Page 39 of An Execution, an Earl, and Miss Hughes
“Is there a hold up, Mrs Canards?” the vicar mildly enquired. “The ladies of the Parish Society are fretting about the empty hall.”
“Things are moving smoothly, Mr Mifford,” Mrs Canards replied, shooing Mr Henderson away with a scowl then beckoning the next in line.
“Very good,” Mr Mifford smiled benevolently. “Remember, Mrs Canards, God is always watching.”
As the vicar disappeared back upstairs, Sarah distinctly heard Mrs Canards murmur to her friend; “A pity He wasn’t watching when when Mr Mifford donned that waistcoat, now we all must suffer.”
After Mr Mifford’s intervention, the queue moved at a faster pace. Once Mrs Canards had taken their vouchers, Sarah and her father ascended the rickety stairs to the assembly rooms above. There, they found half the village present, dressed in their finest clothes. The younger ladies, like Miss Morton, wore gowns modeled on current fashion plates, whilst some older villagers wore fashions that belonged to the last century. None more so than Mrs Foxford, whose towering powdered wig and alarming rouge would not have been out of place at the court of Marie Antoinette.
“It’s said she wore that when she went to view Anne Boleyn’s head roll,” Sarah’s father whispered, as the elderly lady tottered past.
Sarah made to scold her father but was distracted by the sound of Mary calling her name with excitement.
“Over here,” the Duchess of Northcott called, waving her white gloved hand.
Sarah and her father made their way over to the group, who stood near the small ensemble of musicians. As they approached, the Earl of Ashford—dashing in a dark suit—detached himself from the herd.
“Miss Hughes,” he called, striding over to meet her. “I’m so glad you came.”
Lord Deverell leaned over her hand to bestow a kiss to the back of her glove, then moved to shake her father’s hand.
“Mr Hughes,” he said, his voice a shade deeper than usual. “I’m happy to see you again.”
“And I you,” Sarah’s father replied pleasantly, though as he released Lord Deverell’s hand from his grip, Sarah noted the earl wince a little.
Mercifully for Lord Deverell, Mrs Mifford swept over to greet them and promptly whisked Mr Hughes away to help her fetch some lemonade. Sarah stood shyly for a moment, glancing at the earl from under her eyelashes as she willed her brain to think of something to say.
“Might I see your dance card, Miss Hughes?” the earl asked cheerfully, relieving her of the obligation to think.
“This isn’t Almack’s, my lord,” she laughed, as she fished in her reticule. “We don’t have fancy dance-cards, just a printed page the Ladies’ Society sell to raise extra funds for charitable causes.”
She handed over the pitiful scrap of paper and braced herself for him to scoff at the provincialism of it all. But Lord Deverell accepted the page in silence, folded it with care, and tucked it into the pocket of his evening coat. He then offered her a satisfied, if slightly wicked, smile.
“W-what are you doing, my lord?” she stuttered.
“Ensuring all your dances belong to me,” he answered firmly.
As though he had commanded it, the musicians struck up the first song of the night. Lord Deverell took Sarah’s arm and led her to the centre of the dance floor for the first dance, which was a country set.
“Did I tell you how beautiful you look?” he whispered as he took her hand.
The music began, negating her need to reply. They moved together in time, stepping and turning with the rest of the set,but she was keenly aware of every moment they touched. The light pressure of his hand on her waist, the warmth of his palm against her gloved fingers; it was all too much and not nearly enough.
As they danced, every thought fled Sarah’s mind—the murder, Mr Henderson’s reveal, even Mrs Canards’ watchful eyes. It was only as Lord Deverell guided her through the final figure and the set came to an end, did Sarah recall where she was.
“You dance so well that I imagined myself in a grand ballroom and not above The Ring’o’Bells,” Sarah said with a laugh, as Lord Deverell took her arm to escort her back to the group.
“Ballrooms, chandeliers, orchestras,” the earl waved a dismissive hand. “They matter not, all that matters is that it’s your hand I’m holding.”
Sarah was so charmed that she had to fight the urge to disguise her nervousness with a joke. Now was not the time to quip that his fondness for Plumpton might waver once he found himself elbow to elbow with Mr Marrowbone in the lane behind The Ring, which served as the gentlemen’s convenience on assembly nights .
For once, she allowed herself accept a compliment and settled for grinning stupidly at him instead.
“My goodness,” Lord Deverell paused mid-step, his expression confused.
Sarah’s heart skipped a beat as she wildly wondered if he’d suddenly been struck by a realisation that he was an earl and she a nobody.
“Is that Mr Leek and Mrs Fawkes?” he continued in a whisper that combined horror with fascination. He nodded toward the far side of the room where Sarah, with a discreet peek, spotted the pair readying to dance.
