Chapter 23
The Whittlesborough event was the season’s ball of balls. Lady Whittlesborough liked to boast every year that the ball was an even bigger squeeze than the year before. One could hardly dance, and this year, she vowed, it shall be even more so.
Pen was wearing a gorgeous confection of gauze and pale silk with golden embroidery.
“You look like a goddess,” Charlotte had breathed. “If you don’t get a proposal tonight, then I don’t know what is wrong with the gentlemen.”
She herself looked beautiful in a night blue gown that showed off her creamy décolleté, her fair hair elegantly coiffed to a chignon, with curls teased out.
Her husband, a tall, broad man, attended as well. Pen found she had a lot in common with him. Neither seemed to enjoy small talk.
“Will is a bit shy,” Charlotte had explained with a laugh. “I expect him to spend most of the night in the card room, but you owe both Pen and me at least one dance. Do you hear, Will?”
“Of course, my dear.” He looked down at his wife affectionately, and she returned his smile.
Pen watched them wistfully. Aside from her parents, she had never seen two people so much in love. It was there, in every glance, in every movement. In the gentleness with which he placed the shawl around Charlotte’s shoulders. In the way his eyes softened when he looked at her.
How lucky Charlotte was.
The Whittlesborough mansionwas ablaze with life and light. The path leading up to it was lit with torches. Flower garlands interwoven with ivy decorated the staircase leading up to the ballroom. The strains of violins rang from the ballroom. A quadrille started.
Pen clenched the fan in her gloved hands and moistened her dry lips.
“Nervous?” Charlotte stepped up to her.
Pen nodded.
“There is no need. But I recall how nervous I was at my first ball. I met Will there. How long ago that was! Granted, your introduction to society is unconventional.” Charlotte reached out to straighten Pen’s dress and readjusted the flower braided into her hair. “Traditionally, you should’ve been presented at court first, together with the other debutantes. But no matter. Everything about you is unconventional, but never let it be said that you’re not a diamond of the first water. Because you are.” Charlotte’s warm eyes were on her.
Pen felt a clump in her throat. She felt she did not deserve this praise. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I know I am difficult sometimes, but I want you to know that I do appreciate everything you do for me.”
“Oh, Pen. You’re making me tear up,” Charlotte said with a tremulous smile. “Well then, let us proceed to the ballroom.”
Charlotte took her husband’s arm, Pen his other, and the three of them stepped up to Lord and Lady Whittlesborough, who stood by the entrance to the ballroom to greet them.
Pen searched the room. This time, she was not looking for a curly black head, but a well-coiffed blond one. A tall, athletic figure with proud bearing. Her heart quickened, then stopped.
He was dancing with a girl in pale blue. Miss Letty Mountroy. Alworth himself was finely dressed, his coat and breeches moulded to his athletic body. He wore a silver embroidered waistcoat and a single red flower in the buttonhole. The cuffs gleamed white against his dark coat. He was exquisite. She wouldn’t have expected anything less. And he danced gracefully. They made a beautiful couple. Miss Mountroy’s mother seemed to think so, too, for she watched from the side with a group of other matrons, beaming proudly.
Pen struggled to breathe evenly. Her corset squeezed her lungs.
Charlotte introduced her to a gentleman, who asked her for the next dance. Pen nodded and took his hand automatically. She had not even registered his name. Her partner led her onto the dance floor, and everything went by in a dizzying, colourful whirl.
Alworth recognisedher the minute she entered the ballroom. He almost stepped on Miss Mountroy’s feet and missed the next step.
By Jove. Could it be possible that the awkward, angular boy turned out to be such a graceful lady? Dressed in cream and silk, she stepped lithely into the room, on the arm of Colonel Wentwood. She bore herself proudly. Her dark head was elegantly coiffed, with a golden band skilfully woven through a braid that crowned the top of her head with flowers. Her neck was long, her dark eyes large. She was like a slender, delicate lily. Every inch a princess.
“Beautiful,” he murmured.
Miss Mountroy batted her eyelashes at him, giggled and blushed.
Alworth flashed a smile at her, suppressing an oath. Would this cursed dance never end?
He saw Pen did not lack in dancing partners, either.
He bowed to Miss Mountroy and returned her to her mother, Lady Mountroy, who looked upon him with a maternal, possessive look that was confident of her daughter’s matrimonial victory.
Alworth felt his coat was too tight.
