Page 98 of Threads that Remain

Marianne slipped her arm through his, laughing. “Come, Brandon. He is perfectly harmless. He has a good estate in Kent, which I should think rather in his favour, given the young lady in question. You need not like him. You are only obliged not to look as though you were measuring him for a duel.”

Across the room, at almost the same moment, another conversation was taking place upon precisely the same subject.

“I suspect,” said Sophia Willoughby, following her husband’s gaze to where the Colonel stood unmoving in the doorway, “that Colonel Brandon does not entirely approve of Mr. Ashby.”

“I recognise the look. I doubt Colonel Brandon,” said Willoughby, with the dry amusement of a man observing from safety a trouble he had once been glad to escape himself, “approves of any young man introduced to his daughter; and I imagine he will continue disapproving, until she is safely married to whatever young man proves persistent enough to survive it.”

The ballroom was already crowded by the time the first two dances ended. Candlelight multiplied in the mirrors; music came from the musicians’ gallery; and the room seemed composed entirely of silk, feathers, and jewels, with some familiar faces seen from an unfamiliar distance.

Henry had barely finished bowing to Sarah after their set before the first gentleman approached.

“Miss Ferrars, might I have the honour of claiming the next set?”

Henry watched the young man bow.

Sarah smiled politely. “I should be delighted.”

Henry stepped aside. It was to be a cotillion. He would be able to interact with Sarah. He turned to seek out a partner when at precisely that moment, Mrs. Lucy Ferrars appeared and alongside her was her youngest daughter, Annabelle.

Henry’s heart sank.

“Henry, dear!” Mrs. Ferrars exclaimed warmly. “What a fortunate encounter.”

Henry managed to make a polite smile.

“Mrs. Ferrars.”

“Annabelle and I were just saying how unfortunate it was that she had not yet secured a partner for the next dance.”

Annabelle gave her mother an embarrassed glance.

“Mamma—”

“Nonsense, my dear. Henry is perfectly free.”

“Indeed,” Henry said, with all the enthusiasm of a man accepting his sentence. “I am free.”

Lucy beamed. “Then you must dance.”

Henry bowed. “I should be honoured.” He offered her his arm.

“Miss Ferrars,” said he, bowing. “Might I have the honour, if you are not already engaged?”

Annabelle Ferrars, seventeen that spring, was a pretty girl, with her father’s fair colouring and her mother’s striking blue eyes, shared by all three sisters. She smiled pleasantly and accepted.

It was not until they had completed the first figure and found themselves briefly beyond her mother’s immediate notice that her expression changed, revealing an intelligence her usual drawing-room smile concealed.

“You are not dancing with me for my own sake, Mr. Brandon,” said she lightly. “You wish to join my cousin’s set. I counted the number of times the figures will bring you within six feet of her.”

Henry laughed. “You are remarkably observant.”

“One learns to be, growing up in my mother’s house. I should like to propose a bargain, and I hope you will hear me out before taking offence.”

“I am not easily offended.”

“I know you have eyes for no one but Sarah, and I do not begrudge you your happiness. Indeed, I rather admire it, though I shall deny having said so if you repeat it. But I have eyes for someone myself, and you know my mother well enough to understand the difficulty.”

“I know your mother very well indeed.”