The Brigadier's Daughter. Catherine March

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      ‘You are an excellent dancer, Miss Packard.’

      Reid noticed that she bowed her head, with a smile, in a shy yet charmingly graceful gesture, acknowledging his compliment and yet neither bold nor brazen in her acceptance. He noticed, also, the tiny speck of cream at the corner of her mouth, and agonised over whether to mention it, or remain silent. He found himself glancing time and again, as they danced, at her mouth, until she turned her head, aware of his gaze, a slight frown on her well-shaped, dark brows and a pink blush staining her neck and cheeks.

      ‘Forgive me, Miss Packard.’ It was unconscionably rude of him to have embarrassed a lady, so he erred on the side of truth and his judgement that Miss Packard favoured honesty. ‘But, um, please do not take offence, but you may wish to dab your handkerchief to the corner of your mouth.’

      ‘Oh!’ Sasha was instantly mortified. ‘Have I cream?’

      ‘Indeed you do. Just a tiny speck.’

      Sasha felt a red-hot heat of embarrassment wash over her entire body, and wished with all her being she could flee. She made a tiny move to jerk from his arms, but he pulled her back and smoothly manoeuvred her through the flowing steps of the waltz.

      ‘Oh, sir, please do let me go!’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘I—I—’ Sasha stammered. ‘Let me retire to the ladies’ cloakroom, please.’ In agony she felt her cheeks blaze.

      ‘There is no need.’ As they danced into the corner, and his broad shoulders shielded her from prying eyes, deftly, quickly, he reached out with one gloved finger and flicked the offending blob of cream away. ‘There now, it is gone. All is well. And no one could see.’

      Sasha tried to pull away again, but he held on to her, and she glanced up at him. ‘You must think me very…gauche.’

      ‘Not at all.’ He gazed down, saw the telltale glimmer of tears in her eyes, and repeated firmly, ‘Not at all. And in the grand scheme of things, what is a mere speck of cream? It’s not as though you had lost a slipper or, God forbid, a stocking trailed about your ankle.’

      She could not help but laugh, nor could she help it as another painful blush warmed her exposed neck. ‘You should not speak of such things.’

      He smiled, enjoying the pleasant sound of her laugh, and even her blushes, for it had been a long time since he had been close to a woman who could still blush.

      ‘No, indeed I should not.’ It began to dawn him on him then why Miss Alexandra Packard might not be the belle of the ball, for he sensed there was something infinitely fragile about her. To his surprise he felt the surge of a most unfamiliar emotion, as though he would fight dragons and villains to protect her from all harm. He brushed it off, annoyed with himself. This would not do, as many men no doubt felt, judging from her empty dance card, it would not do at all for an officer’s wife to be anything other than a strong and capable woman who could take care of herself, the home and the children while her soldier husband was away winning his medals.

      At the end of the waltz they parted company, and Sasha wondered, as he coolly bid her adieu, whether he would return for the second. To her surprise and pleasure, he did, and firmly took the lead, moving her slender body about the ballroom with infinite ease and confidence. He made no move to open conversation, so politely she enquired if he was looking forward to his posting to St Petersburg, and from there they enjoyed a dialogue about Russia.

      ‘I must confess, Miss Packard,’ murmured Captain Bowen, above her ear, ‘that I have not enjoyed a dance quite so much this evening, as I have with you. Not only are you an exquisite dancer, but very interesting to talk to.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      They continued the dance until its end—all too soon, Sasha thought—and then he walked with her back to where her father and her sisters sat. He did not depart at once, but lingered to converse with her father on the Army and the possibility of Russian lessons.

      In the dark, early hours of morning the clop-clop of horses’ hooves and the rumble of carriage wheels roused Lady Packard as she lay dozing, waiting for the return of her family to their home in Roseberry Street. She stirred and reached to turn up the wick on the glass-shaded lamp beside the bed. Beyond her bedroom she could hear footsteps and the bang of a door, and her husband’s deep voice as he admonished his daughters to be quiet. She sat up and plumped her pillows, checked her braided hair and turned her face eagerly to the door. A few moments later it opened, and the Brigadier stepped in, tossing aside his white gloves and bow tie as he walked with soundless footsteps across the carpet.

      ‘Did the girls have a wonderful evening?’ she asked in her soft, husky voice, even after all these years still influenced by her native Russian accent.

      ‘My dear—’ Conrad turned to face his wife, as he shrugged off his jacket ‘—you did not have to wait up.’ He spoke gently, sitting down on the edge of the bed and gazing at her.

      Olga held out her arms to him, and with a contented sigh he pulled her into an embrace, affectionate and yet restrained, mindful of her delicate health. He kissed the side of her neck, breathing in the scent of her skin and stroking back tendrils of dark hair from her temple. ‘How are you, my love?’

      ‘I am well,’ she replied gently. ‘I have missed you.’

      ‘You should have come with us. The Westfalings were asking after you, as well as Percy, and many others.’

      Tears glowed in her eyes, her turbulent emotions easily aroused, ‘Next time, I promise. Soon I will be feeling much stronger. Did Georgia behave?’

      ‘No.’ Conrad could not help but laugh, his annoyance tempered by admiration for his daughter’s passionate, if stubborn and wayward, nature. He sat back and pulled off his shoes and stockings, undressing swiftly and then climbing into bed with his wife, a sigh escaping from his throat as he lay back. ‘I am getting too old for all of this nonsense.’ He turned his head on the pillow and gazed at his wife. ‘What a pair we are! It’s high time these girls of ours were married off. Their husbands can run around after them and we can enjoy a little time to ourselves.’ He mused for a moment, a vision of rusticating at their country manor in Shropshire taking hold in his mind, hopeful that the country air and quiet life would help improve Olga’s strength. ‘I think Georgia may have acquired a beau this evening, though not the one she would no doubt prefer. Percy introduced his nephew, a Captain Reid Bowen. I found him most personable and highly suitable, more than capable enough of keeping Georgia in line. However, he’s off to St Petersburg in the spring, on a posting to the Embassy as military attaché.’

      ‘Oh, Conrad, how wonderful.’ Olga turned to lie against him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘Tell me more! Just think, one of our girls married to an officer.’

      ‘Steady on now, my love, they’ve only just met. Though he did ask my permission to call, and I have invited him for dinner on Christmas Eve. I hope that will not be inconvenient.’ He looked down at her with raised brows.

      Olga shook her head. ‘We were short of one gentleman, so it will be perfect. But what of my Sasha? Did anyone dance with my Sasha?’

      ‘Only Captain Bowen, but as always she kept close to my side and seemed unable to overcome her shyness. I fear she does rather live in Georgia’s shadow.’

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