Lucy Muir Read Online Free Page B

Their eyes followed him constantly and they looked at Olivia with envy, for Lord Murray had opened the dancing politely, if not entirely correctly, with his host’s daughter. Phoebe had to admit she felt a pang of envy herself. Lord Murray was indeed a fine-looking gentleman, she thought, remembering his kind eyes when he had requested she save him a dance. She wondered if he would claim it.
    The first dance concluded, and Mr. Arnold returned Celeste to Mrs. Hartwell, politely requesting Phoebe’s hand for the next set. Celeste was asked to stand up with an impoverished young viscount, and as the evening progressed neither of the friends lacked for partners.
    * * * *
    Lord Murray found himself in great demand that evening, as his host had predicted. He danced with Miss Atwood first, and then several titled women, one of them an exceptionally beautiful woman of fair hair and stately presence. However, he did not forget his promise to dance with the young look-alikes, and directly after supper made a determined effort to find the two and fulfill his obligation. The room was excessively crowded, and his task was made more difficult by the many guests who impeded his progress by stopping him to speak, but he finally spied the bright red hair of Miss Hartwell and made his way to her side. He bowed to Mrs. Hartwell and claimed his dance with her daughter. Miss Hartwell smiled pleasantly at him as she gave him her hand, and he found her wholesome good looks held a particular appeal after the many bejewelled and silk-clad ladies with whom he had previously danced.
    They joined the lively gavotte in progress, and Lord Murray found Miss Hartwell to be an uncommonly graceful dancer who did not have to concentrate upon the steps and could therefore converse easily as she danced.
    “When I first saw you, I thought you and Miss Laurence might be sisters,” Lord Murray essayed, “but when you were introduced and I heard the different surnames I knew I was mistaken. Are you perchance cousins?”
    “No,” Miss Hartwell laughed, her pretty hazel eyes dancing, “only friends, although we might as well be sisters. We have lived next to each other all our lives, and are rarely out of each other’s company.”
    A lady bumped into Miss Hartwell on the crowded floor as she failed to take notice of her steps for staring at the Scotsman.
    “How do you like finding yourself the Lion of London, Lord Murray?” Miss Hartwell teased, noting the cause of the lady’s preoccupation. “You could not have timed your visit to London better, what with the recent publication of Lady of the Lake.”
    “Do you also share in the benefits?” he teased in return. “You look like a Scottish lass yourself, with your red hair.”
    “No, I fear London’s admiration of things Scottish does not yet extend to red hair. I have been informed a good many times that my hair is ‘a most unfortunate colour,’ ” his partner replied in a mock mournful tone. “Still, I have hope that may change. Perhaps you might inform the guests that red is a good Scottish hue?” she asked, looking at him hopefully. “Should you so inform them, they must believe it.”
    “I shall be happy to oblige,” Lord Murray responded gallantly, realizing he had inadvertently touched on what must be a sore subject to Miss Hartwell. He approved of the way she made light of her distress.
    When he returned Miss Hartwell to her mother at the end of the gavotte, Lord Murray claimed his dance with Miss Laurence, who had been returned to Mrs. Hartwell’s side by her previous partner. Miss Laurence, too, turned out to be an accomplished dancer, and Lord Murray had a sudden charming picture in his mind of the friends practicing their dancing together under the watchful eye of their dancing master.
    “I commented to Miss Hartwell that when I first saw you I thought you might be sisters, what with your matching attire.”
    “Then our ploy worked,” Miss Laurence surprised him by