Was he attempting to find his next prospective partner?

The angry heat of jealousy replaced the regret she felt for accepting another man’s pursual of her, but she quickly checked her emotions. She and Mr. Steele were not attached in any regard other than friendship—despite feigning marriage for the evening. She had no right to feel such a way.

A moment later, Mr. Wilson returned with a tall, handsome man named Mr. Robins.

Black jacket, sleek collar, crisp cravat. A gentleman. Father would be impressed. So why was Marianne not?

“Enjoy yourself, my dear,” Mr. Steele said as Mr. Robins led Marianne to the dance floor.

She glanced back at her fictitious husband, knowing the endearment had simply been for show. But then, why did his eyes say otherwise?

Her dance with Mr. Robins was pleasant, if not a little long. Her eyes continually strayed around her, taking note of the fact that Mr. Steele did not dance with another.

But such a thought should have never made her so happy.