Jack glowered at his friend this time. “I didn’t give her my worst look, as she was rather pretty. Remember, a debutante now could be my lascivious widow in five years’ time,” he chuckled.
Rook was about to tell him that in five years’ time, Jack would be a lecherous old roué with a nasty disease if he dipped his wick so indiscriminately, when a lithe figure in white danced by him.
“Who’s that?” he suddenly enquired, “The girl in white, dancing with… Theseus?”
“It’s a masquerade,” Jack snapped back pointedly. “Half the room is wearing white; how should I know?” Rook gave a snort.
“Well, she’s female, seems pretty and looks to be under the age of…forty? Of course you’d know.” Jack sighed with exaggeration and looked into the crowd.
“Clara Lockwood: Twenty-one years of age, one of the house guests, here with some dotty great aunt as chaperone, and a weak-kneed cousin called Ralph Mayden. I believe a distant Duke lurks in her bloodlines. And by the way, Mrs Appleworth was forty-seven. Age…” Jack continued in a grandiose fashion, “is no boundary to love.” Then he smirked.
Rook ignored him.
Clara Lockwood, he mused curiously. They had been introduced at the Stonebridge’s ball, and he remembered thinking that she was a delectable, little article. When her lashes had swept up to reveal dark, exotic and intelligent eyes, she had stirred a hitherto unknown sensation in him. He blamed the trout they’d eaten at supper.
She had a slender figure and was on the small side, but her luscious black locks and delicate face made many a man look again: pretty, rather than stunning. Very, very appealing, thought Rook. He laughed silently at his own musings. He really wasn’t moved by debutantes, and certainly, he was no longer a green youth to be affected by a pretty façade.
They both watched her as the dance ended, and she left with Theseus to partake of some refreshment. The man handed her a glass of champagne, but the glass simply slipped through her fingers, smashing over the hard surface of the ballroom floor. Tiny shards flew out in all directions and guests huffed, shaking their heads at this display of clumsiness.
“Clumsy Clara does live up to her name with aplomb, does she not?” Both men turned to Lady Selina Pinesdown. Her head was cocked to one side, a sparkling smile on her lips.
Rook looked back again. The girl had turned a vivid shade of red and seemed to shrink within herself, tucking her body next to the table, as the footmen rushed in to sort out the mess. He shook his head dismissively. He couldn’t see his mystery woman being that gauche. Her very touch had been all grace, and although hesitant, she had been bold with her hands…and tongue. Not the type to feel shamed about a broken glass.
Whilst he’d been watching, Jack and Selina had decided to dance.
“Luckily, there are two Hades here to tempt me tonight,” she laughed. Jack raised his eyebrow in query, but Rook merely winked and saluted his glass in response.
A month of flirtation, and he was giving it all up on the chance of meeting his mysterious lady. She knew him, and she could avoid him. If he wanted to find her, and he most certainly did, it would have to be by stealth.
ΦΦΦ
The green jardinière hid Clara perfectly. It was extremely big and extremely convenient, as it managed to conceal her small frame completely. Large lion heads decorated the bowl, whilst dragons adorned the base; their mouths open wide – she assumed to catch any unsuspecting ankle. It was also, fortunately, filled with a variety of exotic foliage, and most people were too distracted by the exuberant flora to notice the white figure behind it.
Her cousin Ralph was on the hunt for her, and he’d brought along his friend, Sir Matthew Taylor. She knew Ralph desired a match between them, but she couldn’t stand the man! She knew some might say that she should consider herself lucky: he was a baronet, handsome and came with his own estate. He also came with hands that seemed a little too cruel. Even when merely holding her arm, they had pinched. Her maid, Molly, had informed her that the chambermaids avoided him, and when he came to stay at her cousin’s, they made the bed in pairs.
She poked her head around the side of a lion. She was pathetic – hiding here behind some tropical plant, but really, tonight had all been too much! She had quite enjoyed the masquerade at first; she could pretend to be anonymous in the dress and mask. Unfortunately, she had misplaced her ball of thread that had denoted her as Ariadne, and now she was just another nymph. She parted some green fronds with her right hand and immediately felt it twinge in pain. Clara sighed heavily: she never used to be in any way clumsy or unsure of herself, but that was prior to the ‘accident’.
Practising the pianoforte late one evening by candlelight, her aunt having already retired, Ralph had arrived back home – drunk and giggly. He’d come into the music room on hearing her, and tried to put a very wet kiss on the nape of her neck. It was revolting, rather like a dog licking at her, but one that had consumed an onion pie and half-decanter of port. She’d stopped playing and turned to shrug him off; he was annoying but never aggressive.
“Do you like me? Little cus? I like you…” he’d said in a mournful voice. “Even like it when you play Beethoven. Play some more.” He’d leant forward again, but had been so foxed that he’d stumbled over the seat leg. He’d fallen forward, his whole weight landing on the pianoforte, bringing the lid crashing down onto the fingers of her right hand that still rested on the keys. Ralph hadn’t realised, despite her cry, and instead had leant even heavier on the lid, to aid his leverage back up.
The pain had been immense at the time, and since then Ralph had done everything he could to help her…and assuage his guilt.
The family doctor had explained that the broken bones hadn’t set properly and other problems resulted. The fingers were now stiff and, on occasion, very, very painful. She could no longer grip, write, or play her beloved pianoforte, and she had found herself growing intensely maudlin over the past few months. Ralph, all guilt and pity, had brought in a recommended doctor named Lucas Mainwaring.
Doctor Mainwaring was patient and understanding; he had obviously been in a terrible fire, as he wore awful scars down his cheek, and Clara had felt like an utter simpleton getting upset over her mere hand. Privately, Clara still considered him a good-looking man, with his brawny, tall build and sympathetic eyes. He’d taught her exercises for her fingers, which despite the initial pain eased the stiffness and, more importantly, he had encouraged her to develop the use of her left hand. Her writing was still appalling, but she could at least play some simple pianoforte pieces now.
However, every so often she still forgot about her lack of grip.
Like tonight.
Lady Pinesdown had entered the ballroom soon after the Earl of Rookdean, with a dazzling expression on her face. Rookdean had been frowning in irritation, and she suspected that he realised he had been kissing the wrong goddess. Clara had surreptitiously watched from the middle of the floor, as he talked to Lord Winterbourne, and she’d caught them both staring at Lady Pinesdown, before a heavy-handed Theseus had pulled her in a different direction. However, when she and her dance partner had departed the floor, she had felt that prickling feeling one gets when one knows someone is talking about or watching you – and she knew – she just knew it washim.
She’d been distracted on two counts. Firstly, shivers of the pleasant and unpleasant kind had flowed through her body, as she remembered the sheer muscular weight of him pressing into her. Secondly, the vexatious fact that Rookdean was obviously an absolute rogue – thinking she was Selina indeed! Theseus had handed her a glass of champagne, and she had automatically lifted her right hand to receive it. The fingers, stiffened even more from dancing, refused to grip.
The glass fell. To Clara, it seemed to do so slowly and without sound, till it hit the hard surface. There was no stopping its trajectory, and she could only watch in horror as it met the floor. The delicate crystal smashed, and the shards scattered; she didn’t know one glass could make such a mess. There were tuts of disapproval, Lady Minkworth declared she had glass in her slipper, and Theseus typically abandoned her.
And all that time she felthiseyes, disapproving and critical, like the rest of the perfect guests.
