Page 9

The woman bobbed her head, her hair as white as snow and gathered in a coiffure nearly two decades out of fashion. Thick strands were pinned in loops about her head, and a once-stylish turban of faded blue silk clung valiantly to her crown. From it, a blue plume jutted at a reckless angle, trembling with each movement and threatening to poke her in the eye.

Gwen smiled softly and, with careful fingers, reached out to straighten the feather before Lady Hays did herself an injury. The old woman beamed at her touch.

“My great-nephew is here. I should like to introduce him to you, if I may.” She squinted into the throng of dancers and circulating guests, her gaze clouded by age. After several moments of peering, she turned back to Gwen with a sigh. “I am afraid I cannot see him. Have you met him? Lord Julius Trafford? He is a dear boy.”

Gwen shook her head, though Trafford’s name was far from unfamiliar. His reputation for fashion and roguish pursuits was well known among society. What he was doing at her father’s ball was a mystery. Perhaps he had taken a sudden interest in one of their guests?

“I have not had the pleasure, my lady.”

“I shall locate him,” Lady Hays declared with determination, the feather now once again wavering precariously.

With great relief, Gwen watched her go, her skirts trailing behind her as she disappeared into the crowd like a homing pigeon set upon its mission.

This, at last, was her moment to escape.

Gathering her ivory skirts in both hands, Gwen strode purposefully toward the tall terrace doors, propriety be hanged. Her steps were swift, decidedly unladylike, but the guests, engaged in their conversations and dancing, scarcely noticed her passage. And if they did, well, she doubted their opinions of her could sink any lower.

Reaching the doors, she wrapped slender fingers around the brass handle and opened them with an eager sweep. The music and chatter faded behind her as she stepped outside and drew the door gently closed.

Several guests were already enjoying the night air, leaning against the carved stone balustrade that overlooked her father’s tidy gardens. Gwen gave them a polite nod before turning away, seeking a stretch of solitude.

Rounding the corner of the terrace, she stopped, startled into stillness by the glory above.

A full moon hung low and heavy in the sky, its light bathing the terrace in silver. The clouds, fat and plush as goose down, glowed with reflected luminescence, while countless stars sparkled across the midnight canvas. The fragrance of night-blooming jasmine drifted from the garden below, and a cool breeze whispered against her skin.

The sight stole her breath.

For a moment, her bruised feelings and weariness from the evening fell away. The sheer beauty of the night stirred something in her. A longing, tender and unspoken. A yearning for what she had never had.

It was the sort of night meant for lovers. For whispered secrets and tender laughter beneath the stars. A night for shared dreams and clasped hands, for the kind of intimacy that poetry dared to capture but never quite could.

Gwen sighed, her chest rising and falling in time with the breeze. The loveliness of the evening wrapped around her like a silk shawl, beautiful and weightless and tinged with sorrow.

Every young woman ought to share an evening like this with someone who adored her. At least once.

But for Gwen, it seemed such things were not to be.