The night already felt like an eternity. Yet deeper in we ventured. My mother’s punishment meant deliberately passing the dining room, where the waft of fresh breads and pastries could tickle and taunt my nose before we closed in on a bright waltz tune. If there were a tenth circle of hell, it would most definitely be a country ballroom.
The crowd bulged to the edge of the white marble dance floor, and a flurry of twirling dresses revolved around the center. All eyes fell on Rose when she floated in: The orchestra struggled to concentrate on their unremarkable tune, and a man accidentally stepped on his partner’s foot, while she withheld the yelp for propriety’s sake. Sometimes I wondered if I simply imagined the effect my sister had on a room, but here it was undeniable. It isn’t just her fair curls and bright blue eyes that draw attention; Rose has something indefinably wonderful about her—a coat of goodness she is unable to shed.
As a result, a mass of charmed suitors seemed to slink across the room to Rose. Mother, meanwhile, greeted several friends and fell deep into such giddy conversations about bachelors, one would think they were just out of finishing school. I could see her starting to arrange dances for us, but fortunately, a welcome sight intervened. He bowed before us, dropping his head full of silken brown hair and rising up with his face wreathed in an ever-present smile. Our dearest, oldest friend, Robert Elliot.
“Evelyn, Rose, good evening to you. You’re looking quite lovely tonight.” His brown eyes never left Rose as he spoke.
In fact, his eyes had not left Rose much in his eighteen years. Living on a neighboring estate, Robert had been our constant companion since childhood, suffering through many a doll’s tea party and game of hide-and-seek. He grew into a kind, affable man, if slightly earnest. Not the man for me, but . . .
“Thank you, Robert,” Rose replied. “A lovely evening indeed.”
My sister never mentioned her feelings for Robert, but the attachment between them had always been obvious. Even when we were children, I often felt as if I were sneaking into their secret society without an invitation. I wondered whether tonight would be the night he finally made his intentions clear.
“It really is a lovely evening, isn’t it?” Robert continued with far more passion than the topic called for.
I glanced at Robert, who looked at Rose, who looked back at Robert. Well, odd one out, then. Maybe he would propose if I disappeared.
“Oh look! Upholstery,” I declared, feigning fascination with a side chair in the corner of the room. “I will be right back.”
Creeping toward the chair, I looked around to be sure no one was paying me any mind. Then, ever so subtly, I slid behind a large green plant. Good. A place safe from dancing, where I could make sure Rose and Robert’s romance flourished. The two were a good match, even if Robert was a little wanting in confidence. They were never at a loss for conversation, and when they got into the thick of things, Robert would actually relax, looking as if he were at home by a soothing fire instead of standing right in the center of a blazing one.
I gave a small, quiet cheer as he worked up the momentum to ask her for a dance, and her eyes lit as she nodded yes. Or at the least, I supposed she did. A large leaf was currently obscuring a quarter of the scene. She took his hand, while many disappointed faces watched her glide into the center of the room for the next song.
I sighed and patted the plant. Healthy, green, and stout as it might be, it was not the best company. If only Catherine weren’t galloping across Moroccan plains or attending a risqué Parisian salon. My only other choice was to rejoin my mother and listen to fascinating facts about every eligible man passing by. (Apparently, Mr. Egbert collects gentleman’s bootlaces! The wonder of it all.)
I peered glumly through the foliage at Rose and Robert, twirling on the dance floor. They seemed marvelously happy, and I had to question my own dissatisfaction. Was I simply too disagreeable, as Mother claimed? Would I grow just as bored of the Continent? And why was there a giant man staring through the window?
Him. The one who had lifted the carriage. I hastened toward the wall, maneuvering around conversations to afford myself a better angle, but when I reached the next window, he was nowhere to be seen. Nothing outside but night falling over Sir Winston’s estate. I didn’t know whether I wanted it to be him or my boredom manifesting itself as madness again. Hoping for any sort of answer, I spun back around for the first window and collided directly with a sleek black suit, and the gentleman in it.
“Dear me. I had no idea my absence would cause such distress.”
Pulling back, I could see he also carried a surprisingly unspilled wineglass, despite the collision. He was just my height, but the confident way he held his square chin made him seem taller. Yes, it was certainly him. Mr. Nicholas Kent.
“What on earth are you doing here?” The question left my lips before I could decide if it was too blunt.