Success
Slightly more serious. But not much.
By the time they had reached the hall where everyone was dancing, Isobel found that she was beaming unashamedly. She knew now that this was no accident; his behaviour towards her was no accident, and of this she was exceptionally glad. He held on to her hand as they made their way to the centre of the floor; she was very grateful that she was wearing gloves, for if she hadn't been, surely her hand would have been tingling to the point where she could hardly move it. They stopped, turned to face each other and assumed a dancing stance.
Neither of them particularly excelled as a dancer, it had to be said, but people didn't seem to mind- respected as both of them were around the community people didn't seem to mind too much that the guest speaker and the governor could barely navigate their way around the floor without bumping into someone or other. They themselves didn't really notice: if Isobel was asked she would have to admit that she was paying far more attention to the doctor with his arms around her, than where on the dancefloor he was leading her to. She would have to admit that she was almost giddy.
That was a point, she realised during their second dance, they were much closer together now than when they had started off. Mercifully, the musicians had opted for a slower number this time around and they were no longer creating such uproar in terms of narrowly avoiding collisions with other pairs, and now, Isobel noticed, Dr Clarkson had almost completely enfolded her in his strong arms. If anyone were to take notice of them now, she was sure, it would provoke a lot more chatter about the village than their earlier exuberance had. But she resolved not to care; it had taken her, in fact both of them, a great deal of scheming to get this far: she was determined to enjoy it.
Now that he had calmed down a little bit, and wasn't trying to trample their fellow dancers, Isobel found that Dr Clarkson was a most agreeable dancing partner. He held his body with good enough posture to allow her to lean slightly more in towards him, without it being too noticeable. He guided the way masterfully for her, and she could only follow him. Seeing the expression on her face, he smiled at her roguishly. She laughed, casting her eyes briefly up towards the ceiling. Her purpose in doing so was twofold; to avoid letting him see the profoundness of the effect he was having on her, and because, for her age, in her own humble opinion, she had a marvellous neck, to the point where she rather prided herself on it. Perhaps, though, he already knew that he had turned her completely to jelly; he was largely supporting her weight from time to time when her knees saw fit to give way. She did not feel guilty for putting this strain on him, it was his fault after all, and she sensed that he was rather proud of it.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" she asked him in a low voice, just as he turned her around to head in the opposite direction.
He raised his eyebrows.
"Aren't you?" he wanted to know.
It would have been improper to reply "Far too much", so instead she cleared her throat. He gave another grin.
"Where are we going?" she asked, realising that he was slowly but surely dancing them off the dancefloor.
In fact, out of the room. He had waltzed them straight into the cloakroom off the main hall. Puzzled as she was by her new surroundings, she still felt a pang when his arms left her waist so he could close the door behind them. Looking around at the rows of coats and straw boater hats around the walls, Isobel waited for him to explain himself.
"Mrs Crawley," he began in a voice that suggested no hint of hesitation, "Would you prefer it if I asked you to marry me now, or if I waited until you were in the vicinity of a telephone and I rang you up to ask?"
"Now, please," she responded immediately, without a second thought, then allowed her mind to double back and take in what he'd actually said, "Why on earth would you telephone me to do it?"
He shrugged.
"I thought it might be fitting," he replied, and did not look affronted when she snorted heartily, "So," he began, with quite an endearing degree of enthusiasm, "When shall we get announce it, then?"
"As I recall, I haven't actually said yes yet," Isobel pointed out.
"But you will," he told her, though she did not miss the slight trace of uncertainty in his voice, "You've just asked me to ask you to marry me."
"You offered to ask me to marry you first."
He folded his arms across his chest. It was hard for Isobel not to burst out laughing at the expression on his face. Really, in light of the way he'd had her as putty in his hand and had managed to seduce her so efficiently, it was astonishing how easily he allowed himself to be wound up. She would have to remember that for in future, in case she found herself in need of amusement.
"Mrs Crawley, I don't throw myself at women lightly, you know."
"I know you don't; when you did it to me, you knocked me down to the floor," she reminded him, purely to see if she could make him cross enough to do it again. She would dare to venture that she almost succeeded.
"Mrs Crawley," he began again, more tersely still, "I am trying to tell you how much I admire... and love you. Though Heaven knows why," he added, his exasperation with her still evident. He cast a wary glance at her, and asked in a very businesslike tone, "You're not going to say no, are you?"
Finally, she decided to take pity on him.
"No, I'm not," she conceded, "I will marry you."
She is fully expecting it, the way his arms move to quickly enfold her once more in sheer relief, she almost orchestrated it after all.
"Don't ever make me worry like that again," he told her imperiously.
She bit her lip, which was quivering in a mixture of amusement and something else altogether.
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