Suddenly, Bronwyn wanted nothing more than to stay with Cora and Rawley. She did not want to return to a ballroom and a world that promised only superficiality, superiority, and eventual suffocation—a mirror of the life waiting for her upon her return to England.

“Might I join you both up here for a little while?” she asked in a small voice.

There was that smile of his, finally. Rawley nodded, one large arm drawing Cora closer to him. “Of course you can.” He grinned. “If you can keep up.”

A weight lifted from her shoulders. “I might not be from the islands like you, but I assure you, Big Man, I can dance circles around you.”

Nobody looked askance when she exited onto the upper deck with Rawley and Cora, not even Lady Finley, who was being swung around in a rousing Scotch reel, or some of the other aristocrats Bronwyn recognized. As with most of the people in Courtland’s circle, a wide mix of ethnicities greeted her. Men and women with skin varying in tone from as milky as hers to rich hues darker than Rawley’s. The scene was a far cry from the ballroom below, but the sight of it made something inside of her come alive.

She might not be of mixed blood as Courtland was, but she felt a camaraderie lift her spirit all the same. Bronwyn knew that her brother hired anyone with the necessary skills for open positions on his ships and his estate, especially people from his mother’s homeland. It was one of the things she most respected about Courtland. He judged people by the strength of their character, not their appearance or lineage.

Bronwyn didn’t hesitate before jumping into the joyous fray, her smile wide as she paired up for a rousing polka with a sweaty young man with reddish-brown skin, long dark hair, and an open smile. “My lady,” he said with a smart bow.

“It’s just Bee,” she said.

“And I’m Rishi.”

She grinned. “Where are you from?”

“Trinidad.”

She’d heard about the island in the southernmost West Indies. “I’m from London.”

He pulled her into the first skipping turn, drawing a breathless laugh from her as they hopped and then took three swift steps before another spin. “I know who you are.”

Bronwyn frowned a little at that. “Truly?”

“I do some business with your brother, and he speaks quite fondly of you. He showed me a portrait of you once.” Rishi winked. “I have to say, it hardly does you justice, Miss Bee.”

She flushed at the compliment and gave herself over to the wild rush of the polka. The music was different, she noticed. Still at double time, but with the hollow, rhythmic sounds of the guiro, the bongo drums, and the maracas complementing the fiddlers.