Lois Menzel Read Free

William Lane, were also present on Tuesday night. Celia was partnered for nearly every dance. When she sat with her sister and mother during the intervals, she said little.
    Finally Amelia commented, “You are very quiet tonight, Celia. Are you not feeling well?”
    “I’m sorry,” Celia responded. “Am I being dull?”
    “Celia had hoped Mr. Graydon would stand up with her tonight,” Lavinia answered quietly. “But we have been here more than two hours and . . .”
    “Maybe he has not come,” Amelia suggested. “Have you seen him?”
    “No,” Celia replied, “but he specifically asked me if I would be here tonight, so naturally I thought he would be.”
    Mrs. Demming assumed an offended air. “I pray he is not trifling with you, Celia. I will think much less of him if he is. I do not care for it in the least when gentlemen—” She stopped speaking suddenly, and her demeanor changed from one of haughty disapproval to pleased surprise.
    Celia looked up to see Mr. Graydon making his way toward them. Her fit of the sullens fled, to be replaced by a rebirth of hope.
    Earlier in the evening she had danced with Mr. Prescott, who had ever so slight a paunch and an unquestionable bald spot, Sir Ralph Hazelwood, charming but over forty, and Lord Button, wealthy but humorless.
    Compared with these gentlemen, Anthony Graydon was perfection. His black evening coat set off his broad shoulders superbly, and his satin knee breeches did little to hide the strong muscularity of his legs. His curling brown hair, far from showing any sign of thinning, had been ruthlessly brushed into perfect order. His young, rakishly handsome smile was genuine and focused directly upon Celia. When he asked for her company in the dance and her mother nodded approval, Celia placed her small hand in his very large one, her heart thumping uncomfortably within her breast.
    As she watched her daughter waltz with Mr. Graydon, Lavinia preened. If Mr. Graydon could be brought up to scratch, this match would be her greatest victory.
    Nearly an hour later both Demming ladies retired upstairs to refresh themselves. After Lavinia was satisfied that Celia’s slightly dance-tangled curls were once again perfect, they descended the stairway together. When they had come halfway down, Celia noticed Anthony Graydon standing at the bottom of the stairs in conversation with several other gentlemen. Perhaps he had been watching for her, for he looked up at that moment and smiled when he saw her.
    Celia thought of all the trips she had made up and down the stairs at her home in Yorkshire with a heavy book on her head. “Keep your chin up, Celia,” her governess would say. “And under no circumstances sway your hips. Most unladylike, to be sure.”
    With hard work and determination, Celia had mastered the balanced book both on the floor and on the stairs. Now Mr. Graydon would be the fortunate recipient of her hard-won poise, her practiced grace. She smiled, parting her lips to allow her perfectly straight teeth to show slightly.
    Then, in the twinkling of an eye, she somehow misjudged the next step and was caught off balance. She made a desperate grab for the balustrade, but it was beyond her reach. She had time only to notice a startled look of dismay on Mr. Graydon’s face before she tumbled headlong down the remaining ten steps, landing in a heap of arms, legs, sea-green flounces, and exposed petticoats directly at Mr. Graydon’s feet.
    While Mrs. Demming stood frozen with shock on the stairs, a quick-thinking Anthony bent swiftly to twitch the hem of Celia’s gown over her exposed ankles and frilly white undergarments.
    “Are you all right, Miss Demming?” he asked. “Such a nasty fall!”
    His tone held genuine concern, but Celia did not hear it. Quickly pulling her legs beneath her, she accepted Mr. Graydon’s support to rise to her feet. She was aware that all talking in the hall had ceased and all eyes were upon her. She felt in that instant that