He winks, and Marigold smiles. Her father has always been kind enough to aid in her escape by distracting her mother at the right moment.
“I never do,” she assures him. It’s already too easy for peopleto make fun of a talentless lady trapped in Bardshire. She and everyone else know that she is not a normal woman. She sometimes wonders if she is even human, often feeling a stronger kinship with mud and rain and roots. Every day, she does her absolute best to play a part—a loving daughter, a supportive sister, a lady of marital quality. But in her heart, she is a creature hidden beneath soft skin and pretty ribbons, and she knows that her grandmother is, too. These are the wild women who run barefoot through the meadow, who teach new songs to the birds, who howl at the moon together. Wild women are their own kind of magic.
She is standing in between her twin siblings when Aster, stunning with her deep blue dress against her pale white skin, is immediately approached by handsome gentlemen. Aster was not meant to come out to society until Marigold, as the oldest, was married. After a time—really, after George—Marigold abandoned all interest in marriage, and the sisters convinced their parents to allow Aster to make her debut early. It was a most unconventional decision, one followed by cruel whispers throughout Bardshire at Marigold’s expense, but she has lost the energy for bitterness. She tried love, once. It didn’t work, and it is not worth the risk of trying again with someone new. Now Aster is the jewel of the Claude family, and Marigold is simply resigned.
Frankie clings to her side, his hands clammy with preperformance nerves. She flares her fan and waves it in front of his face, calming the redness in his cheeks.
“Thank you, Mari,” he says with a shaky voice. She hands him a handkerchief to dry off his sweaty palms.
“You’re going to be fine, Frankie. You always are.”
He scoffs. “This music is nearly impossible. It was not written for human hands.”
“Well, we’ll get back at him next time when you have fewer eyes on you,” she says with a wink. She and Frankie have always found some way to playfully disrupt events. Snapping a violinstring so Frankie won’t have to play. Pretending to see a snake in the middle of the dance floor. Stealing an entire tray of cake and eating it in the garden. Anything to escape the self-aggrandizing conversations. She leads Frankie through the crowd while noting the tables lined with sweets and expertly calculates how much she’ll be able to eat without any snide remarks. She can probably get away with three—the rest, she’ll have to sneak between songs.
The dance floor has been freshly decorated with chalk drawings of new spring flora. The art perfectly matches the floral arrangements throughout the ballroom. Decor of such elaborate design is not common, but Sir Kentworth is known for his flair, and he is exceptionally detail-oriented. His signature style shows in his music as well, though his latest works are growing increasingly baroque, as are his decorations. As they stroll toward the banquet table, Marigold catches the eye of her mother, who is leading a handsome young man toward her. She tries to increase her pace, but the crowd around her is impenetrable. In a matter of seconds, she’s trapped in the presence of her mother and the young man while Frankie leaves her alone, set on taking all the good desserts.
Lovely. My freedom is thwarted, once again.
As she turns away from her brother, she flashes a vulgar gesture at him behind her back. Her mother places a hand on each of their shoulders.
“Marigold, this is Thomas Notley,” her mother says. She knows this name—Sir Notley was the architect who designed the remodels of the Bardshire estates after they were purchased from the landed gentry. The man in front of her is the famed architect’s grandson. They have seen each other many times, across many rooms, but this is their first proper introduction.
Her mother looks up at Mr. Notley. “And this is my beautiful daughter, Marigold Claude.”
“It is an honor to be introduced to you, Miss Claude.” His smile is bright and earnest as he takes her hand and kisses it.His cropped hair allows the sharpness of his facial features to be fully admired, while his warm brown skin glows in the yellow light of the ballroom. He is extremely handsome, but like Marigold, he is plagued with a very poor reputation as a dancer. It is likely that not many people will be fighting to add his name to their dance card, despite his good looks.
“The pleasure is mine,” she replies with a clenched jaw. It is embarrassing enough to be her age with no prospects or talents, but her mother makes it so much worse with these desperate matchmaking attempts.
“Well, I’ll leave you two to dance,” her mother says as she pushes them slightly closer together and disappears into the crowd. Marigold glares in the direction that her mother left. Normally, she at least gets one bite of something before she takes to the ballroom floor. “Mr. Notley,” she says, “I know not what my mother said to you, but please do not feel obligated to dance with me. I should warn you I have no rhythm.”
“Nor do I. My talents are better suited for sitting behind a desk and drawing architectural plans,” he says with a smile.
“Then who knows what disaster will take place if we take to the floor together? It may become dangerous for all others involved.”
“I disagree, Miss Claude. I believe we’ll make a perfect pair.”
She often has trouble filling up her dance card, and she must get out of this place as quickly as possible, so she devises a plan to make this work in her favor. Softening her demeanor, she looks up at him through her thick lashes. “All right then, Mr. Notley. Would it be too bold of me to request that you have all my dances tonight?”
He looks stunned, but then a pleased smile inches across his face. This proposition is perfect—she doesn’t have to wait for anyone else to ask for a dance or feign interest in multiple stuffy artists all night long. If she can hurry through the obligations of the evening with this gentleman, she’ll be able to leave with plenty of time for her own nightly plans. Now, if she can simplypretend to have a good time long enough to get through her dance card…
“I would be honored. Shall we make our way to the floor?”
She pauses, for she absolutely requires a scone while they are still warm and fresh.
“Might we get refreshments first? We have a lot of dancing ahead of us,” she says sweetly, and he obliges as he leads them to the table. The luxurious scents of ginger, cinnamon, and cardamom grow stronger as they approach.
“I am guessing you are a fan of sweets?” he says with a bewildered laugh.
She nods as the excitement falls from her face, replaced by embarrassment. “Eating sweets is perhaps my only talent.”
“I was not teasing. Please forgive me if it felt as if I were. I am known to have a sweet tooth as well. Shall we select our favorites and share them with each other?” he says politely, and his idea is delightful—less dancing, more eating. The pair find themselves stuffing each other’s faces with scones and marmalades and other small nameless cakes that are too tempting to ignore. She removes her glove with her teeth and picks up a small square of honey cake. The white icing is covered in a thick layer of warm honey that drips onto its sides, so it must be eaten quickly.
“Open,” she commands, and he almost cannot stop smiling long enough to allow her to feed him, but he does, and she drops the cake into his mouth before taking her fingers to her lips and sucking off the dripping honey.
“That is fantastic,” he says with a full mouth, and she laughs as she nods in agreement.
“People always overlook the honey cake because it’s messy and impossible to eat with gloves. But that never stops me. I refuse to walk past a tray of honey cakes without tasting them. They have always been my favorite, and the only part of these events that I actually enjoy,” she says as she takes another and pops it into her mouth, savoring the sweet golden liquid that coats her lips.
