Part 1  

Margaret Dashwood dearly loved to dance. More than her mother had, more than her sisters did, more than any girl she knew near Delaford and beyond. She loved to dance.

And she was good at it. Very, very good. Her friends said she seemed to float along the floor and the local fairy dragons rumored that she could actually fly above the dance floor. Of course, that was not true, but still, it was delightful to be talked about that way.

She stepped and twirled about the cozy wood-paneled sitting room, stopping at each rose covered chair, staid dark wood table, and the fireplace screen embroidered a green wyvern, honoring them as though they were actual dance partners. The pianoforte in the corner sang a whispered tune, the ghost of the melody Marianne had played the last time they entertained guests and had a lovely little bit of dance on this very floor. Her white ball gown, trimmed in pink ribbon roses, swayed and swished in time with her mental music. Granted, the faded carpet made it difficult to glide as one should, and the confines of the furniture limited the true expression of grace, but it was here that her heart was always fullest, remembering the merry steps with family and friends that kept her content until a proper ball could be had.

Still though, loving to dance and excelling at the skill were not the same as enjoying an assembly or ball. In fact, it was very, very different. At a ball, one required a partner, and therein lay the problem.

Many men tried to dance, but few danced well. She longed for a partner who skimmed across the chalked dance floor to be exactly where they should be, when they should be there, ready for the next step; the kind she did not have to think about, but instead could rely upon them as she trusted herself.

Perhaps that was why it was said: To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love.

But such a creature was as rare as the fire drakes who ruled the kingdom. So, she settled for lesser partners and the vague dissatisfaction they brought.

The parlor door flew open and Snuff, her little grey-green puck Friend scrabbled in, talons catching on the carpet, and dove under the nearest piece of furniture, a heavy wooden cabinet against the nearest wall. The size and shape of a portly pug,  he easily persuaded those who did not hear dragons that he was a fat little lap dog, especially since he enjoyed laps and scratches and table scraps, just like Marianne’s little dog, Nick.

Colonel Brandon appeared in the doorway, hair mussed and cravat askew in stark contrast to the fine blue suit he wore, exasperation pouring from his entire being. Only one reason he ever looked that way.

“What has he done this time?” Margaret hurried to stand between Colonel Brandon and Snuff’s hiding place.

“You assured me he would stay out of my private chambers.”

She crouched to peer under the black lacquered chinoiserie cabinet. “Snuff, you gave me your word. What has come over you?”

Snuff peeked out from under between the graceful wooden legs, his big eyes wide with anxiety. His wing nubbins trembled, such a pathetic creature. “He is the only one in the house who has it.”

“That does not mean you are free to take it. Come out from under there now!”

Snuff crept out, tail between his legs, just like Marianne’s Nick when he was scolded. “I cannot help myself! I cannot. It is just so perfect. I must have snuff.” The poor creature writhed on the carpet, all four feet in the air, moaning.

Colonel Brandon stomped three steps closer. “That is quiet enough with the theatrics, you ungrateful lizard. I ought to put you back where you were found.”

“No, you would not be so cruel.” Margaret stood to face Colonel Brandon. He might be angry, but calling Snuff a lizard was below him.

“The old barn is cold and your barn cats are monsters! They nearly killed me.” Snuff huddled into a ball, trembling.

Although that had happened when Snuff was just a tiny hatchling, he had never quite recovered from his dread of cats.

“Then you will stay out of my locked drawers.”

“Locked?” You broke the locks?” Margaret clutched her forehead.

“No, that menace chewed through the back of press!” Even though raising his voice was ungentlemanly, one could hardly blame him.

“You made me a promise, Snuff, and I took you at your word. You must bring yourself under better regulation. What happed with the lavender? You promised it would sate your hoarding hunger.”

“I tried, really, I did. But it was no use. It is not so delightfully sneezy I must have—”

“Snuff, yes, I know.” She picked Snuff up and held him close. “I am so sorry, Colonel. I do not know what else to do.”

Colonel Brandon pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suppose there is nothing more to be done for it. I will put the order into the tobacconist as Delaford suggested.”

Snuff writhed in ecstasy.

“Do not think this means your behavior is acceptable. If you cannot control yourself after this, I promise, you are out. Margaret, the carriage is to leave for the ball in a quarter of an hour. See that your Friend is not going to get himself into trouble whilst we are gone, and do not keep us waiting.” Colonel Brandon stomped out.

“I am sorry.” Snuff said.

“No, you are not. You are sorry that he is angry, but have no intention of changing.”

“I am what I am. It is my nature.”

“And it is in his nature to expect his order to be followed. I fear he means it this time.”

“I will do better, really I will.” He wrapped his tail around her waist.

“I know you mean well, but this time, you must go to Delaford and confess your crimes, as we agreed. Perhaps she will be able to motivate you more strongly than I.”

“No, she is big! And wyverns are cross and cranky and smell bad. I do not want—”

“What you really do not want is to be put out and left to fend for yourself.”

He shook his slightly-too-large for-his-body head so hard she nearly dropped him.

“And have her send a written note with you that she has indeed had a conversation with you.”

Snuff grumbled. He did not like to be held to his promises.

“I know you mean well, but your execution leaves much to be desired. Now, off you pop. I dare not be late for the carriage, it would not do to frustrate him more.”

Part 2

The carriage appeared exactly when Colonel Brandon said it should, and he handed her and Marianne inside. With both of them dressed for a country ball, most of the space within the carriage was taken up with skirts and wraps and feathers. The carriage was rather old, almost as old as Margaret, but Colonel Brandon had the carriage refitted when he and Marianne married. So the leather squabs were soft and comfortable and the springs sufficient to cushion the bumps and ruts in the road from Delaford to Barton Park.

Marianne straightened the ostrich feathers in Margaret’s hair..“It is good of Sir John to humor Mrs. Jenning’s wish to throw a ball in honor of the new bride in the neighborhood.” 

Considering how much Sir John liked to entertain, it was good of Mr. Angleton to marry and give Sir John an excuse for a party.

“It is only right. Angleton inherited the place from his uncle, which enabled him to marry as he would.” Brandon shared a sad glance at Marianne as he brushed a bit of road dust from his dark coat. “So, he brought home Lily Osset as his wife, not the heiress all were expecting. Sadly many in the neighborhood have been disappointed and are now reluctant to provide the new Mrs. Angelton the social status that should be hers by right of her new marriage.”

“That is very cruel, indeed.” Marianne bit her upper lip and stared through the side glass, remembering her own brush with such a fate. 

“Osset? Did you say Lily Osset?” Margaret asked, her heart fluttering.

“I believe you once met her at one of the local assemblies.” Colonel Brandon’s brow furrowed.

“No, I think it was her brother,” Marianne seemed relieved to have something else to occupy her thoughts. “As I recall you danced very well together.”

Indeed, they had. Roger Osset had been a partner like no other, one she danced with as though they were made for one another. What a whirlwind season that had made last year. They would dance the supper sets and final sets together in every ball, in perfect step and harmony. 

He even heard dragons, too. What more could possibly be asked for?

Then business called him away, and she saw him no more. Since they had no understanding between them, he could not write, and there was no communication, just a far too abrupt ending.

No other partner measured up—everyone seemed dull and clumsy in comparison. She even gave up dancing for months until Elinor managed to convince her there was nothing to be gained in indulging her melancholy, denying herself what had been her greatest pleasure. 

So, she began again. Nothing measured up to the days of dancing with Mr. Osset, though. But Elinor was right, as she often was. Life was better for dancing.

The carriage rolled up to Barton Park—so many memories, bitter and sweet, called to her, nearly overwhelming, as they passed Barton cottage. This cottage with the smokey fire  where she, her mother and sisters, had taken refuge after her half-brother John, really his horrid wife Fanny—had put them out of Norland, had hardly changed. Such a difficult time that was to be sent away, with no recourse,  without even the dragon Norland approving the transition.

The whole affair put Norland out for several years. He even required John to offer them some amends for all the trouble they had caused—Elinor had been a great favorite of Norland’s. But by then, Elinor and Marianne were happily settled in their own homes with their own husbands and Fanny had talked John out of assisting them yet again.

But Norland would not let the matter rest quietly. Now that John and Fanny had a daughter, the  wronged drake declared that their daughter could not, would not, be presented at the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion until they properly sponsored Margaret’s presentation, and a modest dowry be provided to help ensure her a good match.

Oh, how Fanny railed at that. Even protested to the Dragon Sage on the matter. But a recent letter from the Sage settled the matter. Norland was within his rights. And thus, Margaret had secured an invitation to the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion. How her heart thrilled at the very notion! To dance with dragons! What could be more exquisite?

So now every ball, every dance, was an opportunity to perfect herself for that moment with the dragons.

Of course, Elinor, Marianne, and Colonel Brandon were pleased for Margaret’s opportunity, but even Marianne found Margaret’s enthusiasm a bit overwhelming. So Margaret had learned to keep that to herself, and to talk about the weather.

The carriage released them just outside the doors of Barton Park, where Sir John and his enthusiastic mother-in-law, Mrs. Jennings, greeted them with more excitement than a dog greeting his master after a long trip. Truly it had not been that long since they had last dined together, no more than a fortnight, but it was nice to be welcome.

“Colonel Brandon, and your lovely ladies. How good it is that you have come to grace the party with your presence.” Sir John hurried toward them, open hands extended. How well he looked in his blue coat and tan breeches.

“You will be dancing tonight, Miss Dashwood, yes?” Mrs. Jennings took Margarets hands and held her at arms’ length, studying her gown. “You are a picture in your lovely white gown. The dance floor is not the same without you. Pray tell me you will dance.”

“Only if you will promise me that Mrs. Angleton will lead the dances.” Marianne had made Margaret promise not to take that honor from the new bride, even if it were offered. While it was a little disappointing, it was the right and proper thing to do.

Mrs. Jenning smiled as though she might be quite relieved. “That is gracious of you Miss Dashwood. Of course we will do so.”

At her side, Marianne nodded. “We have been in such anticipation of tonight. Events at Barton are always so memorable.”

“You will be at want of a partner tonight.” Sir John offered Margaret his arm. “Come with me, I shall introduce you to potential partners who are visiting with us just for the occasion.”

Colonel Brandon nodded his approval and Sir John whisked Margaret off into the drawing room.

The furniture had been removed for the occasion, and the carpet as well. Hall chairs were brought in to line the walls, an artist chalked the floor with a moon and stars and dancing fairies. Chalked floors were one of her favorite ball decorations. Lavish, flower-filled vases occupied small tables interspersed between the chairs, near the windows and in the corners, filled the room with their perfume.

There, in the far corner, the new bride stood in a knot of local matrons.

“There, there they are.” Sir John plunged further in the crowded room, away from the ladies, toward a pair of gentlemen near the pianoforte in the corner, studying the others in the room.

“Gentlemen,” Sir John called. “Might I intrude for just a moment? I would like to present our friend and neighbor as a most eligible partner for the evening.”

Both men looked their way.

Merciful heavens! Was that possible? Roger?

Part 3

“Miss Dashwood, may I present Mr. Miles Bexley, a dear friend of Mr. Palmer. He will be taking a house in the neighborhood, soon.” Sir John gestured to the gentleman, a smile crinkling his round cheeks.

The taller man bowed. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Dashwood.” Although well-dressed, and poised, he lacked the easiness in the room that suggested he would be pleasant company for more than a quarter of an hour. Not that he would be rude, precisely, but perhaps it was that he seemed the sort who wanted more meaningful conversation that was typically to be found in a drawing room or dancefloor.

Margaret curtsied. “I am pleased to make yours, Mr. Bexley.”

Poor man seemed rather flummoxed at what should come next.

“Now ask her to dance,” Sir John crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “It is the proper thing to do.”

Mr. Bexley’s face fell, and he sighed. “Pray forgive me, Miss Dashwood. I hate to inflict myself on one who is clearly an able partner.”

“Nonsense, Miles, you should ask her to dance,” Roger slapped his shoulder and chuckled, not meeting Margaret’s gaze.

Sir John gestured toward Roger, who was, as usual, dapper and poised and full of good humor. “And this brash fellow, Miss Dashwood, is Mr. Roger Osset. He comes to us from Cambridge, but refuses to tell us how long he intends to stay with us.”

“One cannot always know what plans will best suit, no?” Roger bowed, deep, with a theatrical flourish. “You will excuse me, one of the men who will help me decide that matter just arrived.”

And like that he disappeared.

Margaret’s cheeks flushed, and she pressed her lips tightly. How could he do that? How astonishingly rude.

Sir John followed Roger’s retreat with his gaze, forehead knotting.

And poor Mr. Bexely seemed utterly undone with his jaw agape and eyes wide. He glanced at Sir John who canted his head toward Margaret. “Miss Dashwood, might I ask you to dance with me the first set?”

“Yes, that is the spirit, nicely done.” Sir John seemed to recover some of his equanimity, but it was just a touch hollow.

Margaret forced a smile. “Thank you, sir, for the invitation. I would please to dance with you.” Which was a lie. She was hardly pleased with anything right now. But if she refused his invitation, it would be a declaration that she was not dancing at all this evening. Which while a tempting alternative, but a rather extreme reaction to the bit of pique she felt. At least for now it was.  

“Margaret, there you are! I am so glad to see you have come.” Elinor glided across the room to stand with her. Always poised and calm, her years as Mrs. Ferras had only made her more so. Pretty, sensible, and demure, she was the perfect parson’s wife, a paragon of all wisdom and virtue. And exceedingly dull. “I see you have met Mr. Bexley. Good evening, sir.” She dipped in a little curtsey.

“Mrs. Ferras, it is lovely to see you tonight. Is Mr. Ferras with you tonight?”

“Just over there, with Mr. Palmer.” Elinor gestured to her husband stood near a window in the middle of a lively discussion between two yeomen farmers and the local solicitor. Heaven only knew what dreadfully boring matter they were discussing.

“I hope you will excuse me for a few moments. I know it is terrible manners to plague him with questions about the parish during a social engagement, but the matter is quite pressing. Pray excuse me. I shall return straightaway for the first dance.” He bowed from his shoulders and hurried off.

Lovely, abandoned twice in the space of less than five minutes. What a delightful way to begin an evening. At least Mr. Bexley had promised to return.

Elinor watched him go, then turned to her. “You look quite lovely and ready to dance, my dear. The seamstress did a lovely job remaking Marianne’s gown for you—I hardly recognize it.”

“You always say that, and so does Marianne.” Why did her sisters always remind her that her dresses were handed down from Marianne, never new. Yes, she was thankful for them, and they were lovely, redone as they were, but was it too much to hope for a new gown? At least she would have to have one for the Dragon Keeper’s Cotillion. There were all required to wear Order-blue for the event. And since her sisters had not been presented at the event, her gown would have to be new. That was something to look forward to.

“Are you frustrated with Marianne, again?” Elinor already seemed exasperated, even without hearing her answer.

“She fussed about the alterations to the dress, complaining that they were too much. Even to the point of telling me the new neckline was scandalous. It is not at all, not on my in any case. Perhaps on her it might be.” Margaret glanced down at the quite adequately covered decolletage . “Sometimes I think I liked her better before she married the Colonel. She can be so droll now.”

Elinor tsk-tsked and shook her head, tall and graceful, like a willow tree swaying in the breeze. “I think they have been good for one another. He smiles ever so much more now, and she has become a wealth of good sense and good humor.” She glanced over her shoulder to the window where Edward and Mr. Bexley chatted. “What do you think of Mr. Bexely?”

“I have only just met him. I hardly know, although I have been warned his is not a good dancer.” Margaret turned aside, looking for Rodger.

“I would not know of that, but we have dined with him several times, and I can tell you he is a gentleman of good character, right opinions, and proper behavior.”

“Which is to say he is dull, stiff, with no sense of humor at all?”

Elinor pressed her lips in almost a frown, her brow furrowed. “That is dreadfully unfair. He has the most delightful little Friend; a fairy dragon called Half Wing.”

“A man with a fairy dragon friend? How singular.”

“And not just that, but the poor creature had been caught by a cat. He rescued it from the cat’s jaws, but its wing was irreparable damaged. The dear thing will never fly again, but he is quite the spirited little soul.”

Rather like she had rescued Snuff. There was something sympathetic in such a person—not that it would make up for bad dancing, but it was a mark in his favor. “A male fairy dragon no less. That is remarkable.”

“As I understand, Half-Wing is quite sociable and at risk of forming a harem around in him wherever he goes. So, Mr. Bexley is very cautious about where he chooses to live, to make sure that his Friend will be comfortable. He reminds me of Colonel Brandon, the way he is so considerate of your Friend’s foibles.”

“I do not think you would be so impressed with him today. He is at wits end with Snuff’s hoarding.”

“Of course, none of us like having our things meddled with. But what other man do you know who would continue to allow such an unabashed little hoarder to live with him?”

“I hardly know any other men.” Margaret folded her arms across her chest and pouted.

Elinor squeezed her eyes shut and huffed. “Colonel Brandon has done an admirable job protecting you from acquaintances who would not be to your advantage. Yes, I know he seems a bit zealous in the undertaking, but you know he has very good reason to be that way.”

“Yes, I remember the stories.” And she did not want to hear them again. Ever.

“Not just stories, Margaret but real people. Real lives that were ruined by cavalier men without the colonel’s character.” Elinor stepped very close and leaned into her face.

“Yes, yes, I know. We are all very grateful to him. He has done so much of all of us, and I will never forget that, or take what he has done for granted. Truly.” Margaret wrenched her gaze from Elinor’s. “But you must allow me to note that he can be so dull.”

“Marianne once said that of him, too. But she freely admits she was wrong in her judgment.”

“I do not need a lecture. I am one and twenty and quite capable of thinking for myself. I am older than you were when you married dear Edward, after all.”

Clearly Elinor was not saying the first thought on her mind, which would have been ‘Older does not mean wiser’, one of her favorite admonishments. Instead, she sighed. “It that Mr. Osset over there?”

“Yes, it is.” Bother, she could not suppress her smile, which would certainly earn Elinor’s censure.

“Do you intend to renew your acquaintance with him?”

“You mean, will I dance with him if he asks? The answer to that is yes. He was a delightful dance partner, and I will not deny myself that opportunity, if it comes.” Even Elinor could not fault that answer.

“I know at one time you liked him very much. Do be careful.”

“Elinor, I am a sensible creature. I promise you I shall not repeat the … actions … that in the past brought grief to our family.” She rolled her eyes. How tiring it was to have a sister, who despite her happy ending, still served as a cautionary tale.

Mr. Bexley strode back to them. “I have it on good authority that the musicians are ready to begin the first dance. Might I steal away my partner, Mrs. Ferras?”

Reprieve at last!

“Of course, pray enjoy yourself. She is likely the best dancer in all of the county.” Elinor stepped back and gestured them toward the dancefloor.

“So, I have heard. I only hope I do not prove too much of a trial for her.” He offered Margaret his arm and led her away, to take their place in a long set of dancers, partners facing each other.

The new Mrs. Angleton stood at the top of the set with Mr. Palmer as Sir John was not inclined to dance tonight. How strange it was that married couples rarely danced with one another. They already lived together, so why should they dance together as well? Or at least that was how the common opinion went. But if your husband was an excellent dancer, why would you not want to dance with him?

Part 4

“I understand you have lived in this neighborhood for quite some time, Miss Dashwood,” Mr. Bexley said. “I have just settled upon moving in and have a Friend who will live with me. He is quite fond of long walks, and I have been told you might point me to the most attractive rambles in the area.”

“I do quite like a long walk, and there are many pretty paths you might take. I would be happy to tell you more of them.” She smiled. Gracious, there was Roger with priggish, clumsy Miss Beckett. Why ever would he be dancing with her?

Of course, Colonel Brandon would say it was because of her substantial dowry—something which Margaret lacked—but Roger could not be nearly that shallow, could he?

Sir John stepped to the top of the set and presented Mrs. Angleton and invited her to call the dance.

So that was the kind of woman that she was. Margaret forced the sneer from her expression. That would not do at all.

Clearly, the new bride thought of herself an excellent dancer and was determined to show herself off to the neighborhood as such. But really, it was unkind of her to choose such a difficult dance as the very first. She did not know whether there were new or inexperienced dancers in the room who would be disadvantaged by her decisions.

Or perhaps she did not care about the feelings of those who would surely become turned around and make embarrassing mistakes.

Only one thing to be done. Margaret squared her shoulders and took quick glances up and down the set, identifying the handful of dancers—ironically, all standing close to her—who would surely have difficulty. Now, how best to help them when it was her turn to dance with them?

The music began, and the dance started with the first woman weaving through the two couples below her—new dancers always lost their place in this figure. Margaret slowed her steps just slightly and opened her motions to draw attention to how the dance figure had her traveling through the other couples. Then it was Mr. Bexley’s turn to mirror the figure on the men’s side of the set.

He had not exaggerated. He was not a good dancer and immediately became disoriented.

“Pass the first man by the right,” she whispered, hopefully just loud enough for him to hear. “The next to the left, then the right. No, no, no farther, turn across and through the women starting with the left.”

He fumbled and stumbled, but made it back to his place just in time for her to take up the next figure, turning with each of the nearby dancers, alternate right and left hands. From the corner of her eye, she caught Mr. Bexley and the two ladies watching her carefully, studying, with a tinge of panic in their eyes.

Although it was technically rude to continue to whisper directions and discreetly point right and left, Mrs. Angleton’s choice of dance was equally rude. At least Margaret’s social faux pax was in the service of her fellow dancers. That had to make it more excusable that the choice of dance.

The remaining figures were equally confusing and painful to watch. Without a doubt, that had to have been the longest, most agonizing dance she had ever endured. Poor Mr. Bexley seemed undone by the time the music ended. And he was not the only one.

Perhaps, when the opportunity arose, she would have a discrete word with Mrs. Angleton about the state of dance in the Delaford community.

And there was still a second dance to be done to complete the set! Heavens, how was she ever to endure it?

Mrs. Middleton, who had danced at the end of the line of couples, excused herself to speak with Mrs. Angleton before the next dance was announced. How red Mrs. Angleton’s face turned—though one would never know precisely what Mrs. Middleton had said, the message conveyed was clear, and it would save Margaret the embarrassment of having the same conversation. She would offer a discreet appreciation to Mrs. Middleton yet tonight. Such a service could not be undervalued.

When prompted, Mrs. Angleton called out a much simpler, circle dance, a mixer that would have the couple switching partners every few measures. That would be a relief—the chance to dance, at least for a few minutes, with someone competent.

Margaret and Mr. Bexley took their places in the circle. So many looks of relief around the room. Sad that Mrs. Angleton had already lost the favor of so many in just one thoughtless move. Perhaps with excellent dinners and large parties, she might be able to gain it back. Margaret’s good opinion, once lost, was lost forever, though.

Compared to the prior dance, this one flowed effortlessly, spinning and gliding from one partner to the next, with shared smiles and gladness all around. This was how dance should be. A bit too simplistic, perhaps, but the lightness of heart and step. That was right.

The music ended, and she found herself beside Roger Osset.

“How well you look on the dancefloor … Miss Dashwood.” He dipped his head. “It has been a long time since I have had the pleasure of dancing with you.”

“Indeed, sir. It is pleasant to see you in the neighborhood once again.”

“Oh, do not be so stiff with me, Miss Dashwood. Were we not once good friends?”

“Were we, sir?”

“Pray, dance the supper set with me, and then you might discern it for yourself.” He flashed his brows and turned aside to disappear into the crowd.

How was she to feel about that? He did not even wait to hear her answer. Of course it would be yes, but—

“Miss Dashwood?” Mr. Bexley appeared. Face flushed, but eyes twinkling. “What an excellent dance that was. May I escort you from the dancefloor?”

Technically, Roger should have offered to do so, since he had been her last partner in the mixer. But he always had been easily distracted. “Thank you, I would very much enjoy a glass of punch right now.”

“Then to the punch table we shall go.” He offered his arm.

They wove their way through the crowded room, smiling and chatting as they went. Mr. Bexley seemed content to listen, mostly. How odd it was people were so keen to talk to a man who listened instead of talked back. Somehow, that was unexpected.

A servant filled two crystal punch cups, and he brought one to her.

Heavens, that was strong!

She blinked several times. Best avoid another glass before supper, lest she lose her footing in the next dance. As they sipped their punch, another partner claimed her for the next set, and she was off to the dance floor. Mr. Bexley nodded at her as she left, but did not seem in a hurry to claim another partner for himself.

Her next partner, Mr. Mott, and the one after that, Mr. Barnes, were credible dancers. Not exactly good, but they were not embarrassing, and she did not need to manage them on the floor. Both were also eager to offer their opinions of both Mrs. Angleton and Mr. Bexley. They seemed of similar minds on both matters. Mrs. Angleton was on the verge of proving herself a stuck-up biddy who would never be well received in the neighborhood. Mr. Bexely was a decent, if quiet, sort of man, who they would not be unhappy to share a pint with. It was good to know Mr. Bexely’s gaffs on the dancefloor did not disenfranchise him from the local men. Bad dancing was a fault, to be sure, but not one of character, or at least she thought so. Being inconsiderate, though, was so she did not mourn Mrs. Angleton’s social fate with too much energy.

The next set was the supper set. She glanced around the room, looking for Roger. There, in the far corner, drinking punch and laughing with a group of young men. He hardly seemed aware that the dancers were lining up for the dance.

Her cheeks burned. What was she to do? It would be utterly unthinkable to seek him out and remind him of his engagement. It was simply not done. But if he forgot, then she would be left standing stupidly near the dancefloor and everyone would know she had been forgotten. Mortifying—utterly mortifying!

She turned away, looking for Marianne or Elinor. Surely, they would know how to handle—

“Miss Dashwood, there you are. Hurry or we shall miss the start of the dance!” He took her arm and hurried them to the dance floor, at the end of the longways set.

She never danced at the end of the set. Her partners were always quick to claim her and line up on the floor. Why would Roger have waited for so long to seek her out?

“Don’t be put out, Miss Dashwood, you know the end of the dance set dances, too.” He laughed. “My companion was in the middle of a story, and I could not be so rude as to interrupt him. Surely you appreciate that.”

She blinked and shrugged. While she was not about to throw a temper in the middle of the dancefloor, but she was not Elinor to disguise her displeasure so thoroughly that he would never know of it.

The dance was called, a sprightly maggot that most would dance easily enough, but sufficiently interesting that she would not be bored. The musicians began.

“I cannot have you displeased with me, you know. I just will not do.” Roger smiled in his familiar, flirtatious way. “I know, I shall tell you clever things, and you shall recover your good humor.”

“And what if what you tell me is very dull indeed?”

“Then I shall have to tell you more, until I find I have pleased my excellent partner.” He bowed from his shoulders.

But it was time for their part of the dance to begin, and he could say nothing more. For all his other faults, Roger’s sense of timing was perfect. His steps flowed with purpose and grace that some said would have made him a great fencer, had he ever the opportunity to have learnt. But he was not of the sort of family that kept fencing masters for their sons.

How easy, how pleasant it was to become lost in the music and motion, floating along the floor with no other thought in mind but the next measure of music, the next graceful flow.

She hardly noticed when the first dance of the set ended, as it faded magically into the next, one of those dances when a lady spun and spun and spun, trusting that at the end of each spin her partner would catch her and propel her into the hands of the next dancer and catch her again after. This was what connected dancing to love, the trust, the companionability, the exhilaration of such a dance.

The music stopped too abruptly, leaving an almost physical pain in its wake. She gasped and pressed a hand to her chest.

“Do not tell me you are feeling faint, Miss Dashwood. You looked so well on the dancefloor.” Roger caught her elbow, panting and flushed himself.

“No, no, it is not that. I assure. I simply have not had such a dance since you left the neighborhood.” She smiled far more than was proper, but then again, she had probably said more than was proper as well.

“Then we will have to rectify that. Perhaps you will save the last set for me?”

Her heart fluttered, and her breath hitched in her throat. “I would be delighted.”

He offered his arm. “Then I have something to look forward to, after supper, of course. Let us find a place at the table for that.”