When it came to social engagements, Hugh never knew which was worse: to be early and exhaust himself having to rise every time a lady appeared, or to arrive late, only to be the center of attention while he limped into the room. This evening, however, his injury had made the decision for him.

He had not been lying when he told Sarah that his leg would most likely pain him that night. But he was glad she had taken the cane. It was, he thought with a surprising lack of bitterness, the closest he would ever come to sweeping her into his arms and carrying her to safety.

Pathetic, but a man had to take his triumphs where he could.

By the time he entered the large drawing room at Whipple Hill, most of the other guests were already present. About seventy people, if he judged the crowd correctly. More than half of the so-called caravan were being lodged in nearby inns; they frolicked at the house during the day but were gone in the evening.

He did not bother to pretend that he was looking for anyone but Sarah the moment he limped through the door. They had spent much of the day in quiet companionship in the library, occasionally chatting but most often just reading. She had demanded that he demonstrate his mathematical brilliance (her words, not his), and he had complied. He’d always hated “performing” on demand, but Sarah had watched and listened with such obvious delight and amazement that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to feel his usual discomfort.

He had misjudged her, he realized. Yes, she was overly dramatic and given to grand pronouncements, but she was not the shallow debutante he had once thought her. He was also coming to realize that her earlier antipathy toward him had not been entirely without merit. He had wronged her—inadvertently, but still. It was a fact that she would have had that first season in London if not for his duel with Daniel.

Hugh would not go so far as to agree that he had ruined her life, but now that he knew her better, it did not seem unlikely that Lady Sarah Pleinsworth might have nabbed one of those now legendary fourteen gentlemen.

He could not, however, bring himself to regret this.

When he found her—it was her laughter, actually, that drew him to her—she was sitting on a chair in the middle of the room with her foot propped up on a small ottoman. One of her cousins was with her, the pale one. Iris, her name was. She and Sarah seemed to have an odd, somewhat competitive, relationship. Hugh would never be so bold as to think he understood more than three things about women (and probably not even that many), but it was clear to him that those two carried on complete conversations with nothing but narrowed eyes and tilts of the head.

But for now they seemed to be having a jolly time, so he made his way over and gave a polite bow.

“Lady Sarah,” he said. “Miss Smythe-Smith.”

Both ladies smiled and greeted him in return.

“Won’t you join us?” Sarah said.

He sat in the chair to Sarah’s left, taking the opportunity to extend his leg in front of him. He generally tried not to draw notice to himself by doing this in public, but she knew that he would be more comfortable this way, and more to the point, he knew that she would not be shy about telling him how he ought to sit.

“How is your ankle feeling this evening?” he asked her.

“Very well,” she answered, then wrinkled her nose. “No, that’s a lie. It’s fairly dreadful.”

Iris chuckled.

“Well, it is,” Sarah said with a sigh. “I reckon I overexerted myself this morning.”

“I thought you spent the morning in the library,” Iris said.

“I did,” Sarah told her. “But Lord Hugh very kindly lent me his cane. I walked all the way across the house on my own.” She frowned at her foot. “Although after that I did absolutely nothing with it. I’m not sure why it’s being so wretched.”

“This sort of injury takes time to heal,” Hugh said. “It may have been more than a simple sprain.”

She grimaced. “It did make an awful sound when I twisted it on the step. Rather like something tearing.”

“Oh, that’s dreadful,” Iris said with a shudder. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sarah just shrugged, and Hugh said, “That’s not a good sign, I’m afraid. It’s certainly nothing permanent, but it does indicate that the injury may be deeper than originally thought.”

Sarah let out a dramatic sigh. “I suppose I shall have to learn to grant audiences in my boudoir like a French queen.”

Iris looked at Hugh. “I warn you, she’s serious.”

He did not doubt it.

“Or,” Sarah continued, her eyes taking on a dangerous sparkle, “I could have someone arrange a litter to carry me about.”

Hugh chuckled at her flamboyance. It was just the sort of thing that a mere week ago would have set his teeth on edge. But now that he knew her better, he could not help but be amused. She had a rather unique way of setting people at ease. He had meant it when he had said it before: it was a talent.

“Shall we feed you grapes from a golden chalice?” Iris teased.

“But of course,” Sarah replied, holding her haughty expression for about two seconds before she broke into a grin.

They all laughed then, which was probably why none of them noticed Daisy Smythe-Smith until she was practically upon them.

“Sarah,” she said rather officiously, “might I have a word?”

Hugh rose to his feet. He hadn’t had a chance to talk with this particular Smythe-Smith yet. She looked young, still in the schoolroom but old enough to come down to supper at a family event.

“Daisy,” Sarah said in greeting. “Good evening. Have you been introduced to Lord Hugh Prentice? Lord Hugh, this is Miss Daisy Smythe-Smith. She is Iris’s sister.”

Of course. He’d heard of this family. The Smythe-Smith Bouquet, someone had once called them. He could not remember all of their names. Daisy, Iris, probably a Rosehip and Marigold. He dearly hoped none were named Crocus.

Daisy bobbed a quick curtsy, but she clearly had no interest in him, for she immediately turned her curly blond head back to Sarah. “Since you cannot dance tonight,” she said bluntly, “my mother has decided that we shall play.”

Sarah blanched, and Hugh suddenly recalled that first night at Fensmore, when she had started to tell him something about her family’s musicales. She had been cut off before she could finish. He never did learn what she was going to say.

“Iris won’t be able to join us,” Daisy continued, oblivious to Sarah’s reaction. “We have no cello, and Lady Edith wasn’t invited to this wedding, not that that would have done us any good,” she said with an affronted sniff. “It was very unkind of her not to let us borrow her cello at Fensmore.”

Hugh watched as Sarah threw a desperate glance at Iris. Iris, he noted, responded with nothing but sympathy. And horror.

“But the pianoforte is perfectly tuned,” Daisy said, “and of course I brought my violin, so we shall make a duet of it.”

Iris returned Sarah’s expression with one of her own. They were having another one of those silent conversations, Hugh thought, untranslatable by anyone of the male sex.

Daisy soldiered on. “The only question is what to play. I propose Mozart’s Quartet no. 1, since we do not have time to practice.” She turned to Hugh. “We performed that earlier this year.”

Sarah made a choking sound. “But—”

But Daisy was brooking no interruptions. “I assume you remember your part?”

“No! I don’t. Daisy, I—”

“I do realize,” Daisy continued, “that there are only two of us, but I don’t think that will make a difference.”

“You don’t?” Iris asked, looking vaguely ill.

Daisy spared her sister a fleeting glance. A fleeting glance, Hugh noted, that still managed to imbue itself with an astonishing degree of condescension and annoyance.

“We shall simply go forward without the cello or second violin,” she announced.

“You play the second violin,” Sarah said.

“Not when there is only one violinist,” Daisy replied.

“That makes absolutely no sense,” Iris put in.

Daisy let out a highly aggravated puff of air. “Even if I play the second part, as I did last spring, I will still be the only violinist.” She waited for affirmation, then plowed on anyway. “Which therefore will make me the first violin.”

Even Hugh knew it did not work that way.

“You cannot have a second violin without a first,” Daisy said impatiently. “It is numerically impossible.”

Oh no, Hugh thought, she is not going to bring numbers into this.

“I can’t play tonight, Daisy,” Sarah said, with a slow, horrified shake of her head.

Daisy’s lips pinched. “Your mother said you would.”

“My mother—”

“What Lady Sarah means to say,” Hugh cut in smoothly, “is that she has already promised her evening to me.”

It seemed he was developing a taste for playing the hero. Even to ladies who were not eleven years old and infatuated with unicorns.

Daisy looked at him as if he were speaking another language. “I don’t understand.”

From the expression on Sarah’s face, she didn’t either. Hugh offered his blandest smile and said, “I, too, cannot dance. Lady Sarah has offered to sit with me throughout the evening.”

“But—”

“I am sure that Lord Winstead has made arrangements for tonight’s music,” Hugh continued.

“But—”

“And I so rarely have someone to keep me company on nights such as these.”

“But—”

Good God the girl was persistent. “I am afraid I simply cannot allow her to break her promise to me,” Hugh said.

“Oh, I could never do that,” Sarah said, finally playing her role. She gave Daisy a helpless shrug. “It’s a promise.”

Daisy positively rooted herself to the floor, her face twitching as it began to sink in that she had been thoroughly thwarted. “Iris...,” she began.

“I will not play the pianoforte,” Iris practically cried.

“How did you know what I was going to ask you?” Daisy asked with a petulant frown.

“You have been my sister since you were born,” Iris replied testily. “Of course I knew what you were going to ask me.”

“We all had to learn how to play,” Daisy whined.

“And then we all stopped taking lessons when we took up strings.”

“What Iris is trying to say,” Sarah said, with a little glance toward Hugh before turning firmly to Daisy, “is that her skills on the pianoforte could never match yours on the violin.”

Iris let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a choke, but by the time Hugh looked at her, she was saying, “It’s true, Daisy. You know it’s true. I would only embarrass myself.”

“Very well.” Daisy finally capitulated. “I suppose I could just perform something by myself.”

“No!” both Sarah and Iris shouted at once.

And it really was a shout. Enough people turned in their direction that Sarah was forced to plaster her face with an embarrassed smile and say, “So sorry.”

“Whyever not?” Daisy asked. “I’m happy to do so, and there is no shortage of violin solos from which to choose.”

“It is very difficult to dance to the music of a single violin,” Iris quickly said.

Hugh had no idea if this was true, but he certainly wasn’t going to question it.

“I suppose you’re right,” Daisy said. “It is really too bad. This is a family wedding, after all, and it would be so much more special to have family playing the music.”

It wasn’t just that it was the only unselfish thing she had said; it was that it was completely unselfish, and when Hugh chanced a glance at Sarah and Iris, they both wore somewhat abashed expressions on their faces.

“There will be other opportunities,” Sarah said, although she did not go so far as to offer any specifics.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Daisy said with a little sigh.

Neither Sarah nor Iris said a word. Hugh wasn’t even sure they breathed.

The bell sounded for dinner, and Daisy departed. As Hugh rose to his feet, Sarah said, “You should walk in with Iris. Daniel said he would carry me. I must say I’m grateful.” Her nose wrinkled. “It’s very strange having the footman do it.”

Hugh started to say that they would wait until Daniel arrived, but the man of the hour had his usual impeccable timing, and Hugh had barely offered Iris his arm before Daniel was pulling Sarah into his and carrying her off to the dining room.

“If they weren’t cousins,” Iris said in that dry tone Hugh was coming to realize was uniquely hers, “that would have been very romantic.”

Hugh looked at her.

“I said if they weren’t cousins,” she protested. “Anyway, he’s so desperately in love with Miss Wynter he would not notice if an entire naked harem fell from the ceiling.”

“Oh, he’d notice,” Hugh said, since he was quite sure that Iris was trying to be provoking. “He just wouldn’t do anything about it.”

As Hugh walked into the dining room with the wrong woman on his arm, it occurred to him that he, too, wouldn’t do anything about it.

If a naked harem fell from the ceiling.

“You realize,” Sarah said to Hugh, “that you’re stuck with me now for the duration of the evening.”

They were sitting on the lawn, under torches that somehow managed to make the air warm enough to remain outside as long as one had a coat. And a blanket.

They weren’t the only ones who had taken advantage of the fine evening. A dozen chairs and lounges had been set up on the grass outside the ballroom, and at any given time about half of them were filled. Sarah and Hugh were the only people who had taken up permanent residence, though.

“If you so much as leave my side,” Sarah continued, “Daisy will find me and drag me to the pianoforte.”

“And would that be so very dreadful?” he asked.

She gave him a steady look, then said, “I shall make certain you are sent an invitation to our next musicale.”

“I look forward to it.”

“No,” she said, “you don’t.”

“This all feels very mysterious,” he said, leaning back comfortably in his chair. “It has been my experience that most young ladies are eager to demonstrate their skill at the pianoforte.”

“We,” she said, pausing to give the pronoun just the right amount of emphasis, “are uncommonly dreadful.”

“You can’t be that bad,” he insisted. “If you were, you wouldn’t be staging annual musicales.”

“That presupposes logic.” She grimaced. “And taste.” There seemed no reason not to offer the unvarnished truth. He’d learn soon enough, if he ever found himself in London at the wrong time of year.

Hugh chuckled, and Sarah tipped her head toward the sky, not wishing to waste another thought on her family’s infamous musicales. The night was far too lovely for that. “So many stars,” she murmured.

“Do you enjoy astronomy?”

“Not really,” she admitted, “but I do like looking at the stars on a clear night.”

“That’s Andromeda right there,” he said, pointing toward a collection of stars that Sarah privately thought resembled a tipsy pitchfork more than anything else.

“What about that one?” she asked, gesturing toward a squiggle that looked like the letter W.

“Cassiopeia.”

She moved her finger a bit to the left. “And that one?”

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” he admitted.

“Have you ever counted them all?” she asked.

“The stars?”

“You count everything else,” she teased.

“The stars are infinite. Even I can’t count that high.”

“Of course you can,” she said, feeling lovely and mischievous, all rolled together. “It couldn’t be simpler. Infinity minus one, infinity, infinity plus one.”

He looked over at her with an expression that told her he knew that she knew she was being ridiculous. But still he said, “It doesn’t work that way.”

“It should.”

“But it doesn’t. Infinity plus one is still infinity.”

“Well, that makes no sense.” She sighed happily, pulling her blanket more tightly around her. She loved to dance, but truly, she could not imagine why anyone would choose to remain in the ballroom when they could be out on the lawn, celebrating the heavens.

“Sarah! And Hugh! What a delightful surprise!”

Sarah and Hugh exchanged a glance as Daniel made his way over to them, his fiancée laughingly trailing behind. Sarah still had not quite adapted to Miss Wynter’s impending change of position—from her sisters’ governess to Countess of Winstead and their soon-to-be cousin. It wasn’t that Sarah was being a snob about it, or at least she didn’t think she was. She hoped she wasn’t. She liked Anne. And she liked how happy Daniel was when he was with her.

It was just all very strange.

“Where is Lady Danbury when we need her?” Hugh said.

Sarah turned to him with a curious smile. “Lady Danbury?”

“Surely we are meant to say something about this not being a surprise at all.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sarah said with an arch smile. “As far as I know, no one here is my great-grandnephew.”

“Have you been out here all evening?” Daniel asked once he and Anne were near.

“Indeed we have,” Hugh confirmed.

“You’re not too cold?” Anne inquired.

“We are well blanketed,” Sarah said. “And truly, if I cannot dance, I’m delighted to be out here in the fresh air.”

“You two make quite a pair this evening,” Daniel said.

“I believe this is the cripples’ corner,” Hugh put in dryly.

“Stop saying that,” Sarah scolded.

“Oh, sorry.” Hugh looked over at Daniel and Anne. “She will heal, of course, so she cannot be allowed in our ranks.”

Sarah sat forward. “That’s not what I meant. Well, it is, but not entirely.” Then, because Daniel and Anne were regarding them with confusion, she explained, “This is the third—no, the fourth time he has said that.”

“Cripples’ corner?” Hugh repeated, and even in the torchlight she could see that he was amused.

“If you do not stop saying that, I swear I’m leaving.”

Hugh quirked a brow. “Didn’t you just say that I’m stuck with you for the rest of the evening?”

“You shouldn’t call yourself a cripple,” Sarah returned. Her voice was growing too passionate, but she was completely unable to temper it. “It’s a terrible word.”

Hugh, predictably, was matter-of-fact. “It applies.”

“No. It does not.”

He chuckled. “Are you going to compare me to a horse again?”

“This is far more interesting than anything going on inside,” Daniel said to Anne.

“No,” she said firmly, “it’s not. And it’s certainly not any of our business.” She tugged on his arm, but he was gazing longingly at Sarah and Hugh.

“It could be our business,” he said.

Anne sighed and rolled her eyes. “You are such a gossip.” Then she said something to him Sarah could not hear, and Daniel reluctantly allowed her to drag him away.

Sarah watched them go, somewhat confused by Anne’s obvious desire to leave—did she think they needed privacy? How odd. Still, she was not done with this conversation, so she turned back to Hugh and said, “If you must, you may call yourself lame,” she said, “but I forbid you to call yourself a cripple.”

He drew back in surprise. And, perhaps, amusement. “You forbid me?”

“Yes. I do.” She swallowed, uncomfortable by the rush of emotion within her. For the first time that evening, they were completely alone on the lawn, and she knew that if she allowed her voice to drop to its quietest register, he would still hear her. “I still don’t like lame, but at least it’s an adjective. If you call yourself a cripple, it’s as if that’s all you are.”

He looked at her for a long moment before rising to his feet and crossing the very short distance to her chair. He leaned down, and then, so softly that she was not certain she’d heard him, he said, “Lady Sarah Pleinsworth, may I have this dance?”

Hugh was not prepared for the look in her eyes. Her face tipped up toward his, and her lips parted with a breath, and in that moment he would have sworn that the sun rose and set on her smile.

He leaned in, almost close enough for a whisper. “If I am not, as you say, a cripple, then I must be able to dance.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

“I shall never know unless I try.”

“I won’t be very graceful,” she said ruefully.

“That’s why you are the perfect partner.”

She reached out and placed her hand in his. “Lord Hugh Prentice, I would be honored to dance with you.”

Carefully, she moved to the edge of her chair, then allowed him to tug her to her feet. Or rather, to her foot. It was almost comical; he was leaning on the chair, and she was leaning on him, and neither could stop their grins from extending into giggles.

When they were both upright and reasonably well balanced, Hugh listened for the strains of music wafting out along the night breeze. He heard a quadrille.

“I believe I hear a waltz,” he said.

She looked up at him, clearly about to issue a correction. He placed a finger on her lips. “It must be a waltz,” he told her, and he saw the instant she understood. They would never dance a reel, or a minuet, or quadrille. Even a waltz would require considerable innovation.

He reached over and plucked his cane from where it was resting against the side of his chair. “If I put my hand here,” he said, resting it on the handle, “and you put yours on mine...”

She followed his lead, and he placed his other hand at the small of her back. Without ever taking her eyes from his, she moved her hand to his shoulder. “Like this?” she whispered.

He nodded. “Like this.”

It was the strangest, most awkward waltz imaginable. Instead of a clasped pair of hands, elegantly arched before them, they both put their weight on the cane. Not too heavily; they didn’t need that much support, not while they had each other. He hummed in three-quarter time, and he led with light pressure on her back, moving the cane whenever it was time to turn.

He had not danced in nearly four years. He had not felt music flow through his body, nor savored the warmth of a woman’s hand in his. But tonight... It was magical, almost spiritual, and he knew that there was no way he could ever thank her for this moment, for restoring a piece of his soul.

“You’re very graceful,” she said, gazing up at him with an enigmatic smile. This was the smile she used in London, he was certain of it. When she danced at a ball, when she looked up at her suitor and paid him a compliment, this was how she smiled. It made him feel positively normal.

He never thought he’d be so grateful for a smile.

He dipped his head toward hers and pretended to be imparting a secret. “I’ve been practicing for years.”

“Have you now?”

“Oh, indeed. Shall we attempt a turn?”

“Oh yes, let’s.”

Together they lifted the cane, swung it gently to the right, then pressed the tip back down on the grass.

He leaned in. “I’ve been waiting for the proper moment to unleash my talent upon the world.”

Her brows rose. “The proper moment?”

“The proper partner,” he corrected.

“I knew there was a reason I fell out of that carriage.” She laughed and looked up with a mischievous glint in her eyes. “Aren’t you going to say that you knew there was a reason you didn’t catch me?”

About this, however, he could not be glib. “No,” he said with quiet force. “Never.”

She was looking down, but he could see by the curve of her cheeks that she was pleased. After a few moments, she said, “You did break my fall.”

“It appears I am good for something,” he replied, happy to be back to their teasing banter. It was a safer place to be.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, my lord. I suspect you’re good for many things.”

“Did you just ‘my lord’ me?”

This time, when she smiled, he heard it in her breath, right before she said, “It seems that I did.”

“I cannot imagine what I have done to earn such an honor.”

“Oh, it is not a question of what you have done to earn it,” she said, “but what I think you have done to earn it.”

For a moment he stopped dancing. “This may explain why I don’t understand women.”

At that she laughed. “It is but one of many reasons, I’m sure.”

“You wound me.”

“On the contrary. I know of no man who truly wishes to understand women. What would you have to complain about if you did?”

“Napoleon?”

“He’s dead.”

“The weather?”

“You already have that, not that you could possibly find any complaint tonight.”

“No,” he agreed, peering up at the stars. “It is an uncommonly fine evening.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “Yes, it is.”

He should have been satisfied with that, but he was feeling greedy, and he did not want the dance to end, so he allowed his hand to settle more heavily on her back and said, “You did not tell me what you think I have done to earn the honor of your calling me ‘your lord.’ ”

She glanced up at him with impudent eyes. “Well, if I were completely honest, I might admit that it just popped out of my mouth. It does lend a flirtatious air to a statement.”

“You crush me.”

“Ah, but I’m not going to be completely honest. Instead, I’m going to recommend that you wonder why I was feeling flirtatious.”

“I shall take that recommendation.”

She hummed quietly as they turned.

“You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”

“Only if you want to.”

He caught her gaze and held it. “I do want.”

“Very well, I was feeling flirtatious because—”

“Hold on one moment,” he interrupted, because she deserved it, after making him ask. “It’s time for another spin.”

They executed this one perfectly, which was to say, they didn’t fall down.

“You were saying,” he prompted.

She looked up at him with faux severity. “I should claim to have forgotten my train of thought.”

“But you won’t.”

She made a sorry little face. “Oh, but I think I have forgotten.”

“Sarah.”

“How do you make my name sound like such a threat?”

“It doesn’t really matter if it sounds like a threat,” he said. “It only matters if you think it sounds like a threat.”

Her eyes grew wide, and she burst into laughter. “You win,” she said, and he was quite sure she would have thrown up her hands in defeat if they had not still been depending upon one another to stay upright.

“I think I do,” he murmured.

It was the strangest, most awkward waltz imaginable, and it was the most perfect moment of his life.