For some time he did not look at her, merely led her effortlessly through turn after turn, in a smooth and rhythmic spell. But as his gaze at last settled on her face Meg knew she had to speak.

“I know ‘tis you I must thank. Your cousin...so attentive to Lucy...”

“Hayden chooses his own partners,” he said softly. “As do I.”

Meg had to glance away.

“Where did you learn to waltz?”

“In Vienna, Miss Lawrence. I told you I have Austrian relatives.”

“You must have waltzed everyday?”

“Morning, noon, and night.”

She turned again to his quick smile.

“Sir-I owe you an apology.” Just then he spun her about, robbing her of breath.

“For what, Miss Lawrence?”

“For...calling you...”

“A gardener. Which is what I am. You needn’t apologize. Though I might wish you had shown the profession a bit more respect.” Despite the dismissal, something of anger lingered: his hold on her waist tightened. But as Meg continued to gaze silently up at him that temper seemed to fade. Their gazes locked as surely as their hands and arms.

Again she yielded to the spell of the dance. It was best that it should be the longest waltz ever played - the waltz without end. She knew she should speak, that they should both be speaking, but she was as loathe to break the silence as the touch.

A smile lit his eyes.

“What are you...pondering, sir?” she asked warily

“Trees.” Again they whirled about.

“I doubt many women have been so complimented,” she said at last.

“Only one, Miss Lawrence. Your eyes are unique. I cannot decide if they are as green as fresh leaves, or as blue as the deepest ocean. But yes - I think of trees.”

Meg knew she was blushing. The arm circling her waist again tightened, but this time not in anger.

“You are holding me too close, Mr Cabot.” But he did not loosen his grasp.

“I would ask you to attempt a smile, Miss Lawrence. Just for a few seconds here, as we come into this turn. ‘Twould do my reputation a world of good-amongst Miss Lucy and her friends.”

The thought that he should need any help in that sphere was laughable. She could not help but smile. Cabot wheeled her around once again. As the music ended he loosed his arm from her waist and bowed very low - right under the Earl of Sutcliffe’s nose.

Meg froze. To move from such joy to such fear in an instant was more than she could manage. She watched numbly as Cabot stood erect and started to take his leave.

“One moment, sir,” Sutcliffe hissed. “I would speak with you.” He would have forced an introduction. But Cabot, who was few inches taller, merely looked past the fuming earl and departed into the crowd.

Meg had not realized Cabot had left her so close to her family. Bertie was at her side at once, just as Sutcliffe’s jealousy flared.

“Such a display has never before been admitted in this hall, Miss Lawrence,” he bit out. “I imagine that even now your privileges are being revoked.”

“So let them be,” Bertie said. “M’sister has done nothing wrong, Sutcliffe. And you have no right to speak to her so.”

Meg laid a hand on Bertie’s arm. She feared her brother would provoke more than anticipated.

“Let us leave here, Bertie,” she said softly. “We need not answer to Lord Sutcliffe.”

“Need not, miss?” Sutcliffe repeated, his gaze trapping hers. “The time will come when you will wish to.”

She followed Cabot’s example and turned her back on him, compelling Bertie to follow suit. Had Cabot known how it would be? Why then, had he desserted her to face Sutcliffe alone? She felt that extraordinary pleasure and freedom of the waltz had been stolen from her, like so much else.