Not even when the waltz was finally played. It was the supper dance—a dance coveted by any gentleman with aspirations toward a deeper familiarity with his lady. And not only because the waltz was an intimate undertaking, but because afterward he would have the privilege of dining with his partner. Of sitting beside her for an hour or more.

Maggie stood near to Aunt Harriet’s chair, watching the dancers swirl about the room. It was then that she saw him.

John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare.

Clothed in an elegant black-and-white evening ensemble, he was waltzing with Miss Steele. All but embracing her as they swirled to the music.

Maggie’s breath stopped.

When had he arrived? She hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t heard any talk to indicate he was present. He must have come just before the dance began. Which meant he’d likely reserved it with Miss Steele ahead of time. An agreement the pair of them had come to at a prior engagement, perhaps, or during the course of one of their drives in the park.

Maggie rested a hand at her midriff, willing herself to breathe, even as her heart clenched with hurt and jealousy. She was ashamed to admit to the latter. She had no formal claim on St. Clare. He’d said he intended to court her, it was true, but he’d made her no promises. Had sworn her no oaths. Only Nicholas had done so, and that had been too many years ago to count. He’d been little more than a lad then. What had he known of the world? What had he known of women?

Across the ballroom, St. Clare looked as experienced as any world-weary rake. He smiled down at Miss Steele as they danced. She was talking to him. Flirting with him, more like. Garbed in a shimmering silver dress, she fairly glowed in the candlelight. Twinkling like a diamond. Young and pretty and vigorous.

Maggie had been so once.

But not now.

She felt a sudden flush of embarrassment at her daring blue dress. She should have taken a page from Jane’s book, dressing in a modest ball gown more appropriate to her years.

Jane herself looked elegant and graceful, waltzing with Lord Irvine, an elderly widowed gentleman. She was closer to Maggie than St. Clare was. Close enough to flash her a beaming smile.

Maggie forced a smile in return. A brighter smile than she thought herself capable of, given the circumstances. She wouldn’t have her friend worry over her. Jane had already wasted the first half of the evening in looking after Maggie’s comfort.

It was when she was smiling with such artificial brilliance that the twirling pattern of the dance brought St. Clare and Miss Steele closer. A dip and a swooping turn, and then his stormy gray gaze caught Maggie’s across the floor.