“I’m stupefied,” Eliza whispered. “The way she looked at us! Like we were common slatterns.”
“We don’t belong here, Liza. I want to go home.”
Sarah caught up to them, white-faced and breathless. “Goodness. I’m so very sorry. My grandmother is old guard, and with that comes a hefty dose of prejudice. It’s atrocious. I promise, I do not feel the way she does. Please, darlings, let’s make merry. Your evening is not lost. You’ll find the other ladies most agreeable.”
While Eliza had her doubts, Sarah’s garrulous manner couldn’t help but put her at ease. She showed them to the refreshment room, babbling the whole way, where they had a light supper of kippers and cheese at the buffet. Even Lydia’s mood improved after two tumblers of champagne punch. A bugle sounded, and Sarah and Polly led the way to the ballroom, where the orchestras were warming up on opposite ends of the room. Two lines began to form in the middle of the dance floor—on one side the ladies, on the other, the men.
“Come, let’s have a turn!” said Sarah, grasping Eliza’s hand and pulling her into the quadrille. As the men and women circled one another, there were very few faces that stood out to Eliza. Still, she met her would-be suitors, young and old alike, with courtesy as they sped through the steps of the dance. They were making their final pass through the room when she glimpsed a man standing at the top of the staircase. He was strikingly tall, dressed in well-cut white tie with a glimmering emerald peeking out from the folds of his lapel. He met her gaze and smiled. Eliza’s stomach did a somersault.
“There’s Viscount Havenwood,” Sarah whispered as they passed each other down the line. “Malcolm.”
She lost the dance as she followed Lord Havenwood with her eyes, standing up on tiptoes to see over the throng of revelers. Too late, she realized she hadn’t taken a breath for some time. Black fringes clouded her vision and a distant ringing sang in her ears. As it had been threatening all evening, heat and ice enveloped her at the same time, the floor tilted at a mad angle, and all the air went out of the room. When she came to, the acrid smell of ammonia in her nostrils, she was lying on adivan in a narrow hallway. Her mouth felt as if someone had stuffed it full of mattress ticking.
Lydia was there, swabbing at her face with a cool cloth while a man with a blond moustache and spectacles leaned over her. “Ah. She’s coming around. Hello, Miss Sullivan. I’m Dr.Fawcett—Clarence—the one what caught you. I’m only in medical school, but I can fetch Dr.Gilmore in a moment to have a proper look at you. I don’t believe he saw you faint.”
“No, no. I’m fine, really. I am.” Eliza pushed up onto her elbows, her head swimming. “I’ve only laced my corset tighter than I should have.”
“Are you quite sure you’re all right?” Clarence asked, blinking. His spectacles made his gray eyes owlish and comically large for his face. “You may faint again if you exert yourself.”
“I’ll be careful, Doctor. I promise.”
“Right.” The doctor turned to Lydia, his mouth twitching beneath his moustache. “After your sister is recovered, I should like a place on your dance card, Miss Tourant, if you’d do me the honor.”
Lydia beamed. “Of course! I’d be delighted.”
He nodded. “Very good, very good. Do take your time getting up, Miss Sullivan. Have some water instead of champagne. And for goodness’ sake, don’t lace your corsets so tightly. Women’s fashions can be such a danger in their frivolity.”
Lydia helped Eliza loosen her stays in the washroom, going on about Dr.Fawcett’s chivalry and strong arms as they made their way back to the outskirts of the ballroom. Thanks to Sarah, their dance cards were soon filled, and Eliza was kept busy turning waltzes in the arms of eligible men from all over the countryside. As for the mysterious Lord Havenwood, he’d disappeared as quickly as he’d arrived, much to Eliza’s disappointment.
The orchestra struck up a boisterous polka, her least favorite dance. She thanked her partner and excused herself from the dance floor. As she made her way through the swirling skirts and feathered headdresses toward the refreshment room and its gloriously heaving dessert table,someone suddenly grasped her elbow—too firmly—and spun her around. She found herself face-to-cravat with a man. She lifted her eyes to a finely sculpted chin, a sandy flop of wavy hair, and a pair of sapphire-blue eyes. He was certainly a fine specimen of masculine charm, although a bit too bold in his advances for her tastes. As if sensing her discomfort, he released her elbow and gave a lopsided grin. “Miss Sullivan. Beg pardon. I was only coming to claim my spot on your dance card.” He bowed stiffly. “Charles Lancashire, sixth Earl of Eastleigh.”
Ah, the bachelor earl Mr.Brainerd had mentioned. Eliza quirked an eyebrow. “I don’t recollect seeing your request on my card, Lord Eastleigh.”
“Perhaps Lady Gregory didn’t deign to tell you.” He extended his hand. “We arranged it during your fainting spell. Shall we? The polkaismy best dance.”
She truly doubted that Lady Gregory would suddenly turn so solicitous, but who was she to spurn an earl? Especially with the clock ticking on a fortune that she might very well lose if she remained too reticent. With a resigned sigh, Eliza allowed herself to be led back to the dance floor. She soon regretted it.
Lord Eastleigh put her through the paces of the dance so quickly, and lifted her off her feet so many times, that breathing, much less conversation, proved nearly impossible. Infernally hot and hemmed in by strange faces, Eliza felt the need for air, or else she would faint again, just as Dr.Fawcett had warned. With a hasty apology, she broke away from Lord Eastleigh and rushed to the French doors lining the ballroom, relieved to see they led to an exterior balcony.
Alone and thankful for the quiet, she rested against the stone railing. The soft strains of a Brahms waltz floated through the closed doors. Eliza counted its steady three-four rhythm to control her breathing. Once her head had ceased its frantic spinning, she lifted her eyes and gazed out over the formal, manicured landscape below. A fog had begunto settle in the low places, the wild spikes of evergreens punctuating the mists beyond the gardens. It was lovely and cool, as far removed from the overcrowded ballroom as she could get at the moment.
“I saw you swoon. I do hope Fawcett was attentive to your needs. Our young doctor always seems to be at hand when the most attractive ladies need catching.”
Eliza startled at the deep voice and turned from the railing, her heartbeat quickening. It was the viscount—Lord Havenwood. He strode into the yellow swatch of light filtering from the ballroom, tucking a long-stemmed smoking pipe into his waistcoat. He joined her at the balustrade, the earthy musk of saddle leather accompanying him. Up close, his features were lean and fine-boned, with high cheekbones and a well-cut jawline, surrounded by an abundance of curling, dark hair. He offered a smile, which thinned out his lips and gave him a wolfish demeanor. “You look frightened. Have I said something to alarm you?”
“Not at all, Lord Havenwood. I only thought I was alone.”
“As did I,” he said, his voice lifting. “I do hope I’m not a disappointment.”
“Quite the contrary.” She pulled in a deep breath and turned to face him, her hip pressing against the railing. “I was just taking in the view. We don’t have landscapes like this where I’m from.”
“New Orleans, isn’t that right?”
“Yes. I suppose you’ve already heard all sorts of things about me.”
“I daresay your arrival has been the favored talk of Cheltenbridge.” He gave another teasing smile. “And if I may, Miss Sullivan, it appears I’ve been the subject of some prior conversation as well—we’ve yet to be formally introduced, though you’ve greeted me by name as if we had been.”
“You’ve caught me off my manners. I fear my nerves have gotten the better of me tonight.” She laughed, too brightly. “Sarah Nelson told me who you were when you came in.”
