“We must make something more of this,” he said with sudden fervor, taking a small step back from her so he could lookat her fully, his hands holding hers tightly. “Christina, I think that we must marry. I want us to wed. Will you have me?”
Christina closed her eyes, her breath held in her chest, the world spinning around her as her heart fluttered wildly. “You wish to marry me?” she whispered.
“With all of my heart,” he said, as she opened her eyes and looked into his handsome face, now wreathed with smiles. “I will go to your father tomorrow, to ask his permission, but now, in this moment, I must know if you will accept me. I must know that you will be mine.”
A light tremble ran from the top of her head to the very toes of her feet. “Of course I will be yours,” she said, without any hesitation or flicker of doubt in her heart. “My darling Coventry, I cannot think of anything that I want more than this.”
Lord Coventry responded swiftly, drawing her into his arms once more, his eyes alight with happiness as he gazed down at her. They stood for a long moment, simply held in one another’s arms, taking in this new situation, this new path they were about to embark upon together. Christina was certain her father would not refuse him, for there was nothing about the Viscount that spoke of concern. How pleased her mother would be to know that both she and her sister were to be married this Season!
“I can hardly wait to announce our engagement,” he whispered, taking one hand and gently tilting her chin up towards him. “I love you with all my heart, Christina. You have made my life complete.”
Christina sighed contentedly as he pulled back from their kiss, her requirement to return to her mother and to the ball now quite forgotten. The faint music from the orchestra and hubbub of conversation felt as if it belonged to another world entirely, one in which she was not required. How could she step back from this? From him?
“It will be a sweet torture to be away from your arms,” she said, as he sighed and, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, took a step away, his arms falling back to his sides.
“Indeed, but the last thing I want for you is scandal,” he said, with a small smile. “To be discovered here would demand our marriage – something that would not bring me anything but joy – but there would be whisper and rumor, and neither of us need such gossip.”
“My heart aches at the thought of leaving you.”
Lord Coventry smiled, caught her hand, and pressed a final kiss there. “Tomorrow, my love. I shall write in the morning and beg to speak to your father – and by evening, all will be as we desire.”
“I long for it,” she whispered, her soul full to overflowing. “Until tomorrow, my love.”
Stepping away with great reluctance, Christina took careful steps back through the gardens and towards the French doors that would lead her back to the gaiety inside. She desired nothing more than to return to Lord Coventry, to throw herself back into his arms and declare that she cared nothing for scandal but wanted only him, but sense took her straight back into the ballroom.
The smile on her face lingered as she walked back to find her mother and older sister, both of whom wore expressions of relief when they saw her.
“Whatever were you doing?” Lady Bedford exclaimed, as Christina murmured an apology. “I was concerned that something had happened to you.”
“I am quite all right, I assure you. It just took me a little longer than usual to return, that is all.”
Her mother held her gaze, but Christina did not flinch, wanting to make certain that there was nothing in her expression that brought any doubt or concern. Eventually,appearing satisfied, Lady Bedford nodded and looked away again, back out towards the crowd, and Christina let out a surreptitious breath of relief.
“There he is!” she heard Sophie exclaim, under her breath.
“Then go to him!” Christina replied, as Sophie clasped her hands together at her heart. “How ever is he to propose to you if you do not spend time in his company?”
Her mother chuckled and set a hand to Sophie’s back, pushing her gently forward. “I quite agree,” she said, as Sophie stepped forward, her eyes shining. “And soon, Christina, you will find a match of your own also, I am quite sure. Lord Pennington seems interested in your company, as does Lord Granton. It will not be long before you are settled in marriage, I know it.”
Basking in the joy that was already hers, a joy that was hidden yet vibrant, Christina smiled back at her mother. “I am sure you speak the truth, Mama. It will happen very soon indeed.”
1
Christina trembled violently as she stepped into the ballroom, wishing that she could sink into the floor or disappear into the shadows. Her fingers tugged at the seam of her left glove — a nervous habit she had developed in the months after Lord Coventry’s letter, a compulsive smoothing that she was barely aware of until she noticed the right glove wearing thin at the wrist. She pressed one hand flat against her stomach, feeling the stays beneath the silk of her gown, and counted three slow breaths before removing it.
The ballroom doors stood open before her like the mouth of something vast and indifferent. Beyond them, candlelight blazed from a hundred sconces, and the crystal chandelier threw small, sharp rainbows across the marble floor. The orchestra was tuning — that particular chaos of strings and woodwind that always preceded the first dance — and the sound triggered something in Christina’s body before her mind could stop it. Her shoulders pulled back, her chin lifted, her right hand rose slightly as if reaching for a partner’s arm. The muscle memory of a hundred dances lived in her frame, and for one treacherousinstant, she was twenty years old again, scanning the room for grey eyes and a gentle smile.
She caught herself. Forced her hand back to her side. Pressed her thumbnail hard into the pad of her index finger until the sharp, small pain anchored her to the present.
“Whatever is the matter, Christina?” Her mother, her tone gentle but her eyes assessing, came to stand directly in front of her, looking back steadily into Christina’s face. “You have been upset and sorrowful ever since we came to London over a week ago, and there is no explanation for it.”
Shaking her head, Christina looked away. “It is not the same without father here.”
That was not the entirety of the truth, of course, but it was enough for Christina to share. The loss of her father nearly two years ago had been a distressing and painful time, made all the worse by the loss of Lord Coventry’s feelings. It had been an overwhelming grief, breaking into Christina’s soul and shattering it into pieces, leaving her feeling as if she might never be able to free herself from the darkness that had become her daily companion. It still lingered at the edges of her days, there when she woke and then returning to her in the evenings. This ball and the laughter of society would do nothing to banish it from her, Christina was sure.
“I miss him dreadfully,” Lady Bedford replied, her tone soft with emotion. When Christina looked, tears had filled her mother’s eyes. “But we must do what we can for you, Christina. You must marry.”
Christina nodded, unable to offer more than that. It had been nearly two years since they had last walked into a London ballroom. The first of those years had been given entirely to mourning — black crepe, quiet rooms, the hush that fell over Bedford Park when visitors were turned away at the door. By the end of the second, her mother had still not been ready forLondon; Sophie’s courtship with Lord Wickton, begun before their father’s death and resumed quietly once the worst of the grief had passed, had kept them comfortably settled in the country. Letters had been the family’s only tether to society. Some had been welcome — Sophie’s new husband wrote with easy warmth, and a few of her mother’s oldest friends had remembered them faithfully. Others had been less so. Lord Pennington, a distant cousin on their father’s side, had been among the most assiduous of correspondents, his letters arriving with a regularity Christina had at first thought merely kind. She had replied as politeness demanded, never warmly, and had been grateful when weeks passed between his notes rather than days.
