“Hear ye! Hear ye!” a footman bellowed once the Baron and Baroness were in place. “Let us celebrate the anniversary of the union of Lord and Lady Crawford.”
Charles, who was not dressed in a costume like his parents, but wore a quite normal black pair of breeches and tailcoat, lifted a goblet and added, “To Lord and Lady Crawford!”
The rest of the guests raised their glasses and joined in the toast. “To Lord and Lady Crawford!” they cheered.
Then, each gentleman and lady quaffed their drinks.
The guests were a tapestry of high society, each one dressed in their finest attire, moving like pieces on a chessboard as theynavigated the social complexities of the evening. The ladies wore silk, satin, and lace gowns, their necks adorned with glittering diamonds, sapphires, and pearls. Their hair was styled into intricate coiffures, each strand pinned in place as if by magic. The gentlemen were no less resplendent, their coats made of the finest fabrics, their cravats tied with precision.
But amidst the splendor and the carefully orchestrated elegance, Peter felt as if he stood apart.
When Lord Crawford signaled for the musicians to begin playing so that the dancing might commence, Peter watched the man carefully. He beamed at his wife. He took her hand in his own, pulled her close, then planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.
Peter laughed.
I’ve never seen such a display in all my life.
His thought could have applied to almost anything involving Lord and Lady Crawford. From their costumes to their display of affection, they were a couple who broke the mold Society had created for them, then reveled in their uniqueness.
Peter meandered through the crowd, alternately glancing between the Crawfords and his sister, who, after eating an enormous slice of cake, had been guided to the dance floor by Charles.
He watched her twirl, clap, and prance, and took a small amount of delight in seeing her so pleased. The joy on her face made him want to experience his own tingle of pleasure, so he cast his eyes about the room again in search of Lavinia.
He had regretted letting her walk away from his room the night before, but once she was gone, there was nothing to be done about it. He knew better than to go traipsing through the house, searching for her room in the middle of the night. One or both of them would have been caught, and then all the progress they had made, all the long looks they had shared by the waterfall, would seem meaningless when they were faced with a scandal.
Peter had just skirted around a group of whispering ladies when his eyes landed on their target.
Lavinia was a vision in a gown of green silk, the rich color accentuating her chocolate-brown hair and her porcelain skin. Her neckline was modest yet flattering, the fabric flowing like liquid emerald as she moved. Her hair was styled in loose waves, with delicate tendrils framing her face, giving her an almost ethereal appearance. She was laughing at something one of the young gentlemen in her circle had said, the sound carrying across the room like a melody.
Peter’s heart gave a thump at the sight of her. It was a reaction he had come to expect, but one that he was still not entirely comfortable with.
He smiled at her, but she did not notice him. Just as he located her, another man hurried to fill the vacant spot by her side.
Lord Windham…
Irritation flooded through Peter’s body.
He had been glad to be rid of the man yesterday and had studiously avoided crossing paths with him again during the morning hours. But now, with Lord Windham hovering so close to Lavinia’s elbow that they might as well have been touching, Peter had to curl his fingers to keep from marching across the room and pushing the man aside.
Just as he was about to turn away, unable to bear the sight of Lavinia and Lord Windham talking any longer, her eyes met his.
For a moment, the noise and the movement around them faded into the background, leaving only the two of them in a bubble of silence. Her eyes, usually so full of life and light, were filled with a silent plea, and as she mouthed the wordplease, Peter felt a jolt of recognition. It was the same look she had given him once when he had told her, half in jest, that he’d have her begging for his help.
But this was no jest. The desperation in her eyes was real, and it cut through his resolve like a knife. At that moment, he knew that he couldn’t stand by and do nothing. He had to help her.
The music ended, and that was when the footman raised his voice once again and shouted over the crowd, “My Lords! My Ladies! Lord and Lady Crawford will now exchange gifts.”
Lord Crawford helped his wife to her feet, and while still holding hands, they both walked to the center of the dais.
Lady Crawford raised her chin and shouted, “As many of you already know, my family originally came to England from Rothenburg ob der Tauber, a lovely town inDeutschland. So, in my family, we often celebrated numerous traditions that some of our English friends might consider… unusual.” She gave a slight, tittering laugh. “It is a tradition in my family, much as it was during the Middle Ages when King Arthur and Queen Guinevere ruled over Camelot, to honor and celebrate the twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.”
She paused, and all eyes in the room drifted to a group of footmen.
The footmen walked slowly through the crowd, carrying between them an enormous silver wreath. Peter could not make out the details from where he stood, but he did notice the way the metal glinted in the candlelight.
“On this day,” Lady Crawford proceeded, “I wish to give my husband, Ambrose Fitzroy, the Baron Crawford, a token that would have perhaps also symbolized the love that King Arthur and Queen Guinevere shared.”
The footmen stopped at the base of the dais and offered the silver wreath to the Baron.
