A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [123]
The second dance was a waltz, and Micky asked her for the pleasure. When she was a girl the waltz had been considered indecent, because the partners were so close together, the man’s arm going all the way around the woman’s waist in an embrace. But nowadays even royalty waltzed.
As soon as Micky took her in his arms she felt changed. It was like being seventeen again, and dancing with Strang. When Strang danced he was thinking about his partner, not his feet, and Micky had the same talent. He made Augusta feel young and beautiful and carefree. She was aware of the smoothness of his hands, the masculine smell of tobacco and macassar oil, and the heat of his body as it pressed against hers. She felt a pang of envy toward Rachel, who shared his bed. Momentarily she recalled the scene in old Seth’s bedroom six years ago, but it seemed unreal, like a dream she had once had, and she could never quite believe it had actually happened.
Some women in her position would have had a clandestine love affair, but although Augusta sometimes daydreamed of secret meetings with Micky, in reality she could not face the skulking in back streets, the hole-in-corner meetings, the furtive embraces, the evasions and excuses. And besides, such affairs were often found out. She was more likely to leave Joseph and run away with Micky. He might be willing. At any rate she could make him willing if she put her mind to it. But whenever she toyed with that dream she thought of all the things she would have to give up: her three houses, her carriage, her dress allowance, her social position, the entreé to balls such as this. Strang could have given her all that, but Micky could offer only his seductive self, and it was not enough.
“Look over there,” Micky said.
She followed the direction of his nod and saw Nora dancing with Count de Tokoly. She tensed. “Let’s get closer to them,” she said.
It was not easy, for the royal group was in that corner, and everyone was trying to be near them; but Micky skillfully steered her through the crush until they were close.
The waltz ground on, endlessly repeating the same banal tune. So far Nora and the count looked like any other dancing couple. He made occasional remarks in a low voice; she nodded and smiled. Perhaps he was holding her a little too closely, but not enough to cause remark. As the orchestra played on, Augusta wondered whether she had misjudged her two victims. The worry made her tense and she danced badly.
The waltz began to wind up to its climax. Augusta continued to watch Nora and the count. Suddenly there was a change. Nora’s face took on a look of frozen consternation: the count must have said something she did not like. Augusta’s hopes rose. But whatever he had said clearly was not sufficiently offensive for Nora to make a scene, and they danced on.
Augusta was ready to give up hope, and the waltz was in its last few bars, when the explosion came.
Augusta was the only person to see how it started. The count put his lips close to Nora’s ear and spoke. She colored up, then stopped dancing abruptly and pushed him away; but nobody except Augusta noticed this because the dance was just ending. However, the count pushed his luck and spoke again, his face creasing with a characteristic lascivious grin. At that second the music stopped, and in the momentary silence that followed, Nora slapped him.
The smack sounded throughout the ballroom like a gunshot. It was not a polite ladylike slap, designed for drawing room use, but the kind of blow that would deter a drunken groper in a saloon-bar. The count staggered back—and bumped into the Prince of Wales.
There was a collective gasp from the people around. The prince stumbled and was caught by the duke of Tenbigh. In the horrified silence, Nora’s cockney accent rang out loud and clear: “Don’t you ever come near me again, you filthy old reprobate!”
For another second they formed a still tableau: the outraged woman, the humiliated count and the startled prince. Augusta was possessed by jubilation. It had worked