The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(42)
Faith stood a little straighter at the doctor’s request. The smile on his face was genuine, and March held her breath to hear her sister’s response.
Faith dipped her head but refused to meet his gaze. “That would be lovely. I may not manage to last long on the dance floor.”
He nodded in response, and the two handsome men moved down the line to greet Julia and Lord William.
“He seemed to be a nice gentleman,” Faith whispered. “Do you think he could help me?”
The hope in her sister’s voice hit March square in the chest. Her sister’s suffering was always present, and she couldn’t help but wilt a little at the desperation she’d heard in Faith’s voice. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I’ll find out,” March offered.
Faith nodded then turned her attention to the next guest who waited to meet her.
March took the opportunity and studied the ballroom. Glowing like a jewel, the room was magnificent. Streams of silver and gold silk hung from the massive windows. The refreshment tables sparkled with silver serving pieces polished to perfection. Gold candles littered the silver chandeliers and transformed the room into another world, almost as if the heavens had descended to entertain the guests this evening.
She glanced at the crowd of people hoping to catch a glimpse of Michael. He was nowhere in sight. The duchess had decided that the duke would dance with March, Michael with Faith, and William with Julia for the first dance.
For a moment, her confidence deserted her as she gazed at all the handsome men and beautiful women who crowded the outer edges of the ballroom floor. Suddenly, the truth slammed into every corner of her being. She was ill equipped to meet the expectations society would place upon her, namely a well-bred lady who was accustomed to such events.
The musicians had already started tuning their instruments. Boisterous laughs and the buzz of conversations floated toward them. The ball was officially set to begin.
The duke took the duchess’s arm. “Shall we, my love?”
The duchess stretched up on her tiptoes and brushed her lips against his cheek. “As long as you save every dance after the first for me.”
He colored slightly. “You never have to ask,” he gruffly answered.
After they entered through the doorway, the duke and duchess stood aside so March and her sisters could enter. Side by side, the trio strolled into the brightly lit room. Suddenly, Faith stumbled. March grabbed her arm to keep her from falling. Absolute silence descended, and the entire gathering gawked as if they were some type of carnival act.
“I’m so nervous. Please forgive me,” Faith whispered.
March cursed under her breath. She straightened her shoulders and pasted her best smile on her face. The sea of faces before them was transfixed on Faith.
With a sideways glance, March stole a peek at her poor sister. Her earlier rosy glow had paled. The pain of Faith’s embarrassment stabbed March’s heart, and she wanted to cry out at the unfairness of it all. How could this have happened now? Resplendent in the light orchard silk the duchess had Mademoiselle Mignon design, her beautiful sister appeared ready to burst into tears.
“Nonsense, my love. There’s nothing to forgive.” March took her hand and squeezed, hoping Faith would take every piece of strength and courage she could offer. “They’re all entranced by you and your beauty. Take my place and dance the first set with the duke. That will set everything to rights.”
Out of the corner of her eye, the duke started forward, but he was too late.
A man brushed against her, and March felt a caress of his hand on her lower back. “Softer than I could have dared imagine,” he whispered in her ear. “Tsk, tsk, March. You shouldn’t be trying to rearrange the dance cards just yet. I have the honor of the first dance with Faith.”
A towering Michael emblazoned with a smile, one brighter than the light from the room’s largest chandelier, hurried past and stood before Faith. His black evening coat and breeches emphasized his athletic build, and the ivory waistcoat, shirt, and neckcloth were perfection against his olive skin. When he leaned toward Faith and whispered, the ruby pin in the center of his neckcloth caught the light and glimmered as if it were a living creature.
Whatever he had said made her sister laugh. The beautiful sound rang through the silent ballroom. He extended his gloved hand in a commanding movement. Tentatively, Faith took it. Briefly, he turned back toward March and winked with a translucent smile only for her.
She couldn’t stop, couldn’t rein in the hope, and couldn’t help but return a smile that mirrored his. Michael’s breath visibly caught, and his smile grew even bigger. His eyes followed the line of her dress before returning to her face. For a moment, his gaze caressed hers, and her heart joyfully danced in reply. In the next split second, all sound shushed as the crowd waited.
That was when it happened. Between the opening first three notes of the waltz and the three fast beats of her heart, she fell—tumbled—then finally plummeted hopelessly and irretrievably in love.
With the Marquess of McCalpin, a powerful enigma of a man, who with his simple gesture of wrapping his strong and resolute arms about Faith’s waist, proclaimed to the world that he, and only he, would have the first dance with Miss Faith Lawson.
Her David in his splendor had captured her heart, and March didn’t even fight back or try to protect the pounding organ in her chest. Determined not to think too logically about what had just happened, she happily resigned herself to witness the magnificent moment her sister danced for the first time in public.