Irritation hardened in my belly. What right did he have to wear that expression? There was burning fury there. Seething heat.
Slowly, the insults hidden beneath poorly feigned whispers beat their way into my consciousness. My eyelids shuttered against the hurtful claptrap. Words like “trollop,” “light-skirt,” and “Haymarket ware” wrapped around me. Cocooning me in venomous hate.
Less polite terms flitted past as well, things I had never heard as a vicar’s daughter but understood regardless.
When I gathered enough courage to open my eyes once more, I found the viscount’s back.
The cut direct.
I hadn’t known until that exact moment, but I had been hoping for a rescue. Or, not even a rescue, a carefully blank expression would have been a welcome comfort. I should not have been surprised. At every available opportunity, the man had expressed disinterest at best, derision at worst.
Something about the combination of disappointment and expectation shocked me into action. I allowed a single calming breath before squaring my shoulders and settling a hand on the railing.
I was going to proceed as if nothing were amiss. And I would be damned before I fell down the stairs doing it.
In the end, it was the most graceful moment of my life, my descent down those steps. Were my pride not in pieces at the top, the satisfaction might have been overwhelming.
Whispers whirled across my path like autumn leaves in the wind as I made my way to Charlotte. She was undeserving of the title.
Of course, I referred to her with all due ceremony while I paid her addresses with alacrity. The bontoncould find fault with my apparel and my tardiness—she could humiliate me with those—but they would have no such repudiation of my behavior. I would not stoop to match her.
After an insufferably long delay, the orchestra had enough of my humiliation, shifting to signal readiness. Couples found their way onto the floor, the gentlemen handsome in black and the ladies lovely in white. The effect as they spun and swayed on the floor was enchanting. Their beauty made my choice in attire all the more inflammatory.
Theton’s gossip trailed me through the room, closer than my own shadow. I was not too proud to cling to the edges of the ballroom. It hardly mattered. There were no warm greetings or polite smiles to be had. Nothing but thinly veiled contemptuous sneers awaited me.
I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror lining the wall. My once appealing flush of excitement was now splotchy evidence of my shame. My rouged lips, formerly enticing, now served to further paint me a fallen woman. My curls must have taken my humiliation as permission to misbehave, slipping slowly free from each pin to hang limp and unfashionable.
Spotting the refreshment table, I made for it in the desperate desire for some occupation for my hands. Something, anything that could serve to ease my discomfort.
Out of the corner of my eye, a broad, dark-haired gentleman followed the others out a back entry. Presumably, they were in search of less wholesome entertainment. At least the viscount’s absence meant that I need not endure his repudiation any longer. I would not miss his scorn.
For two more sets, I called the wall home. Counting the moments before I could reasonably make an escape was my chief occupation.
No rescue was forthcoming. My cousin was nowhere to be seen.
In spite of my best efforts to blend in with the wall, my dress was made to stand out. I could not escape notice, no matter how I tried. Catching the edge of another insult hurled in my direction, I turned. One of the ruby pins slipped from my hair, dropping to the floor while a heavy curl fell free. With its escape, the rest of my coiffure teetered precariously at the back of my head. One wrong turn and the entirety would come tumbling down. A solitary pin dug into my scalp, threatening a dark, curly avalanche.
Slowly, delicately, I bent with my knees to retrieve it, unwilling to risk further censure by bending forward, displaying my assets. I managed it, but with the movement, the entire masterpiece collapsed on itself. The lengthy strands fell about my shoulders, pins and ribbons tangled within the mess.
By the grace of God, my disaster escaped all notice. All but one. Glancing as I stood up, I found Charlotte’s gaze, hateful glee burning in her eyes.
Quickly, before I could raise further spectacle, I slipped through the back door the gentlemen had used; hoping desperately that there was a retiring room where I could return to some kind of order.
The richly carpeted hall was empty and refreshingly cool. Free from the ballroom, I recognized how overheated I had become. I supped on great welcoming gulps of air. Pressing a hand to my heart, I willed the throbbing, pounding rhythm to slow. Like the heat, I hadn’t noticed its racing in the ballroom. I was too focused on perfecting my statue impression.
Finally free from the watchful eyes of theton, I felt no particular hurry to sort my hair and return to the fray. Surely no one would miss me at my post against the wall.
Gradually, I became aware of heavy, jovial, masculine voices coming from a cracked elegant mahogany door. Once I recognized their presence, I caught the thick rich tobacco scent that permeated the air. Glasses clinked and drinks trickled into them. The notes of deep, hearty laughter floated above the dampened sounds of the orchestra and muffled conversation from the ballroom.
Buoyant chuckles and conversation became more distinctive in the hall as the rushing of my eardrums faded. Still, comprehension hovered out of reach until the letters of my own name floated past. “Kate Summers. Did you see what the chit was wearing? I wouldn’t mind taking a tumble with her. Begging for it, she was.”
Bile filled my mouth with a metallic tang. I didn’t recognize the voice but the words, oh they were horrifying. Tears burned, welling, blurring my vision. I turned to search for a sanctuary. Somewhere. Anywhere.
Before I found a single step, a different voice joined in. A familiar voice. One with a haughty, derisive, pitch to its tenor. “You may want a tumble, but I could not stand it. She is simply too much. Everything she does, too bold, too brash, too loud. And her appearance, her eyes are unnervingly large, and her lips are far too wide. Oh, and the teeth, much too crooked. And the body… It is far too much. Everything about her.”
I could not stay here. Not for a single second longer. I could not bear to hear Lord Grayson list yet another fault.
I sprinted in the opposite direction, toward the other end of the corridor, silent but for my breathing sounding harsh in my ears.
