It had occurred to Charity that Mr. Harding might be present at the dance. Of course, it had.

But the idea had only taken the form of a daydream, a what-if that, in Charity’s mind, was tinged with the soft light of unreality.

She supposed that it was just what young ladies did when they met young men — amused themselves with thoughts of what could be, crafted elaborate and imaginary encounters, exaggerated the attractions of the young gentleman in question in their own minds.

It was remarkable, therefore, that now, standing in the candlelight, Mr. Harding was even more handsome than he had been in her imaginings.

She had kept telling herself that she must have been distorting her memory.

No man was as handsome as Mr. Harding appeared in her mind. His white teeth could not possibly flash so brilliantly when he smiled, that his brown eyes could not truly have held the warmth and complexity of polished oak, that his broad shoulders could not truly stand in such a graceful line several inches above everyone else in the company.

And yet, there he was.

Perhaps Esther said something, but she knew not. Nor did she notice the intrigued glance of Esther’s older married sister, who was acting as their chaperone for the occasion.

How could she notice anything apart from the warmth of Mr. Harding’s hand, which she could feel even through the thin barrier of her silk glove with the way that he held her hand in his with a firm yet gentle grip?

As he led her to the space where the dancers were lining up, she could hear a murmur ripple through the assembled crowd. And why should it not be so? Here was the son of a Duke — a disgraced son, but son nonetheless — dancing with the daughter of a clergyman.

“We seem to have made quite a spectacle,” Mr. Harding said, leaning close to Charity to speak softly so that his breath disturbed the little curls that framed her face.

Usually, that sort of attention would have made Charity’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, but tonight she scarcely noticed the stares. She felt as though she were floating, and there was nothing in all the world but herself, Mr. Harding, and the strains of music that were filtering through the haze in her mind.

She did not consciously notice what melody was being played, but fortunately, her feet seemed to play their part unbidden.

“It is peculiar to see you like this,” Mr. Harding remarked when the music brought them close together enough to speak. He spoke to her familiarly, as if he were sharing the thoughts that he had been waiting to convey to her since they had last spoken as though they were in the habit of revealing their ruminations to each other.

“Like what?” she replied. It was not that she did not share his feeling that this meeting was strange, but she wanted to know his reasons for thinking it so, rather than merely assuming that he shared hers.

It would have been so easy to suppose that he felt the same as she did. It would have been so easy to become carried away.

“Like this,” Mr. Harding said again, gesturing with one hand to the other dancers, the standing candelabra, the pretty young ladies and watchful mammas, the red-cheeked men who had partaken in one too many glasses of port. “Out in society, where we are being watched.”

“I believe it is you that is being watched,” Charity replied, “I believe that my own part in the play is merely incidental.”

“I would not be so sure,” Mr. Harding replied, smiling. “I would wager that by the end of the evening there will be all manner of speculation about Miss Miller and what it all might mean.”

“I scarcely think so,” Charity replied. “I am sure that there could be no other interpretation of our dancing together than that your impeccable manners compelled you to dance with the poor, plain vicar’s daughter.”

She had not meant to be so self-deprecating in her speech, but the mingled impression of the light, the music, and Mr. Harding’s smile caused her to be less cautious in her speech than usual.

“Poor and plain?” Mr. Harding did not leap to exaggerated professions of outrage, as might have been customary for a gallant young man.

Instead, he smiled gently, leaning closer so that his breath brushed at her ear. “You cannot believe that, Miss Miller, I am sure. When I entered the room and saw you, I knew that I would be obliged to ask you to dance immediately, or I should be edged out by all the other young men in the room.”

Charity could feel a blush creeping to her cheeks, and was grateful for a brief interlude in which the dance drew Mr. Harding away from her so that she did not have to think of some gracious and socially acceptable response.

However, what he said was far more sincere, and caught her more greatly off guard than any compliment she had received before. She became acutely aware of the sensation of her hand in his.

“You are truly radiant tonight, Miss Miller. I have given a great many compliments in my life, and until now, I thought I meant them. But never in my life have I felt so moved by a lady’s beauty nor so compelled to tell her how I feel.”

At this pronouncement, Charity actually missed several steps of the dance, but she was able to recover and keep her composure, which she was able to maintain so long as she did not look directly into Mr. Harding’s eyes.

“I thank you for your compliment,” she replied. “Though I must say, Mr. Harding, that I would sooner be appreciated for any number of virtues more than how I appear in a pretty gown or how well my hair might look when I have taken time to arrange it carefully.”

“Indeed, there are other virtues,” Mr. Harding said, “and I believe that you have them in abundance. I would not have you think that I admire you merely for your beauty, though on an evening such as this, the strength of your beauty cannot be denied, and I should be a hypocrite if I tried to do so.

“But there are different times and settings for appreciating different virtues,” he continued. “When we have met in the grove with only the sound of the leaves to disturb us, it has been the ideal setting for marveling at how much I enjoy your lively mind and insightful conversation.

“But you know as well as I do,” he continued, “that the function of a dance is not the conversation, though conversation may play a part. No, the function of a dance is to create a spectacle for us to see one another to our full advantage. And if you will forgive me for saying so, Miss Miller, to see you the way you look tonight is a rare pleasure.”

Charity knew that the seemly thing to do would be to look away, to make some pretty little comment in response that would simultaneously entice and deflect Mr. Harding.

But she did not look away nor did she want to. Something about the quality of Mr. Harding’s gaze made her feel that he understood her and he saw her real self in a way that no one else ever had.

When they joined hands dancing, Charity had a remote and distant sense of being grateful she was wearing gloves, for she could not imagine how she might have responded if she had felt the intimate shock of Mr. Harding’s warm palm in hers. He was gazing at her so intently that it felt to her as if his very eyes were touching her skin.

She was so captured by his gaze and flooded by his compliment that she only just remembered to murmur a brief ‘thank you’. Even that seemed to catch in her throat, such that when she spoke the words they came out in barely more than a whisper.

Mr. Harding smiled. It was as if he understood how she was feeling, why she could barely even speak. Was that because he felt it too? She saw his face as a mirror of all she was feeling at that moment, and yet she scarcely dared to believe that he might have been filled with the same heady sensation as she was.

The dance was drawing to an end with the violin sounding out a final, sweet note that hung in the air between them.

“Meet me again in the grove.”

The words were spoken so suddenly that they cut through the dreamlike quality of everything that had come before. Charity blinked as though waking from a dream. The music had stopped, and the assembled couples were walking away from the floor — laughing, chatting, fetching refreshments as if everything were normal.

But everything was not normal. How could it be, when Mr. Harding had made such an impertinent suggestion?

“Meet you again?” Charity felt her face growing warm. “Arrange to meet a man, alone, in a secluded place?” She took a step back. “I do not know what kind of young woman you think I am, Mr. Harding. Perhaps I must attribute this forwardness to your time abroad, but I would remind you that we do things very differently in England.”

Mr. Harding’s cheeks had flushed bright red.

“Forgive me,” he said at once, the words seeming to tumble out of his mouth in his eagerness to express his remorse. “I forgot myself.”

“Indeed you did,” Charity replied sharply.

She knew that the substance of what he was proposing was not so very different to what had already taken place in their chance encounters. After all, they had been alone together in those moments, she quite unguarded, and he had behaved like a perfect gentleman.

Yet to suggest such a meeting — to actually endeavor to arrange it — was another thing entirely. It suggested an assumption of loose virtue that stung Charity to her very core.

They had created such powerful enchantment between them with such a strong sense that they knew one another more intimately than they knew anyone else. Charity feared that it was this very feeling that had deceived her into having too much faith in him.

Yet, she had not felt deceived. Not at the moment. That was what made it all the more confusing.

“Excuse me,” she said, her cool voice a contrast to her burning cheeks. “I must return to my company.”

“Miss Miller…”

Mr. Harding’s voice was quite unlike how Charity had heard it before. There was a desperation in it, an infusion of remorse that made Charity want to hesitate, to allow her hand to remain in his.

But there was too much at stake.

“Good evening, Mr. Harding,” she said coolly. “It was very pleasant to speak with you.”

She knew exactly what she was doing. She knew that she was hiding behind the veil that they all hid behind — all the time — that veneer of social politeness that hid secret frostiness, or manipulation, or simply a cold heart. She knew that Mr. Harding had valued the way such stiff manners had not mattered between them before because she valued it too.

“Miss Miller…”

She turned away and quickly took out her fan in the pretense of cooling herself, but it was really so that she could hide the pain in her face from Esther who she could see watching her eagerly from the other side the room.

She knew that by speaking to him that way she might well have destroyed that precious way of being together that they had shared in their few private moments. She had damaged that feeling they had both had in the grove -— the feeling they were the only two people in the world and that grove the only place.

She could not bear to speak to Esther and instead hurried to the side-room where her father was dozing in a winged armchair by the fire.

“Papa,” she shook him gently by the shoulder. “Papa, I wish to go home now.”

Her father awoke with a sudden jerk and looked dazedly about him.

“Hmm?” he said, blinking rapidly. “All the prancing around too much for you, is it? I cannot say I am surprised. Well, child, I suppose it is all for the best.”

Grumbling in a slightly befuddled manner, the Reverend Miller rose from his chair and led Charity outside to where the carriage waited for them. She could see Esther looking for her in some confusion on the other side of the room and caught her friend’s eye.

She hoped that her expression conveyed that she was obliged to leave but that there was no cause for concern. She could see a crease forming on Esther’s brow as she looked at Charity, but knew that she could not bear to try to explain.

She did not look to see where Mr. Harding was. As far as she was concerned, it did not matter.

Settling back into the carriage with her father, she deflected his questions about whether she had enjoyed the dance with bland smiles. She said that to be sure, it was always pleasant to come together with one’s neighbors for the purpose of a cheery occasion.

Her father was watching her very carefully. She knew that his real question was whether she had met any young men, whether he ought to be concerned.

And, Charity thought, there was no reason to be concerned, for she did not intend to see Mr. Harding again.

The truth was that she was afraid.

She was afraid of the way that touching Mr. Harding’s hand with hers had made her heart hammer in her bosom. She was afraid of what might happen if she allowed herself to care too deeply about this man. She feared how badly she might be hurt by him.