Her husband, Lord James, had excellent taste in scotch and a free hand with both the bottle and the cigars. Even though a wife was not on the table, the evening was certainly enjoyable.
I danced an enjoyable set with Miss Cordelia Lucas. Though she was untitled, she had a substantial enough dowry that I could not discount her entirely. She had been light of foot and free with her smiles.
No other lady caught my eye in time for a second set, but the drinks table managed it. The scotch was truly exceptional.
In general, I found the crush and cacophony of balls to be a bit chaotic. Though the guest list was more exclusive, this one was no exception. It was a shock when, one by one, the voices began to dissipate, and the orchestra cut midnote. Until there was nothing left behind but deafening, palpable silence.
Turning, searching for the source of the disquiet, I was met with a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare.
Miss Summers, clad in the crimson fabric of that nightmare from all those months ago, was framed by the open archway at the top of the split staircase. Her eyes were wide, and her lip trapped between her teeth. She twirled her hands; they danced restlessly in front of her while each and every member of thetonstared at her in horror.
Disgust swirled in my gut. The chit had the sheer nerve and gall to display unease. After arriving well past fashionably late in a blood-red gown to a black and white themed event. What had she been aiming for?
Poor Lady James was certainly humiliated by her behavior. Her elegant evening and theme in tatters at Miss Summers’s feet. The girl was so desperate for acknowledgement she had forgotten to have shame.
Worse still was the effect she had on me. Intellectually, I found her behavior abhorrent. The rest of me… That dream from months ago, all but forgotten, swam unbidden to the surface of my memory.
The living, breathing Miss Summers lacked the confidence of my imagination. The deep, clinging scarlet gown on her frame was every bit as seductive in person. Perhaps more so.
The red fabric burned black in the folds and drapes while the ornate chandelier flickered, reflecting off ruby hairpins. It highlighted, emphasized every single curve. The contour of her bosom, the nip of her waist, the arch of her back, the bend of her waist, the swell of her bottom, all sensually exaggerated. She was an audacious, luscious, calligraphic ‘S.’ Her every flourish embellished for dramatic effect, no matter how inappropriate the situation.
Not one of her previous gowns displayed her figure to such an advantage. That was certainly beneficial to my health. Never before had I experienced such a heady, contradictory combination of irritation and lust.
Across the ballroom, her eyes found mine. Too far to make out the color, they were still too wide, too big really, and haunting. I could not look away, could not breathe.
Seconds, minutes, an eternity later, she blinked; shuttering the connection between us.
Blood rushed through my ears, distorting the returning ballroom sounds. The scandalized whispers rose around me, indistinct.
Pointedly, I cut my gaze from her eyes and her form, turning back toward the drink table. If she wanted sympathy or acceptance for her poor behavior, she would need to look elsewhere.
Nine
JAMES PLACE, LONDON – JULY 1, 1813
KATE
My invitation madea horrifying kind of sense now.
The situation bordered on comical. What lengths did Lady James go through in order to orchestrate this? A separate invitation with a specific time and theme. Did she snub Lady Rycliffe and Lady Davina to ensure they would be unable to foil her plot? Was my aunt’s friend even ill? Lord, did she poison the woman?
Any possibly charitable explanation I could find vanished with a quick glance in her direction. She was bent at the waist cackling in a most unladylike fashion.
I couldn’t help but hope she snorted a little when she laughed.
A blood stain in a sea of white, I was conspicuous in the worst possible way.
My feet froze, refusing to respond to commands; orders to flee, directives to fight were all ignored equally. Erratically, my gaze flicked from face-to-face, hoping desperately for a single friendly smile.
There was none to be had. No Celine, no Lady Davina, and if my cousin and his wife were present, they certainly weren’t in the ballroom.
Expressions ranged from derision to cruel amusement, but there was nothing close to sympathy to be found. They were unfamiliar faces as well. She chose her audience well.
At last, I found a recognizable, imposing form. It was a wonder it took so long to pick him out. Lord Grayson stood several inches above the rest, with broad shoulders, a tight brow, and a familiar stern slash of a mouth.
My eyes found his, too far to discern the disapproving gray-blue gaze I knew too well. My eyes joined my feet in disobedience, refusing to abandon his.
Even across the ballroom and critical as always, he was captivating. Arrogant and self-important as well, but captivating, nonetheless.
