Miss Seaver was fair-haired and lissome in pearl-colored silk overlaid with bead-studded net; her features were as small and neat as a painted doll’s. The tall Mr. Hargrove sported a swoop of chestnut hair and matching, sparkling eyes. Silver buttons winked on his waistcoat.
Something about the way Lucy and Miss Seaver at once arranged themselves around Mr. Hargrove—their bodies angled in his direction, their faces slightly tipped up—suggested they both felt a bit proprietary about him.
“The color of your dress is divine, Miss Keating.” The word “divine” seemed to last a century, so elegant was Miss Seaver’s drawl. Cat imagined describing it later for her father over the breakfast table when she returned home: “Papa, don’t these eggs look diviiiine?”
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “Your dress is so beautiful, Miss Seaver. You look like you’re emerging from a mist.”
This for some reason caused a surprised silence.
“What a charming thing to say,” Mr. Hargrove said fervently, and smiled at her so warmly Catherine blushed.
“Yes,” Lucy said almost suspiciously. As if this was a quality Cat had been deliberately disguising.
There ensued an odd little pause.
“Very daring of you to pair that color with those sleeves, Miss Keating,” Miss Seaver said finally, speculatively. “Are you perhaps making a point that we ought not to have left mancherons behind in 1818?”
This sentence seemed perilous. It was as oblique as an intercepted coded message from an enemy spy. Cat had no idea what it meant.
“Thank you,” she ventured, deciding to claim it as a compliment. “I suppose it might be daring,” she added cautiously. “I have always thought them dashing.” Mancherons were essentially little epaulet details on sleeves, and all the rage, at least at one time. Flattering to the silhouette. Or so she thought.
Perhaps they were daring? Would she be perceived as an Original in this ballroom full of slashed and puffed sleeves, which were the kind of sleeves that both Lucy and Miss Seaver were wearing? Was this a good thing? Or would people be mocking her behind their fans when she danced by? She’d thought her dress was pretty. It had two entire flounces.
She was embarrassed to ask the young ladies present for clarification, lest the depths of the things she didn’t know be revealed and she find herself hurled bodily into the street amid cries of “Interloper! Fraud!”
Miss Seaver’s gaze on her now seemed as cool and sharp as scissors. Lucy’s was watchful, where it had been warm enough earlier.
She glanced uncertainly out over the sea of gorgeously attired people, and suddenly it seemed there were as many eyes as there were crystals in the chandelier above. Some of those eyes were aimed at her. Perhaps they thought the blue of her dress was diviiiine. Perhaps they found her sleeves shocking. Perhaps they were simply curious about her. Butterflies, some velvety, some spiky, began circulating in her stomach. In truth, she rather loved the notion of being new, after being known by everyone in her small town for so long. But she understood that people were often uncertain of newness.
Possibly many people here were nervous, just like she was. This notion cheered her.
She accidentally intercepted the gaze of a strapping young man topped in blond curls. He appeared to be gazing about the room, too. He offered a swift little smile full of white teeth before he turned away. Her heart gave a leap.
It was mortifying to think that Mr. Curly Blond would need to track a foxed Lady Wisterberg down at the game table if he decided he’d like an introduction.
Unless they somehow shared a mutual acquaintance. Lucy, for instance.
In short, she was at the absolute mercy of Lucy at the moment.
“I understand there will be Dance Espagnole this evening,” Lucy said.
“Oh my. I haven’t yet danced it, but I’m certain I could learn,” she offered eagerly.
“It’s not much more than a fancy quadrille,” Mr. Hargrove assured her.
“My first two dances are taken—I promised them to Mr. Wallace and Lord Cutler when we were riding in the Row yesterday,” Miss Seaver volunteered.
“As are mine, and the first waltz. The waltz is for Mr. Hargrove.” Lucy smiled up at the young man, then darted a glance at Miss Seaver.
Who looked startled.
It was becoming increasingly, distressingly clear to Catherine that she would be unpartnered for the first two dances. At the very least.
And utterly alone in a crowded ballroom.
Her stomach muscles tightened.
She supposed she could always join Lady Wisterberg at the gaming table. Imagine if the silver liningof being a reluctant wallflower turned out to be gambling her way to wealth.
