“Join me for punch, then.”
“Oh, Mr. Witt, that won’t be necessary—”
“I insist.” He leads her toward the refreshments table.
Cora swallows a groan, although at least they’re headed in Harry Peyton’s vague direction. As Cora approaches, she can see Mrs. Ames’s expression more clearly now. She’s also watching her daughter and Harry’s little reunion, and looks none too pleased herself.
A plan formulates in Cora’s mind—a slight pivot fromquiet decorum, though Alice will have to forgive the hasty improvisation—and hasty it will have to be.
Beau twists the ladle like a sword before sloshing the redpunch into a glass. “After this moment of respite, I do hope you will honor me with a— Say!”
Because she’s already started swaying, one hand to her forehead, the other held out as if bracing for a fall.
Beau fumbles to place down the drinks and help, but Mrs. Ames has already caught sight of Cora’s impending tumble and is mercifully quicker.
“Miss Ritter, Cora dear, are you ill?” Mrs. Ames bustles to her side, Arabella and Harry on her heels.
“I’m... not sure,” Cora whispers, stumbling a step. Two, for good measure. “I—”
As Beau approaches, Cora spins dramatically—and in one fluid motion, discreetly lifts the small pencil tucked inside his pocket—then wobbles, falling backward toward an approaching Harry Peyton, uttering a silent prayer that he’ll catch her.
She lands softly into his wide, outstretched arms.Good boy.
Harry hovers over her, blue eyes widening.
“Mygoodness, miss.” He gently places her on the floor, pressing his fingers to her neck. Not exactly what she’d expected, but she can work with it. “Your systolic pressure has plummeted. At these levels, I worry about your heart—”
“My heart,” she whispers, gazing deeply into his eyes. “It does feel rather transfixed at the moment.”
A hint of red flashes on Harry’s skin.
Cora bites her lip to stop her smile from growing any farther. Up close, Harry looks even more charmingly guileless. High cheekbones, dark hair peeking out from that ill-fitting wig, literal wide eyes. His thick eyebrows stitched, still studying her with concern.
She begins to rise, and he hastens to offer a hand.
“Thank you for your exquisite timing, but I promise I ammore than all right,” Cora says in her Württembergian lilt, smoothening her skirts. “Although also quite... mortified.”
“Then you should consider yourself in good company,” Harry says, still holding her arm for balance, gesturing down at his outfit with a frown. “I thought tonight was a costumed event. I had it in my head that all balls were costumed balls. Obviously that was an ill-informed presupposition.”
“We all make mistakes,” Cora supplies kindly. “At least this is a charming one. Fortunately, I do feel a bit better now.”
“You should always carry smelling salts on your person,” Harry says gravely. “And drink plentiful liquids to keep yourself hydrated.”
“I told her she needed punch,” Beau mumbles behind them.
Cora ignores him. She peers down at Harry’s hand, still touching her, then away, as if shy. “Truly keen advice.”
“Itishotter than Dante’s inferno in here,” Mrs. Ames coos in sympathy, offering her a second arm. “Please, do take your time, Miss Ritter.”
Harry adds, “Fresh air can also help with syncope.”
“Syncope?” Cora asks, gazing up at him.
He looks beyond flattered to be asked. “The scientific term for swooning. Caused by a decrease in blood to the brain.”
“We’d both be happy to escort you outside, Cora,” Arabella cuts in, too quickly.
Beau clears his throat, stepping forward.
