"There is a new dance conquering London from the continent," Everett said, leading Mabel into the heart of the ballroom.

"Since we've conquered them, it is only suitable for them to fight back, and so gallantly," Mabel replied.

A tiny crease appeared between his brows. Mabel's breath caught in her throat. Did she say something wrong?

"With the quadrille. They, ah, are conquering us with the quadrille." The more she tried to correct it, the more awkward it sounded. He certainly didn't flirt back.

With a quick shake of his head, Everett dispelled the unfortunate mood her remark cast over him. "Oh, no, quadrille is an old hat, Miss Walton. Our newest dance is called the waltz. It shall serve splendidly to spin our heads till we are dizzy and have quite forgotten the war."

She took a careful breath in. Please, not another misstep! She would die if she upset him again, just die! "We haven't seen the waltz in Lancashire yet."

How did that go? So bland, but couldn't have been upsetting... For all her slanting her eyes, she could only see his etched profile. It had been an effortless pleasure to talk to him back at Miss Carter's house. Where did this ease go now? She needed it, needed it as badly as the air.

Smile, for a woman's smile had launched a thousand ships sailing to Troy, she commanded herself. It was also a smile on the most beautiful face in history, but she shan't think of that now. She shan't think at all. "Is this new dance as scandalous as they say?"

He leaned to whisper into her ear—Merciful Heavens, but he was tall!

"Much more scandalous than they say, Miss Walton. The partners must embrace to dance properly. Quite thrilling at first, but I think our society can get used to it."

She had heard the whispers, of course. Had seen the caricatures in print, but when he said it, his eyes flashing, the scandal came alive. Heat washed over her like wind from the deserts of Holy Land.

"Do you?" he asked.

The candle flames, the musicians tuning their instruments, the laughter and conversation blurred into one shining, whispering swirl around her.

"W-what?" Wonderful, now she was quaking and staring wild-eyed at him, utterly unable to comprehend his question or what he wanted of her. The only thing she could focus on was his face and the ringlets falling to his collar. So marvellously handsome...

"Do you think we'll get used to it?" Everett repeated impatiently.

The way he said 'we', it was as if he meant just the two of them, dancing that new dance from London in an embrace. Good thing it hadn't yet come to Lancashire.

"Of course," she said. "We can very well get used to it." If he suggested that they could get used to breathing underwater, she'd have said the same.

His hand withdrew, as he offered his bow. The bow, she could do a bow... and then his hand warmed her chilly fingers even through her gloves.

The throbbing of her heart in her ears overpowered her other senses. She barely comprehended it when the dance master announced that as a special surprise, the second dance would be a waltz.

Did her ears hear it wrong?

But no, it couldn't be. He did say the waltz. What's more, some of the couples slipped from the floor to the fringes, judging wisely that it was better to avoid embarrassment. Who knew if this new fashion was just a passing fancy and would be abandoned by the end of the season?

Alas for Mabel, she was trapped right at the centre of the room, among the most daring of the guests. The boldest man she had ever had the pleasure of dancing with looked at her expectantly out of strikingly blue eyes.

"I don't know the steps." The polished floor fell from under her. She was falling, falling with it into the Abyss.

"Do not worry, I do," Everett replied brightly. "Follow my lead, and you will pick it up easily."

He sounded so sure and he was so tall.

Her mouth trembled as she forced it into a semblance of a conquering smile. The waltz. The new steps. With Everett Chesterton. Oh, my Lord. Lord help me...

The dance master gave instructions, of which Mabel heard nothing, because all she could think about was how Everett would embrace her by the waist. This thought looped through her head till Everett actually did embrace her by the waist. If not for his strong arm there, she might have run, but now it was too late.

The music poured in, pushing them from their spot like the fallen leaves in a raging stream.

The tune was lively with the pulsating rhythm, something Mabel wouldn't have minded playing on a winter night when melancholy besieged her.

But her legs apparently had a mind of their own. They desperately wanted the quadrille. After weeks of begging them to dance, they did, but they remembered the quadrille and only the quadrille, and danced that, ignoring all the pleas, all the efforts of her soul to switch. She knew each move was wrong just before making it—and she made it anyway.

It would have been funny, if she didn't immediately step on Everett's foot. Heat flushed her cheeks like wildfire. "Sorry..."

He laughed, carrying her over his shoe, swirling her down the length of the giant room.

Two uneventful steps... then she tripped over his foot, catching her skirt on his knee so hard that her imagination supplied an image of it tearing in half with the next step. She stumbled over her own feet.

"I am so sorry." She squelched her burning face, trying to measure her steps in tempo with the mischievous music.

"One-two-three," Everett whispered into her ear again.

She flailed in his arms uncomfortably to glimpse his pinched face. He hated her...

"One-two-three..."

Merciful Heavens, why couldn't she do it? It didn't even look that hard!

There were more people watching the dangerous new style than dancing. Their faces all turned to her, eyes fastened to every misstep she made, counting them, covering the gasps and snorts with their fans and handkerchiefs. Cordelia had even dipped her nose into the silky fur of her lapdog to hide a smile.

Mabel's back arched unnaturally under Everett's hand, stiff as a board, because she loved its warmth there, but couldn't show it.

The other dancers, who dared to stay on the floor, caught up to the steps, copying Everett or confessing to practising them in secret. The familiar sound of Hazel's giggles drifted to her on a particularly sharp turn, echoed by Mr. Aldington's baritonal chuckles.

Oh, what she wouldn't have given to be as comfortable in Everett's company and laugh off all the guffs!

Alas, from all the women, she alone, ended up paired with the sophisticated man who knew how to waltz perfectly. Who was a stranger in Lancashire, rather than a familiar neighbourly face.

And he was the man whom no other could hope to rival on the dance floor. Also, the man whose feet she'd trodden on more often than she did on the polished floor.

Lord in Heavens, when will the music end? When will this torture be over?

She let him drag her along to the bitter end, his eyes growing more and more incredulous with every misstep. He was obviously accustomed to the ladies adapting quickly to his lead. To his credit, he bowed politely once the dance had mercifully stopped.

"Thank you, Miss Walton, for an unforgettable dance."

Unforgettable was one word for it. Mabel gulped down the useless apologies, watching him grow distant. At least he didn't wince. She was grateful for that small mercy. The best she could hope for, is that he pitied her, and what use did she have for his pity now?

Her fantasy had ended.

It was Waterloo, yes, but she was Napoleon, not the triumphant allies. She was dealt a crushing defeat.

What am I to do now? she thought helplessly. Through the veiling tears, the light of the candles and dresses smudged into a shimmering monster ready to swallow her whole. What I am to do now?

AN: So, what do you think? Do you want Mabel to confront him? Or  just fix things somehow?