Frances hesitated. Her father’s wealth had opened many doors for her family, but she knew there were members of the ton who still looked down upon them as he didn’t have a title. “Allow me to discuss that with the league members before we decide.”
“Of course.” Her mother sat back in her chair and sent a pointed look at Frances. “Now then, let us discuss what you’re going to wear.”
Frances twisted her lips as she considered the subject. They’d ordered two different ball gowns to decide between. Her mother insisted she have a new one to wear for the occasion. “The red one is my favorite. I think it’s perfect for Christmas.”
“Excellent choice.” She reached over to squeeze Frances’ arm. “You must be excited about the ball.”
In truth, Frances was looking forward to having it behind her. The planning had been a tremendous amount of work made even more so because of the charity aspect. She was terrified she’d overlooked an important detail.
But attending this ball would be much different than any others she’d gone to. Instead of waiting with her heart in her throat to see if she was asked to dance, she’d be busy watching over the ball to make certain all ran smoothly.
She wouldn’t have time to worry about her shyness or whether she could manage to stammer a reply. She wouldn’t have to see the baffled expression of a gentleman who’d asked her to dance when she couldn’t answer him. She wouldn’t have to feel the familiar hot flush of embarrassment when he stared at her as if she must be infirm.
Of course, those men who might ask her to dance had already done so over the last few years and knew to steer clear of her because of her affliction. It was astonishing that she could show her face in public after the way she’d embarrassed herself so many times over the years.
She knew the exact moment her problem had started—the second ball of her first Season. A lord had asked her to dance. A duke’s son, no less. She had been overcome with excitement, so thrilled he’d looked twice at her, let alone asked her to dance.
Only too late had she realized he was the worse for drink. He’d stepped on her toes twice then insisted it was her fault. At the dance’s end, he’d told her that by saying yes, she’d helped him to win a wager. Then he’d walked away, leaving her to return to her excited mother’s side by herself.
She’d been too humiliated to tell her mother the full truth of what had happened. But from that unfortunate incident on, Frances had difficulty speaking with men.
With one exception—Thomas Sinclair.
Her heart squeezed at the thought of him. She hoped he was doing well in America but feared she’d never see him again.
“Frances?”
She startled, realizing she’d allowed memories to overtake her instead of answering her mother. What had been the question?
Her mother’s brow puckered. “You are excited, aren’t you?”
“Of course.”
The look her mother gave her suggested she hadn’t convinced her. Her mother heaved a sigh as she straightened the numerous sheets of paper into one pile. “I only wish we were planning your wedding instead of a charity ball.”
“I’m sorry, Mother.” Frances knew her mother didn’t understand her shyness. Her mother told her that the problem would ease with each new Season. But it hadn’t.
Frances knew how off-putting the trait was to others and truly wanted to change.
That was one of the reasons why this ball was so important. She hoped that by shifting her focus to overseeing the ball rather than longing for someone to ask her to dance, she might be able to overcome her shyness.
Already, she’d been able to speak with Mr. Seaton about the ticket sales without issue. That would’ve been nearly impossible in the past.
Besides, since Thomas wouldn’t be at the ball, it didn’t matter whether anyone asked her to dance. She sighed, trying to set aside the ache in her heart. This holiday would be a lonely one without the chance to see him.
Chapter Two
Thomas wanted to growl with frustration as he left yet another workhouse. He’d been to three so far and had not been able to find the correct Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt. The name was a common one and he’d met several Mr. Schmidts, none of whom were Peter’s father, and no one who seemed to know anything about Peter’s lost family.
He hated to return home to deliver the news to Peter yet again. The boy had been devastated when Thomas told him his family wasn’t at the first workhouse.
But when Thomas had further questioned Peter, he’d become less certain about which workhouse they’d been in. Who knew there were so many in the East End, let alone in London?
The boy had been upset when the family had to leave their small apartment to enter the workhouse. Details like the name of the place or the street it was on were things Peter wasn’t sure of. That was understandable for a child new to the city and the language who’d been in such a perilous position.
Perhaps he’d need to bring Peter along to see if the buildings looked familiar, but he’d hoped to avoid causing the lad any further trauma than what he’d already experienced.
And he also hesitated to bring the boy’s return to London to anyone’s attention until he’d had a chance to investigate how he’d ended up abandoned and alone on a New York City street.
