Chapter Twenty
The Full Moon Ball
My Dear Emma,—I wish you would tell me more about this mysterious Lord Winterly. He sounds devilishly handsome. Do proceed with caution. And do return that book you borrowed. Yours affectionately,
Mary.
Postscript:—What on earth is the book about that you could not possibly do without it?
Emma sat by the bay window, staring blankly at the carriages in the street and the interminable procession of caps, hats, and bonnets passing below, footslogging from one end of her periphery to the other. Featureless multitudes, moving like chaotic little insects.
The strand of hair was still securely wound around the iron hasp like a lock, its only office to warn of demons. It was no guard against nightmares, so the night terrors had come freely. Last night’s was even more vague than the first. She recalled only achromatic shadows—the faceless creature and the woman from before—painted in shades of grey and lurid red. So much slaughterous red.
Emma’s hand was resting over her breast where she felt the lingering pang of fangs plunging into her heart. The scream of horror and agony that had awoken her with a dreadful start was still ringing in her ears. The tears that had blinded her as she’d lit a candle had not been for herself. It had been a troubling dream as if recalled from some forgotten lifetime—an unknown woman’s agony and the unquenchable torment of her lover. A foggy landscape of faceless lovers, so unlike a dream and more like a strange, heart-piercing memory. But strange, it seemed, was fast becoming her unwelcome watchword.
Without glancing from the view outside, she ran her hand along the watch chain hooked at her bodice, down to the enameled face of her silver pocket watch. She stroked the glass with a trembling thumb as the minute hand kept its faithful pace. Would that she was as faithful and steady of mind. Or that the springs and cogs that controlled her life could be as easily moved by the watch key on her chatelaine.
The doorbell rang exactly as her watch pronounced the midday hour. Seeing as it never rang for her, she paid it no mind. It was like as not just another one of those ridiculous petits-maîtres chasing after Milli’s skirts. Why did she not curry the favor of any sensible young men, for heaven’s sake?
Not a moment later, Milli burst upon her solitude, eyes glazed with rapture. “Emma, you will never believe who is at the door! I can scarcely believe it myself.” She threw herself onto Emma’s bed.
“I am sure I don’t know,” Emma muttered.
“Faith, what’s put you out of countenance today?” There was no need, however, to form a reply, nor was there time sufficient to open her mouth, for Milli continued in the next breath. “Never mind, I know just the thing to cheer you up. Victoria has sent her seamstress to us—it was she at the door with an entourage of helpers—they are even now waiting below with two of the most beautiful ballgowns I have ever seen. You must come at once.”
“But why should Victoria have sent us gowns? I had planned to wear my blue gauze sarcenet with the—”
“You cannot just wear any old thing to the Full Moon Ball tonight,” said Milli, wrinkling her nose. “And I can assure you that there is not one gown in your wardrobe suited to the occasion or the theme.”
“Theme?”
Milli threw up her hands. “Really, Emma, what would you do without me?” She got up from the bed and aimed a particularly withering glance at her sister. “Which brings me to my next point: I forbid you to wear those ghastly spectacles.” With that she flew out Emma’s chamber as hastily as she’d entered, but not before issuing another summons to the drawing room.
Emma sat a moment, stunned. “What theme?”
“La, don’t you look exquisite, Emma.” Milli paused in the drawing room doorway, her countenance wavering somewhere between surprise and delight.
She was already dressed for the evening, for her dress, unlike Emma’s, had not needed the hem let out or the bodice taken in. Milli’s evening gown was an ivory muslin confection, beneath which peeked a silver trimmed petticoat, and the whole was spangled with silver gems that caught every wink of candlelight. A large pearl drop hung from each ear and a matching necklace of silvery pearls lay resting across the fine bones of her chest. White kid gloves, an ivory fan, and silver slippers completed her ensemble.
“I wish I too could admire the dress,” said Emma with a teasing wink, “but you will not allow me to wear my eyes.” Emma glanced at her blurry self in the cheval mirror that had been brought down from Milli’s room. The seamstress was also examining her work, fluffing the train out and picking lint from the skirt wherever she imagined she saw it; her hirelings had already departed now that the gowns were both altered and pressed and fit to be worn.
Aunt Sophie lit up at the mention of Emma’s ‘eyes’ and rushed from the room with a backward grin, promising to be right back. She returned moments later with a beautiful silver neck chain from which an eyeglass was suspended, the glass framed round with elegant filigrees. “I believe my niece will not begrudge you this quizzing glass, Emma.” Aunt Sophie carefully placed the chain over Emma’s head and stood back to admire what she likely considered the pièce de résistance.
“No indeed,” said Milli, beaming. “You may wear it with my blessing, sister.”
Emma’s ballgown rustled gracefully as she turned in the mirror. It was a white satin slip over which was draped a gossamer overskirt of embroidered lace and delicate beading. Her ivory gloves were held in place by enameled armlets that matched the enameled ivory of her fan. Her curls, like her sister’s, had been powdered white for the occasion—or, rather, the mysterious theme—and embellished with petite, white rose buds. The eyeglass was resting against the folds of lace at Emma’s waist. The string of glass crystals draped at the base of her throat, along with the matching stones gleaming at her ears, were also on loan from her aunt.
Uncle Haywood hemmed loudly behind the door and inquired if he might be permitted to enter his drawing room. He was admitted directly, now that Emma’s toilette had been completed, and proceeded towards the sofa. The creases in his brow deepened as he neared it, for there was still scraps of fabric and the seamstress’s accouterments strewn about the carpet and furnishings. “I don’t see why these proceedings couldn’t be carried out in your own rooms,” he said, lifting a piece of lace out of the way before he seated himself on the sofa. He inspected the lace and then discarded it at his feet.
“The light is better here, Uncle,” said Milli, circling her sister like a school mistress. “Emma, I hope you’ve been practicing your dance steps. Did you read that book I gave you, Companion to the Ballroom by Mr. Thomas Wilson? He is quite fastidious about the correct method of French and German waltzing, you know, and I should hate to see you looking awkward.”
“Perversion of a dance,” said their uncle, grimacing. “Indecent lot of lewd grasping, if you ask me.”
“It is perfectly decent, Uncle,” Milli replied, “Countess Lieven herself dances the waltz.”
“Oh, yes,” he said, “the very same lady embroiled in that dalliance with Lord Palmerston, hmm?”
“A fudge!”
“No, no, Milli, waltzing leads to all manner of havey-cavey undertakings of which, evidently, not even foreign princesses are exempt.” This was punctuated with a disgusted grunt. “No, I am quite resolved, no niece of mine shall dance the waltz.”
Emma could not help smiling at her sister’s chagrined expression. “I’m sure I don’t even know how to dance the waltz, Uncle.” Little Snoring could vaunt very few assemblies and even then nothing but country dances were tolerated.
Milli threw up her hands. “I knew we should have hired a caper merchant!”
“Oh, stop raising a breeze, it’s only a ball, and I shan’t embarrass you because I don’t intend to dance.” Emma’s avowal was met with silent dubiety, but fortunately nothing more on the subject was said. It was time they were off.
In due course, they arrived at their destination on Regent Street, the equ
ipage halting beside a very grand portico attached to a large stuccoed building with Grecian pillars and a domed roof. Inside, they doffed their mantles and handed the items, including their vouchers, to a supercilious footman with a ridiculous white wig. Thereafter, they were led past the crowded drawing room, richly furnished, to the ballroom.
The resplendence of the room was such that Emma faltered as she stepped over the threshold. The ballroom was sixty feet long and fifty feet wide, decorated with pilasters and gaslit lusters that sprayed the walls and ceiling with Celestine stars, all pulsing in time to the orchestra’s rhythm. The windows were dressed with black damask so that the room was devoid of any color save those that belonged to the moonlit heavens. A quadrille was currently in progress with a large number of dancers already enjoying the music. Everywhere the eye bent its course, gowns of tulle and silk and frills and feathers billowed like clouds of white and silver. Diamonds and crystals radiated from gowns and headdresses like moon dust beneath the chandeliers. The air itself glistened with ethereal light, the effect otherworldly. It was made more so by the powdered heads and pale countenances of each occupant, so like empyrean gods themselves. By comparison, Emma felt like a vulgar mushroom.
The thought was not long given free rein, for Milli, who had been on the qui vive for Victoria, soon discovered her quarry and moved thence with rapidity. The lady had been conversing with a handsome woman and a dashing young man in a black coat, but upon catching Milli’s eye she smiled. Victoria’s silver turban was festooned with diamonds and white feathers, the latter bobbing excitedly as she beckoned a footman over with his tray of glass flutes. Shortly after greeting Victoria, they were introduced to her companions, Mr. Norcroft and Miss Dubois. When the footman arrived with the champagne, Victoria placed a crystal stem into each of the sisters’ hands but took nothing for herself.
Emma thought it peculiar the way Victoria’s gaze lingered upon Milli as she took a delicate sip from her flute—a look of poignant ardency, if Emma was to define it. When Victoria noticed that she was being closely observed, she merely grinned and tapped her fan upon Mr. Norcroft’s shoulder with a suggestion that he bespeak a dance with each of the Roses before their dance cards filled up.
Mr. Norcroft excused himself as the music reached its denouement, for he had engaged Miss Dubois for the next set, but before leaving he secured Emma for the following dance and Milli for the one after that. With a bow, he withdrew to join the other dancers, Miss Dubois on his arm.
The champagne was sweet and refreshing as it flooded her tongue with effervescent kisses. The bubbles did nothing to quiet her nerves, however. She had been perfectly ready and willing to stand here all night like a wallflower watching the dancers from a distance, but now she was engaged to join them. She hoped Mr. Norcroft was a good dancer, for she certainly was not.
Milli suddenly placed an insistent hand on Emma’s forearm. “Look, it is the Strange sisters again.”
Emma glanced around to see Ana, Mina, and the white-haired woman moving through the crowd, their eyes fixed to Victoria. “Tanith,” said Emma, suddenly remembering the blonde’s name. “Was not that her silly name, Milli?” It was strange how completely the name had eluded Emma till this very moment. Milli herself had not recalled it after the brief meeting—collision—on the street.
“Indeed.” Victoria had also followed the direction of Emma’s gaze, her expression unreadable. She made no move to acknowledge or approach the women. “The eldest Miss De Grigori.”
“I did not know,” said Emma, catching Victoria’s eye, “that you were acquainted with the De Grigoris. I was surprised to see you with them at Vauxhall.” Truly, she was perplexed by the association, for Victoria seemed to regard the sisters with as much distaste as Mina had evinced for the Winterlys.
“They are…distant relations,” Victoria replied, glancing past Emma’s shoulder.
“And”—the voice of the wicked viscount was suddenly at Emma’s ear—“I should esteem myself eternally glad if they continued to remain distant.”
Emma turned to face Winterly, spilling a little of her champagne. “Lord Winterly.”
He bowed. Emma found herself momentarily lost in his limitless, obsidian gaze. Upon realizing that she was staring, she immediately diverted her hot face. She had been trying to differentiate between his pupils and his irises, but found that she could not. The one was as coal black as the other. It was an almost unholy stare that the man possessed, so it was better that she looked elsewhere and, thereby, preserve her soul.
Preserve her soul, indeed. She almost laughed at herself. How nonsensical she could be. Markus Winterly was only a man. A compelling one, yes, but still merely a mortal.
Chapter Twenty-One
A Dance With The Devil
“Miss Rose,” said Winterly, “that gown becomes you.” His skin appeared luminous tonight, impossibly pale and beautiful. He was dressed in a black tailcoat and matching trousers, his hair gleaming like a raven’s back. “I daresay it shall become you far better if you dance.” He held his palm out, the gesture almost imperious. “I believe I will take the first for myself.”
Emma was doing her best to appear composed as she fanned the heat from her cheeks. Hopefully, he would think the warm ballroom the cause of her…discomfort. “Mr. Norcroft wants the next dance.”
“Then he must want a little longer. I believe my want is of a more implacable kind.” That said, Winterly availed himself of her hand and lead her away without a single thought for Mr. Norcroft’s claim, or for Emma’s mild protest. Once they were in place, he transferred the empty champagne glass from her other hand to a passing footman’s empty tray, all without tearing his eyes from her.
Emma was still reeling over the contact. Even through the barrier of a glove her flesh had beaded with excitement when he’d taken her hand. “Are you not a little sorry for your conduct just then?” she asked, gesturing towards Mr Norcroft who was, instead, leading Milli towards the center of the room.
“A very little,” was the reply. “It was not I that promised him this set.”
“Then it is just as well that I am sorry enough for the both of us.”
“Come, come, Miss Rose, the quadrille is for flirting not scowling.”
Whatever might have been her reply was interrupted forever by the start of the familiar notes of L’été as it filled the ballroom. She answered his bow with a stiff curtsy and then, blushing, turned to do the same to Mr. Norcroft and Milli who occupied the adjacent corner of their dance square. For the first few movements, she and Winterly stood observing—he dispassionately and she nervously—as two of the four couples met in the middle.
“I really oughtn’t be surprised at your conduct,” she said, paying close attention to Milli’s lightsome feet. “You do take delight in shocking me.”
He smiled, taking her hand. “I won’t deny it.”
It was their turn to move into the center, and she found herself suddenly buoyed by his redoubtable self-assurance. Her hands were transferred from his to another’s and then back to his again, and it was always the same when he touched her—that ineluctable awareness radiating out from the epicenter of their touch, rippling across her flesh like fire.
In the two-handed turn their eyes locked, hers in thrall to his. Never had she felt so vulnerable under a man’s regard, no dance had ever been so sensual and, yes, flirtatious. He held her quite captivated and, though she was not a particularly efficient or graceful dancer, her movements were effortless as she allowed herself to be swept away by the music and by her skillful partner. He was fluid and elegant and, therefore, so was she. Dancing with Winterly was like floating beneath the surface of a mulled wine, muffling the sounds of the ball the while she drowned in his intoxicating gaze.
“If you keep looking at me that way, Miss Rose, I might be tempted to shock you again.” He’d brought his lips to within a fraction of a space from her neck.
She lowered her eyes, her breathing unsteady. By the time she had
completed a tour de deux mains with another gentleman, she was much composed, a smile in place as Winterly reclaimed her. “Well, I refuse to let you shock me again. I am prepared for whatever mischief you devise.”
His hand tightened around her waist as they turned. “Shall we test your mettle?”
Emma raised her fan between them, suspicious. “Only if you promise not to shock the entire room, sir. I won’t have you making a scene.”
“I promise, no one but I shall enjoy your blushes. I am quite jealous of them, after all.”
Her lips twitched. What was wrong with her? He was playing with her and she was letting him; no, it was more than that—she was enjoying the game. “I shall guard myself whatever you say.”
“Oh, I don’t intend to shock you with words. At least, not for the next act.”
Whatever smugness had crept into Emma’s smile was suddenly and completely expunged by his grin, his teeth white and wolfish and positively eager. She licked her lips. “A gentleman might give warning ere taking the offensive.”
“If it amuses him to do so…”
It took her a moment to realize that the dance had ended and the couples were already disbanding. Winterly’s gaze drifted languidly over her features as he lead her away.
“You are staring, Lord Winterly. Do I have an ink smudge on my face?” Thankfully, the bruise on her neck was long gone.
“No.”
She blushed. “Then why do you look at me so intently?”
“Because you are the most beautiful creature in the room and it pleases me to look at you.”
She wasn’t beautiful at all and she certainly wasn’t sophisticated enough to handle flummery, especially not from him. “It is merely the dress.”
Winterly (Dark Creatures Book 1) Page 14
