Congratulations?Cora blinks.For what?
There’s hardly time to ask given the subsequent flurryof introductions, all going more or less the same, with Harry growing noticeably more emboldened—or is it distressed?—by the reactions his presentations of her are eliciting. He seems particularly perturbed tonight; Cora doesn’t know what to make of it. They are far too late in the season for her to lose his attention now, not when the emerald plans are already in motion, not when Alice is already preparing the fictional embassy for their showdown on the first of May.
“I wonder, Mr. Peyton, if we could steal away for some air, just the two of us?”
“I love a good quadrille, don’t you?” Harry blurts awkwardly, once the music changes.
He doesn’t wait for a response, simply pulls her toward the dance floor.
They fall in line with three other paired partners, any hope of conversation dashed for now. One dance leads to three. And then four.
When a waltz starts up, Cora seizes her chance. “I must admit, you seem awfully distracted tonight, Mr. Peyton.” Then, more softly, “Harry.”
He’s too busy scanning the room to note her dulcet tone, tightening his grip around her hand as he spins her away. His hand is clammy, she notices, as he pulls her inward. His forehead damp too.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Harry mutters, eyes widening. “I can hardly wait any longer.”
Cora follows his gaze as they spin again.
Oh. No, no, no.
Her frame feels like an hourglass, her insides disintegrating into sand.
Harry is blatantly staring at Arabella, who stands huddled together with her mother and Alice in her bird costume. He is flagrantly pining for his childhood sweetheart. So Cora has lost Harry’s interest after all. Ruined everything. Good God, how many times has Alice insisted that without the Peytons, thereisno con? Forget Alice letting her in; she’ll never forgive her. Maybe Cora will be Alice’s next revenge target. She can picture it perfectly. A lifetime of running away from the cold-blooded wolfhound.
Oddly, though, buried under all these mounting vexations, there is the strangest, slightest tinge of...
Relief.
“Cora, now that your cousin has arrived, I...” Harry swallows. “Well, I cannot keep this up any longer.”
He leads her off the dance floor and toward the refreshments table.
“Perhaps some punch first?” Cora suggests, hand shaking as she grabs the ladle.
“Cora.” He grabs her wrist. “I have something I must ask.”
She turns queasily. Her own nerves are out of control now, a careening carriage with loose wheels. And is it her imagination, or is the crowd closing in? Beau Witt has appeared in the fray, staring at them with that gloomy sneer. A few young men Cora met earlier have stopped their own conversations and are now staring at Harry. But a couple paces away, Mimi Vandemeer and Bonnie Witt, too, have both turned, smiling at Cora in sick fascination.
“I do believe it’s time,” Bonnie intones ominously.
Time for what?
Mimi smirks. “From recluse to bumbling showman in a matter of weeks. It’s a turnout for the ages.”
Cora has the distinct sensation of the entire parquet floor being pulled out from under her.
Showman?
“I was at a loss for how to do this, but they have assured me this is the correct method.” Before her, Harry lowers himself onto one knee and brandishes a small box from his pocket. He opens it carefully, revealing a large opal-cut diamond flanked, quite thoughtfully, by two emeralds.
The room goes quiet.
He takes her hand. “I know that you and I will be compatible.”
Cora’s mind free-falls. She’s floating, divorced from time and space. She hears feet shuffling behind her, whispers, gasps of contented delight.
On instinct, she looks around for Alice, but Her Fake Grace’s eyes are locked on Harry kneeling on the ground, her expression demure as ever. Utterly opaque.
