A Gentleman’s Sudden Offer

Reluctantly, the man released her, his face twisted in a scowl, then turned his body with unmistakable resolve, refusing to back down.

Only after he vanished from her view did Mabel manage to guess the reason.

A towering figure in the style of a Viking warrior stood before her, his imposing bulk radiating raw power. He trailed the retreating back of the fleeing man with his gaze, then slowly turned his head.

His thick blond hair gleamed dazzlingly in the chandelier’s light, catching and reflecting the glow like molten gold. Beneath the cool, sky-blue eyes that had surveyed her moments ago, his expression softened into a precise, formal smile measured exactly as propriety demanded.

Mabel could not hide her astonishment and blinked rapidly. Though the face looked vaguely familiar, no name surfaced in her mind.

“It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Darlington. I am Baron de Rocheret, Carlyle de Rocheret.”

A faint French accent threaded through his voice, yet his English was flawless, polished to perfection.

Like the gentlemen who had asked her for dances earlier, he already knew her name. Mabel, however, had never heard of him.

She had assumed he was one of the gentlemen introduced by Alma, but it seemed she was mistaken.

“…It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord de Rocheret.”

She curtsied slightly in return, her knee bending gracefully.

Mabel mentally struck through the name written on dance card number six. She replaced it with a new entry.

Carlyle de Rocheret, Baron. Blond. Blue eyes. Tall, broad-shouldered. Viking? A bit like actor Ralph Forbes.

Instead of the customary polite request for permission, Carlyle simply extended his hand in silence. He wore white leather gloves suited to the white-tie dress code, reaching high on his forearms.

Mabel carefully placed her gloved hand on top of his, cautious of the height. His long fingers gently curved around hers, securing her hold with perfect firmness.

At the same moment she rested her palm on his shoulder, he laid his own palm against her back. Then he began the waltz step without delay.

Mabel exhaled a sigh of relief.

Carlyle led her like a dance instructor from Spence School, maintaining a full half-step distance. Between them there was ample room for two clenched fists.

Other partners, whether waltzing or fox-trotting, had always tried to close the gap and press closer at every opportunity. Carlyle, however, kept the frame wide and executed the elegant, languid English waltz with flawless grace.

The most gentlemanly partner of all.

Mabel added the thought to her internal commentary.

Though large in build, his movements were precise and devoid of any superfluous motion. Beneath her palm, his thick shoulder muscles flexed with fluid strength.

Even though only her gloved hand touched his, a strange warmth radiated from their clasped fingers. It was a feeling difficult to name—an oddly intimate sensation. After dancing six consecutive songs, her cheeks felt faintly warm.

Mabel allowed herself to glance upward at Carlyle. Their eyes met.

Instantly she lowered her gaze. Those sharp eyes seemed to see straight into the depths of her thoughts.

At that moment Carlyle asked in a light tone, “How was your audience with King George V and Queen Mary?”

“…It was as surprising as seeing their pictures; they looked exactly the same.”

She blurted it out without thinking, then immediately regretted it. As a person of intellect she should have offered a more refined response.

She cleared her throat softly and added, “Their majesty’s dignified presence and Her Majesty the Queen’s quiet elegance left a deep impression.”

Carlyle’s mouth curved into a faint smile as he asked another question. “How do you find London? Do you like it?”

Unlike the other partners, who had been busy bragging about their noble status, he seemed genuinely curious about her.

How do you find London.

Honestly, compared to New York it was an overly classical city she did not care for. Yet she had no need to air her true opinion to a formal question. Nor did she feel like lying.

“Well… London has a classical dignity that breathes and lives in it, unlike New York.”

Carlyle chuckled lightly and changed the subject. “Where are you staying?”

Mabel mentally added the word direct to her dance card.

While others had circled around asking for contact methods indirectly, Carlyle was blunt. She answered in kind.

“The Cavendish Hotel in St. James’s.”

“When are you returning to New York?”

Mabel glanced up at him and noted the detail on her card.

So many questions.

“Next Wednesday.”

“Hmm.”

The questions seemed to have finally ended. A strange realization struck her: even as the music was drawing to a close, no one had cut in.

At other dances several partners had changed.

She scanned the room with curious eyes. The men lingering, waiting for an opening to step in, were obvious. Yet no one tapped on Carlyle’s shoulder.

As the final notes faded, after one full rotation under his lead and return to his arms, the dance ended.

This one seemed particularly short…

A faint sense of disappointment lingered.

Then Carlyle inclined his head toward her. Mabel stiffened in surprise.

In a low voice meant for her ears alone, he said, “Iris, when dancing, if your partner moves his hand wherever he pleases, step firmly on his foot. No mercy.”

She stared at him in shock, mouth slightly open.

Carlyle released her as if nothing had happened and gave a brief nod. She, too, curtsied in reflex.

Without a backward glance, he vanished into the crowd.

Mabel picked up her dance card and pencil from where they hung from her wrist. She drew a line through the name on the sixth slot and wrote Carlyle’s name above it.

She had been about to fill in his physical description in the empty space when she realized she knew nothing beyond his name and title.

Moreover…

“Iris is who?”

Mabel’s lips formed a pout. He had obviously confused her first name with that of another woman she had danced with.

The buoyant feeling vanished like air escaping a balloon. The words offered as advice had been remarkably rude.

At least he was gentlemanly.

Mabel pressed the pencil down hard on the dance card.

Calling me by another woman’s name.

Absolute worst.

The Darlington family stood before Carlton House Terrace, shifting their feet in impatience.

It was because the limousine chauffeur had left without a word. They recalled the grumbling about the contract time having already passed midnight while traveling from Buckingham Palace.

Walter snatched a nervous pocket watch from his vest pocket. The hour was well past three in the morning.

Along the road, only a few heavy coal-delivery wagons passed by.

The butler of the townhouse had descended to the street to hail a taxi and look around.

“If you can’t catch one, you’ll have to walk for about thirty minutes, so keep that in mind,” Walter muttered gruffly at Mildred.

“That’s why I told you to give the chauffeur a little extra money…”

She trailed off, pressing her lips shut. Walter’s mustache twitched as he shot her a glare. These days he grew unreasonably sensitive the moment money was mentioned.

Mildred sighed loudly, as if urging her to be heard.

Mabel hugged her arms around herself, trembling from the cold. The dawn air was biting. Her feet, abused all day, ached; the ostrich feather on her head felt as heavy as a lead weight.

Just then, the door behind them opened.

“Good night, Lord.”

Someone emerged after receiving the doorman’s polite greeting. At the same moment, the large limousine that had been waiting at the curb glided forward and stopped.

The tall man passed them with a brief nod, tipping his top hat slightly.

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

They answered with mere nods, eyes envious as they watched the limousine.

The chauffeur returned to open the rear door and waited for the man. He strode forward. Beneath the gas-lamp glow, his long shadow stretched across Mabel’s shoe tips.

Just before climbing into the limousine, the man slowly turned his body.

“If you require a carriage, may I escort you to your accommodations?”

Mabel drew in a startled breath. The worst dance partner imaginable: Baron Carlyle de Rocheret.

“Oh, if you would, we would be most grateful,” Walter said brightly, shaking hands with Carlyle. He gestured for them to come forward.

Walter assisted Mildred into the car first, then turned toward Mabel. At once Mildred tugged urgently at his sleeve.

“You sit here,” she whispered, nodding her head toward Carlyle and glancing at him meaningfully. Walter, understanding her intent, cleared his throat and squeezed into the rear seat.

Carlyle, watching this, extended his slightly folded arm toward Mabel.

“Miss Darlington, what a pleasure to meet you again.”