There was one set left.
One waltz.
Then they would see all their guests on their way, send all the servants off to bed rather than insist that they clear up first, pronounce their ball to have been a resounding success despite the unpleasantness with Lord Cornell, and go up to bed themselves. And tomorrow their normal, everyday lives would resume. Ralph had received his Letter of Summons from the Lord Chancellor’s office and would take his seat in the House of Lords next week. At the end of the Season they would go back home to Manville Court and . . .
But she was too weary to think beyond that point. And she was feeling unexpectedly and unaccountably depressed. She was tired, she supposed.
A gentleman whose name had slipped her memory stopped in front of them, exchanged a few remarks with Ralph, and then asked Chloe if she would honor him with her hand for the waltz. Couples were already gathering on the floor.
“Too late, Fotheringham,” Ralph said. “I have already laid claim to the duchess’s hand myself and am not to be persuaded to relinquish it.”
Chloe turned her head to smile at him, her tiredness and her low spirits—and Lord Fotheringham—forgotten.
“The last waltz,” she said.
“At last.” He looked back at her with half-closed eyes. “It is the very devil to be the host of a ball, Chloe, when there is only one lady present with whom one wishes to dance and she happens to be one’s wife. Am I fated to become a dull dog, uninterested in any female company except that of my duchess? It is enough to give anyone the shudders.”
“Are you?” She licked her lips. She was unaccustomed to him in this mood.
“I fear I am.” He smiled slowly at her. “And I fear I will find the last waltz at an end if I do not stop babbling. Come.”
And he took her hand, set it half across his silken cuff, half across the back of his hand, and led her onto the floor to join the other dancers. Lucy, bright eyed and chattering, was gazing up at a lazy-eyed, half-smiling Freddie Nelson, who was giving her his undivided attention. Gwen, one hand on Lord Trentham’s shoulder, the other in his, was laughing at something he was saying. And she managed to dance, Chloe had noticed all evening, despite her heavy limp. Viscountess Ravensberg, her husband’s hand already at her waist, was saying something to the Earl of Kilbourne, who had his countess on his arm—the first wife and the jilted bride and the bridegroom all together on the dance floor, clearly comfortable in one another’s company. Lady Angela Allandale had taken to the floor with the most handsome of the considerable court of admirers who had clustered about her all evening.
And then the orchestra struck a chord and the music began.
Chloe had felt consciously happy earlier in the evening. She recaptured that mood again as Ralph twirled her into the dance and she followed his lead as though they had always been meant to waltz together. Except that it was not just happiness she felt now. This was . . . oh, this was the happiest moment of her life. Nothing could or would ever be more perfect than this.
Nothing could ever be more perfect than perfect.
She smiled at the thought as she listened to the music, to the slight thumping of feet and swish of silks, as she watched the colors of gowns swirl past and the glitter of jewels and the sparkle of candles. The smell of flowers and greenery was heavy on the air. There was a welcome suggestion of coolness from the French windows as they danced past.
No, not quite past.
He danced her out through one set of doors and halfway along the blessed coolness of the deserted balcony. And he stopped and stood looking down into her upturned face without releasing his hold on her.
“I was a debater at school,” he said. “A good one. A persuasive one. I could always find the right words.”
She smiled up at him a little uncertainly. What . . . ?
“I always spoke from the heart rather than from a script as the other boys did,” he said. “It worked for me. I spoke with passion.”
She raised her eyebrows. Was she supposed to know . . . ?
“I cannot think of a blessed word to say,” he said.
And she understood. Oh, yes, in a great upsurge of joy, she understood.
“Except I love you,” he said. “Ridiculous, meaningless words. Clichéd. Inadequate. Embarrassing. The trouble is, Chloe—”
She raised one hand and set her fingertips over his lips.
“But they are the most beautiful words in the English language when strung together,” she said. “Listen to them. I love you. I love you, Ralph.”
He frowned. “If you think I was angling—”
She replaced her fingers.
“I do not,” she said. “You perhaps think I am still clinging to the terms of our bargain—no emotional bond, or something like that. I was an idiot. So were you. I love you. And now you have to say it to me or I will dash off into the darkness in my embarrassment and never reemerge. Oh, don’t stand there staring at me as though I had grown an extra head. Now I feel such a prize—mmmm.”
His mouth had stopped her.
And then he was gazing down at her again in the near darkness.
“You are the most precious thing that has ever happened to me,” he said.
She feathered her fingers lightly along his facial scar and smiled.
“I think,” she said, “we had better return to our guests. Besides, I have longed all evening to waltz with you. I would hate now to waste the chance.”
He looked boyish and handsome and altogether gorgeous when he smiled full on. She would never tire of that expression, she thought, as he kissed her swiftly once more and twirled her along the rest of the balcony and through the other set of French windows to join their family and friends and peers.