Serena had nearly forgotten how much she enjoyed attending a ball. As it turned out, it was nothing like a Mayfair ball in a private house. There at the old palace, people of various classes mingled, and wine flowed rather than the usual lemonade or restricted amount of champagne.
People were growing merrier and louder by the minute.
“Vive l’Empereur!”rang out occasionally, the intervals between the cheer growing shorter and the voices becoming more strident.
Even the dancing seemed increasingly frenzied, and as the evening wore on, more people were misstepping and bumping into one another. In mid-dance, a partner lifted her off her feet, making her shriek. As he set her back down, he tried to kiss her.
“Take your hands off the lady,” came Monsieur Branley’s commanding tone.
Chapter Six
Malcolm Branley lookedfurious, apparently summoning more emotion than Serena could. Although not in fear for her safety since she was in a crowded room, she was relieved when he rescued her from her boorish partner.
As the man stepped back and stumbled over his own feet, Monsieur Branley took her arm and steered her off the dance floor.
Madame Fournier showed up a second later. “Thank you, monsieur,” the older lady gushed. “What a disgrace! I was going to clobber him with my wine glass if I’d reached him first.”
Serena opened her mouth to thank him as well, but he seemed ready to put the unpleasant scene behind them.
“I believe they’ve provided a feast outside,” he said. “I’m sure our fellow guests will benefit from some food in their stomach after so much wine. I know I will appreciate a good meal.”
Before the first line of small trees and shrubs, which provided a screen for the House of Peers during the day and divided the Palais du Luxembourg from the rest of the expansive gardens, tables had been set up under tents. They found chefs from the best restaurants in Paris, including the Café de Chartres, which Serena only knew because she’d seen him “in the back of the house,” as she had heard the kitchen called.
Upon each receiving a plate, the three of them walked along the line of tables, taking some of this and some of that from the platters and bowls laden with tempting morsels. Then they found seats farther into the garden.
“Cleverly done,” Monsieur Branley remarked, referring to the types of food they’d been offered, none needing a knife, easily eaten with the hand.
“Hors d'oeuvres,”she told him, as they sampled pigeon-filled pastry tarts, small pieces of toasted bread topped either with ham or with savory mackerel and herbs, and egg-pastry balls filled with soft baked cheese. Naturally, there were selections of fresh fruit and various cheeses, as well.
Under Madame Fournier’s persistent questions, Serena’s escort talked about his Berkshire home, his London house in Piccadilly, a younger brother and sister, and a fondness for riding in Hyde Park. It was obvious that her chaperone was interrogating him like a matchmaker.
And while doing so, Madame Fournier sat close beside her, keeping an ear to Monsieur Branley and watchful eyes on the rowdy revelers.
In return, Serena told him only of her life with her grandparents. She said nothing about her parents or having two younger brothers of her own, as that would only beget questions as to where they were.
“I’ve never been to a vineyard,” Monsieur Branley said, after Serena described her grandparents’ estate in the middle of the Loire Valley, renowned for its good grape soil and climate.
