Easy to do, he thought to himself, as being here tonight reminded him well enough of why he spurned the ton in the first place.
It was all so fake to his eyes. So put-on. Beyond the extravagant colors. Behind the decadence. Past the make-up that painted lady’s faces and the expensive suits worn by their partners, each person he saw was exactly the same. Empty vessels who existed solely to pretend they were important and exaggerate their worth. There was not a one among them on whom he would waste his time…
Or so he thought.
Ronan did not mean for it to happen. In fact, until the moment it did, he would not have imagined such a thing was possible. But, as his eyes scanned the crowds, they fell upon a single figure who walked among them in a way not dissimilar to how he did. One of them… but somehow also apart.
She was petite and unassuming. Chestnut hair worn in ringlets, a pretty face with sharp lines and hard edges, but somehow also soft and subtle. Her gown was not colorful. It was a simple faded blue without the usual opulence, and she wore no jewelry thathe could see. But she was confident and assured, walking with purpose without appearing needy. Elegant, perhaps, but not snooty.
More appealing still, as she moved, he noticed that those nearby eyed her with a sense of scorn and distrust. And more appealing still, she did not seem to care.
Alaric was speaking to him, but he did not hear what was said.
Despite everything Ronan knew of himself, in that moment, he became utterly transfixed. He watched the lonely woman walk across the ball, head held high, a dismissive smirk on her lips as she ignored those who frowned and shook their heads.
Who is she… and why can’t I look away…
Ronan planned on leaving tonight’s ball as soon as he was able. Right now would have been preferable. But, as he watched the woman walk toward the outside garden to escape the throng of guests, he wondered for the first time in ten years what it might be like to not hide away as if the world did not exist.
What might it be like to meet a woman like that? A dangerous thought, he knew. But then again, this entire evening was dangerous.
Two
“Almost done…” the honorable Thalia Carstone said to herself as she worked to stitch the tear found in the hem of her gown. “Just a few more…” She bit into her lower lip, hands trembling as she did her best to mask the tear so that her garment appeared as good as new.
And if not quite as good as new, not something one might find on the side of the road. At this point, that’s about as good as I can hope for.
“I do hope you are not planning on wearing that rag out tonight, dear.”
Thalia’s head snapped up, having not heard her aunt, the Dowager Viscountess Carstone, walking into her bedroom. She eyed the gown with a look that might have suggested Thalia was tending to a stray cat she’d found in the back garden; one that should have been put down rather than brought into the house.
“Not only am I going to wear it, but I am going to look like a princess torn from the pages of a fairytale.” She laughed to herself as she went back to her work. “At least that is what they will say. And if the lighting is dim enough.”
Her aunt exhaled sharply through her nose as she approached where Thalia was sitting by the window. “I don’t know what fairytales you have been reading, but few feature heroines dressed in rags.”
“It is not a rag.”
“True enough. At least rags can be used by the staff to clean and wipe down dirty surfaces. This abomination…” She curled her nose. “I daresay such a use as that would be an insult to rags.”
Thalia rolled her eyes as she put through the final stitch. And then she smiled at a job well done, placing down the needle and thread and lifting the gown from her lap. She fluttered it in front of her, making it dance before holding it to her body to double-check that there was nothing else that needed to be done.
“All jokes aside…” She held the dress close, extending her leg out as if to show the gown off. “What do we think? Not bad for an old rag?”
“Is that a serious question?”
“I want to say yes…” Thalia said as if she was being serious. “Yet I sense that your answer isn’t going to be the one I was hoping for.”
“Thalia…” Her aunt swept toward her, snatching the skirt of the gown and holding it away from her body as if it smelled. “You are attending a ball, not a battlefield. How do you expect to turn heads and invite interest if you look like…” She clicked her tongue. “A beggar walking in from off the street.”
“I think that is a little exaggerated.”
“True enough.” Her aunt dropped the skirt and folded her arms. “Beggars, at least, would have the good sense not to attend the ball in the first place.”
The words were as harsh as they were fair. And where Thalia resented her aunt’s cruel assessment of her gown, she knew too that it came from a place of worry and love. That she wanted the best for her niece and was willing to put her down harshly if that was what it took.
A shame that all the cruel words and insults in the world wouldn’t make any difference. Like it or not, this right here was the best that Thalia could afford—her only possible option—and it would have to do.
“I don’t know…” She held the gown to her body again. “I think it’s rather… quaint. And my stitchwork is good, no?”
