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with a bower of blood-red roses set above it to scent the room. Paintings hung on the walls. Chairs of blue velvet lined the perimeter. Tall French doors stood open.
    Darcy’s heart raced at the sound of violins. The music struck up and gallants gathered up girls and drew them out onto the floor. A long row formed, gentlemen on one side, ladies on the other. They weaved up and down the line, ending with their hands touching a partner’s.
    Pulled into the fray of dancers, she scanned the room for Ethan. A moment more, and there he was, standing near the entrance. Miss Roth opened her fan and sat down in the chair near him, followed by Miss Byrd. Their heads were held high, and they sat with their backs straight as broom handles.
    Darcy thought it a shame to live day in and day out with a face covered in powder and rouge, to be confined to a life of boredom, of social gatherings where one’s rank ruled supreme. She felt sorry for Miss Roth. But then their eyes met, and Miss Roth gave Darcy a cold stare.
    The slow turn of her body, her hair loose about her shoulders, the elegant music seeping through her pores, brought Darcy back and made her feel happy to have lived the life God gave her. She smiled as she glided, going from one gentleman’s hand to another’s.
    But never Ethan Brennan’s.

5
    Ethan looked out into the crowd of dancers. Amid the laughter and happy voices, one would think he would have joined in the merriment. But Miss Roth held him near and refused to partake in the Americans ’ country-dance. She pleaded he not leave her side, but allow her to sit awhile until an oldfashioned gavotte played.
    “It is vulgar the way Americans strut and whirl,” she said. “These are the cream of their society, yet they glide and trip like the lower classes back home. There is no grace, no elegance. It must be due to their bloodline.”
    It did not show on his face, but Ethan was annoyed at her narrow-minded remark. “Why should bloodline have anything to do with dancing, Miss Roth?”
    “A talent for dance is inbred, sir. I doubt any of these people descended from English nobility but rather from indentured servants and headstrong rebels.” She then snapped her fan shut and sighed. “Therein lies the answer, I believe.”
    “Your prejudice fails to flatter you, Miss Roth,” Ethan told her.
    “Oh, it is not prejudice, Mr. Brennan, but simple observation of what is true.”
    “Observation is jaded by prejudice.”
    “Is it? Well, you shan’t catch me whirling and leaping about like a common herd-girl.”
    “No doubt I shall not. You are too tightly wound.”
    Miss Roth’s mouth fell open. “I hope you meant that as a compliment, sir. Or shall I think otherwise?” She leaned over to her friend seated beside her. “Miss Byrd, you heard what Mr. Brennan said. Have you an opinion on the matter?”
    “I am sure Mr. Brennan means to be kind, Miss Roth,” Miss Byrd replied. “To be tightly wound , as he put it, means you are dignified.”
    Miss Roth sucked in her cheeks. “You think so?”
    “I know so. That is how it has been explained to me.” She smiled, her teeth the color of old ivory, her lips thinning out as she spoke.
    Ethan took in a breath, bored with their shallow assumptions and senseless comments. He gazed over at Darcy, and then looked back at the snobbish Miss Roth. Why people ever thought he had considered the lady as a potential mate was beyond all reason. Shewas dull, critical, and slighted the religious—qualities he scorned in a woman. His father would not have approved. “Consider the words of Solomon, my son,” he would say. “Find a wife whose price is far above rubies.”
    Now his eyes beheld a girl with both virtue and spirit. Her passion for life sparkled in her eyes, illuminated her face, and echoed in her laughter.
    “It is shameful,” Miss Roth went on. “The girls here expose their ankles on every turn.”
    Ethan refused to comment. Why should he? If he were to voice to