Belle of the ball by Donna Lea Simpson

price he must pay for a half-hour with this girl, then he would gladly pay it.
    "How big is Canada, truly?" she asked, her eyebrows knotted together
    "What?" He had lost himself momentarily in her twinkling jade eyes, and could not think.
    "I have heard that it is huge—Canada, I mean—but I cannot fathom it. One country, so very large?"
    He reined in his wandering thoughts, and from there, the conversation revolved around him and his journeys. She asked him questions no one since his arrival had ever thought to ask. What did the natives live in? Did they truly wear nothing but feathers? Were they cannibals? Where had he traveled? What had he done? How long was he there? Did he travel the whole time, or did he set and live somewhere for a while? Were there any cities? What did he think would happen to Canada in the future? Would America ever try to take it over again?
    He was by turns amused, perplexed, and tantalized by glimpses of a questing curiosity within her, and he was charmed by how entranced she was by nature. He felt a powerful urge to dress her in breeches and steal her away to Canada, She would love it, he thought, never mind that she had grown up in society. She had the right personality—curious, active, unjudging. She was the first person he had met since he had been back in England who believed what he said about his Ojibwa friends, and he longed to take her to see George, and his daughter, Mary Two Feathers. Once she was past her shyness, little Mary had asked him questions, too, about the far-off land he had come from and the ocean journey there, about the terrifying creatures called lords and ladies, and about castles of stone. Put Mary and Miss Swinley together and they would talk non-stop. The picture was so vivid in his mind, he could see it, could see Miss Swinley in breeches, sitting by the fire as Mary asked her about far-off London.
    He shook himself out of his reverie. Of course, she was there in London to meet and marry a rich man, was she not? That thought chilled him to the marrow and deadened, for a minute, his pleasure. But he determined to enjoy the moment and let tomorrow take care of itself. What harm could there be in sitting with a pretty girl and talking for a half hour? No harm at all.
    The half hour of the dance came and went, and still they talked. Finding two empty chairs behind a pillar, they sat for the last few minutes. Unconsciously, Marcus reached out and grasped her gloved hand, holding it as they spoke, and she did not grab it back, but smiled at him with a sweet shyness that he found captivating. But then a shadow fell over them. Miss Swinley looked up and her face paled. She snatched her hand from his grip and stammered, "M—mother, m—may I introduce Mr. Marcus Westhaven?"
    'When pretty girls dance in the month of May, tra la, then all the boys mill kiss and run away, tra la —* Singing gaily, Arabella descended the stairs of Leathorne House next morning, and headed toward the drawing room. Last night's ball had been wonderful, and even her mother had been much more agreeable to Mr. Westhaven than she would have thought possible. She started into the room but stopped on hearing a raised voice.
    "Na, m'lady, t'will never do, you know. I hears that yer gel ain't performin' her duty, an' we'll be forced to reckon with ya 'bout yer debt. Too bad, but an undooti-ful child is the devil's right hand, ya know. So what 'bout this 'ere money ya owes us?"
    'T d—don't know where I can get the money. Please, please, just a little longer! I have sold my jewels; I don't know what else I can do."
    Her mother's voice was tearful, and Arabella felt her stomach twist in a convulsion of fear. She clutched the door jamb and listened, putting her cheek against the smooth painted finish and closing her eyes.
    "Look, I hates ta put it to ya like this, but if that gel o' yourn ain't betrothen in the next while, I'll be forced to do somethin' right nasty to you or yourn, if ya takes my