Turning his attention to Grace, he gave an approving smile. “You are going to be the name on everyone’s lips tomorrow. Mark my words.”
“Let’s hope for a good reason, rather than a poor one,” Grace added with a smile.
“Never fear. You’ve already won the battle. I can see it in your eyes. You know who you are, Grace. And the battle that is most fierce is always the battle within ourselves.” The viscount gave her a sharp gaze, then turned to the door.
In short work they were driving down Mayfair toward the Drummel estate. Samantha had explained that Lord Drummel was an earl from a very old and established peerage. His family had retained the title for over three hundred years, and as such, they were very respected. The very elite of the ton would be in attendance, and only very select ladies would make their début at such an event.
No pressure.
Grace tugged on her gloves a little more tightly, and closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing, her heartbeat. In what seemed like too short a time, the carriage slowed, then stopped. Grace glanced out the window, watching as several carriages waited before them, making a line of waiting gentry to enter the party.
At least that meant she had a few moments to herself to mentally prepare herself.
Not that she hadn’t been doing that all along. But now that the moment was closer, there was a slight edge of panic in her throat that she kept trying to swallow away.
“Breathe, dear.” Samantha reached over and grasped her hand.
“Trying.” Grace gave a tight smile.
“The worst you imagine is always worse than what will be,” the viscount replied.
Oddly enough, that was quite helpful. The panic slowly eased away, and she didn’t feel the need to breathe quite so shallowly. Their carriage pulled forward, and soon the door was opened by one of the Drummels’ footmen.
As she waited for her turn to exit, she whispered a quick prayer, then put on a smile as the footman offered his hand in assistance.
Don’t trip.
She put one foot down on the step, then set her other foot on the terra firma. When her other foot hit the gravel, she whispered a prayer of thanks. It shouldn’t be so important, but falling from the carriagehadhappened before, and this was the last place on earth she wished to repeat such an event.
People would surely be talking aboutthatin the morning.
“Come,” Samantha whispered softly as they started toward the marble steps. Wide pillars framed the entrance, reminding her of the Grecian ruins she’d seen in a history book. The white marble was glistening, polished to a mirrorlike finish. Torches were lit beside the entrance to assist with illuminating the area, and the sound of music floated out past the door. Gentlemen and ladies all politely waited to go in and be announced. As the time came for their party to enter, she saw the viscount whisper their names to be announced.
She held her breath, walked behind Samantha, and then heard, “Lord and Lady Kilpatrick and Miss Grace Morgan.”
The viscount continued on, taking the stairs down to a foyer that opened to a wide ballroom just to the left.
Nothing significant happened.
No one seemed to bat an eyelash.
It was oddly disappointing and yet relief flooded her.
She wasn’t quite sure what she expected to happen. Maybe a glance, two perhaps. In her nightmares the whole ball would go silent and stare while crickets chirped in the background. She knew that wasn’t going to happen, but she did expect . . . well . . . something.
But nothing was better than something bad, she figured.
She gave a mental shrug and then focused on the stairs. Of course there would be stairs. Biting her lip ever so slightly, she navigated one step after another, thankful that her slippers weren’t overly prone to sliding. At the last stair, she breathed a sigh of relief and lifted her gaze to follow the viscount and Samantha. A few steps ahead, she picked up her pace to catch up, and nearly tripped on her hem, but righted the problem quickly before anyone was the wiser.
Or so she hoped.
Breathing deeply through her nose, she lifted her head high, and while her inclination was to smile wide and brave, she knew that she would be expected to remain impassive and neutral in expression. Schooling her features, she walked behind her guardians and into the ballroom, eyes wide. The sweet music of the string quartet added the perfect background to the wonder of the scene before her.
English lavender dusted the tables, the scent rising from vases on each table. White linen tablecloths accented the light purple buds and the fragrance was heavenly, immediately soothing and familiar. Grace couldn’t stop the smile that tipped her lips from their carefully neutral position. Footmen in silver and navy livery offered orgeat and Madeira on silver platters, and the whole room moved as if alive. The dancers were their own accent to the kaleidoscope of color and movement, and for the first time in all her memory, Grace actually wanted to dance. Usually dancing was just a way to advertise her inability to perform the correct steps at the correct time.
Especially the waltz. Good Lord, she hated that dance.
But the way the people moved, their flowing steps, their turns and steps were lovely, engaging, and she wanted to be a part—even if she were to be the less graceful addition.
