Only the cream of the ton was invited to this ball, or so Lady Wisterberg assured them. Lucy and Catherine were quite pleased to be considered cream, although there seemed to be a lot of people considered cream. The place was indeed brimming. She thought she never would forget the sounds of countless dancing slippers clicking across the spreading sea of gleaming marble as they funneled into the ballroom.
She was conscious of heads turning in her wake as she moved with Lady Wisterberg and Lucy into the ballroom, and she held her head high, her heart pounding. The blue dress, the most magical thing she’d ever owned, a dress to which she did not quite feel equal, conferred upon her a special glamour, and certainly was more at home in this mansion than she was.
Magic could be dangerous in the wrong hands, as she’d learned fromThe Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.
The wonder and pride in the eyes of her first dancing partner for the evening set her aglow; she began to believe that this was no different from happiness.
Kirke was gathered with a clutch of MPs near an arrangement of Grecianesque statuary—marble blokes and maidens wearing togas and wreaths—on the periphery of the Shillingford ballroom. He’d always viewed this event as the sort of halfway point in the season; soon the social whirl would end and Parliament would adjourn and he’d move out of The Grand Palace on the Thames and back into his home.
“Looking forward to your usual rousing speech tosend Parliament out on an inspiring note, Kirke,” Shillingford said. “I know your voters will count on it.”
“Do you think it ought to be something like my Freedom Speech?” Kirke asked, expressionlessly.
“Yes!” Shillingford enthused with glee, as if Kirke had read his mind.
He hadn’t yet written a damned word worth speaking aloud in front of a crowd of hundreds. Nor had he yet heard from Leo.
“My son will be dancing with that pretty girl in blue tonight. Miss Keating, I believe her name is.” Lord Holroyd gestured with his brandy to the dancers. “He seems quite taken with her. Or, at least he’s mentioned her twice, which is the most he’s ever mentioned a girl. Does anyone know anything about her family?”
Kirke didn’t answer. He suddenly couldn’t speak, regardless.
He watched her, mesmerized, as she moved in the figures of the dance. Smiling, radiant.
The morning of the night he’d kissed Keating, he’d had his man of affairs send a note with a certain request to Madame Marceau, who had custody of a dress for which he’d already paid.
He had tried to sort out all the reasons why he shouldn’t do it, which were legion, but they collapsed beneath his primary motive.
Which was why he frankly thought he’d be willing to watch his entire house burn down for the pleasure of seeing how happy Keating was to have that dress.
During a lull between dances, Catherine fanned herself and demurely sipped her lemonade. After her night at the Coopersmiths’, she doubted shewould ever touch ratafia again. She had awakened the following morning with a headache that felt like someone wearing heavy boots was trying to kick her eyes right out of her skull.
It seemed impossible that a ball should become a crush in a house this vast, and yet between the dancing and the hundreds of bodies, she felt as though she was coated in a sheen of perspiration. She’d wanted a moment to chat with Lucy alone to giddily compare dancing partners, but unfortunately, Miss Seaver and Lady Hackworth had drifted over to join them.
“We’resolooking forward to Lady Wisterberg’s party in honor of you and Miss Morrow, Miss Keating. I understand everyone in London who matters will be there.”
Good try, Miss Seaver, Catherine thought. She was too wise to fall into that particular little trap. “I’m honored and flattered that so many people are looking forward to joining us! We’re going to have a fine little orchestra and other entertainments.” She was tempted to add, “Andwe’ll be singing a song with a clap in it instead of ‘arse’!”
Regardless, she was increasingly excited about the party and she wondered if she returned to Madame Marceau if another beautiful dress wouldn’t magically appear for the occasion.
“I’ve never seen so many pretty dresses as I have this evening,” Catherine said to them.
“Indeed. Your dress, Miss Keating, is... splendid.” It sounded as though it pained Miss Seaver to admit this. As if she hadn’t thought Catherine capable of finally wearing something stylish. “It must have cost a fortune.” She added this last bit lightly, but also a trifle suspiciously.
“Oh no. Not at all. It was after a fashion a gift,” Catherine said airily.
Lady Hackworth’s fan ceased moving. She fixed her eyes on Catherine, and a confusing, fleeting succession of expressions—wonderment and envy and astonishment—flickered across her features swiftly before—oddly—a sort of respect settled in.
Though her eyebrows remained knit.
“Interestingly, Miss Keating...” she said hesitantly. “I had my eye on that precise bolt of blue shot silk at the import shop near Fleet Street. But when I asked to purchase it, the clerk informed me it was... ah, already spoken for.”
She stared piercingly into Catherine’s eyes. As if she could read her thoughts.
How very peculiar. Catherine was nervous. She didnotwant to learn the provenance of her magical dress, lest it tarnish her pleasure. And she’d lost patience with Lady Hackworth’s machinations.
“This color would look beautiful with your eyes,” Catherine told her magnanimously, on the theory that she was the sort who could be distracted by a compliment.
Lady Hackworth merely looked more puzzled. Suddenly she turned her head and called over her shoulder, “Lady Pilcher. Here is the young lady you said you were curious to meet.”
