‘Shall we go?’
A hired carriage took them the short distance to the mansion of the Conde de Villanueva. Lights blazed in every window and the queue of vehicles outside proclaimed an event of some importance. Harry and Elena joined the line of guests waiting to greet their hosts. The conde greeted them warmly, his gaze lingering on Elena with undisguised admiration. He bestowed on her a dazzling smile.
‘Welcome to my house. May I present my wife, the Condesa Maria?’
The condesa was a pretty, dark-haired lady with an elfin figure. She smiled at her guests and bade them welcome. Elena returned the smile.
‘Thank you so much for the beautiful flowers. They were a delightful surprise.’
The condesa inclined her head graciously. ‘You’re most welcome.’
Harry registered this with wry amusement. Either his suspicions had been entirely without foundation or else Villanueva was a lot smarter than he’d given the man credit for.
The condesa introduced them to some of the other new arrivals. When the necessary courtesies had been observed, they made their way through the antechamber that adjoined the ballroom. Curious eyes followed their entrance.
‘You seem to have created a stir, my sweet,’ murmured Harry, ‘but don’t let it go to your head. The first two dances are mine.’
‘If you say so, my lord.’
‘I do say so. Furthermore, I’m prepared to back my claim against all comers.’
Elena raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, I wouldn’t wish to cause a scene.’
‘Wars have been fought for less.’
The tone was light but the expression in his eyes implied rather more. The effect was to make her flesh tingle. She had no desire to dance with anyone else even though good manners would likely make that inescapable. As she looked around all the other men in the room seemed decidedly lacking in comparison. She had not missed the curious and covert looks that came their way. Already the women were whispering behind their fans. Of course, Harry was hard to miss, being a head taller than most of the Spaniards present. Only the conde came near to him in height and good looks. Unable to help herself, Elena found herself making comparisons. Villanueva knew he was attractive to women but, in spite of his polished manner, there was about him the innate arrogance and hauteur of the hidalgo class. Harry’s birth was arguably better but he made no parade of it, nor did he trade on his good looks. He was also possessed of natural kindness and patience. Of the two men she knew with absolute certainty which one she preferred.
When the orchestra struck up, Harry claimed her hand for the first dance. It was a pavanne. The dance was slow and graceful, a measure from a bygone age, but then, she acknowledged, Spain was behindhand in such matters. She guessed it hadn’t been danced in England for many years and it surprised her that Harry should know it. Yet clearly he did, and well too. So much surprised her about this man and continued to sharpen her curiosity too. As they moved through the steps his gaze never left her and, although it was impossible to read his thoughts, her entire being resonated with awareness of it. All else ceased to exist for her except for the man and the music. This was quite unlike the first time they danced together; it was more intimate and more disturbing. Did he feel the same? Did he feel anything for her at all, or was this the triumph of hope over experience?
When, at length, the pavanne ended it was replaced by a cotillion. The mood and tempo were different but it was still exhilarating to dance with him. She caught his eye and saw him smile, an unaffected and natural smile that sent a pulse of warmth through her body’s core. She could see other women watching them and once or twice registered envy in their eyes. When she looked at the majority of men in the room it was easy to understand why.
Without her being aware of it Elena was attracting attention too, and when Harry led her from the floor they were greeted by their host and two or three others who wished for an introduction. Those were followed up by invitations for future dances. Harry resigned himself to the inevitable. Much as he would have liked to keep her to himself all evening, it would have been the height of bad manners. He watched in silent chagrin as she walked away with another man.
Villanueva read him accurately. ‘That is the penalty of having a beautiful wife, my friend.’
‘Well, you should know.’
The Spaniard grinned. ‘I content myself with the knowledge that Maria will always be with me at the end of the evening.’
Harry reflected that he would be the one to take Elena home, a notion that sent his mind in distinctly pleasurable directions. With an effort he brought it back. It was too easy to daydream about his wife, fantasies that had no foundation in anything except wishful thinking. He summoned a casual smile.