by Ella Edon
He considered what else to say. Compliments were too awkward. The weather? The number of guests that Lady Westmore had managed to invite?
“It’s a fine evening.”
He jumped as she spoke first. She had an unusually low-pitched voice, he realized. It was musical and quiet, fitting with the evening.
He nodded. “It is.”
“I also wanted to escape,” she said, inclining her head in the direction of the hall. “It’s quite oppressive in there, isn’t it?”
“Mm,” he agreed.
“Not the heat, or the noise. It’s the stares,” she murmured.
He looked at her with surprise.
“Yes,” he managed to say. He hadn’t realized that she would feel like that too. What would people be staring at her for? She was highborn, and he was a nameless nobody! The instant the thought came into his mind he realized how stupid he was. One only had to look at her – how beautiful she was, how accomplished – to see that she stood out in any group.
She smiled at him, lifting her shoulders in a little shrugging motion. “It’s silly,” she said. Her eyes were sad. “I just…don’t belong here. I shouldn’t even say that.”
“Why would you think that, My Lady?” he said gently. He tensed. He felt as if he was in unchartered waters here. He didn’t want to offend her, but he sensed that there was something she needed to say, something that affected her deeply.
“I don’t know. It’s silly of me, isn’t it?” She giggled, but it seemed more distress, rather than amusement. “I should just stop talking. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it?” She gestured out across the lawns. Her voice was sad.
“I think neither of us feel at home in there,” Cutler said gently. “I understand. Nobody’s too keen on me, either. Officers from the foot-soldiering regiments aren’t exactly hotly-contended conversation-partners.” He heard the bitterness in his own voice, and knew he was recalling the discussion he heard among the gentlemen at the ball earlier.
“I think officers in the foot-soldiers are very brave men,” Raymonde said, surprising him with the quiet strength of her opinion. “I would exchange half a dozen of those dandified fellows in there for one with half their bravery.”
“That’s a very kind thing to say,” Cutler said, looking out over the garden. The comment was much milder than how he felt. He was deeply touched. He swallowed hard.
“It’s true,” Raymonde said, almost crossly. “I don’t say things that I don’t mean.”
He turned to look at her. She was flushed, and her eyes were wide. He held her gaze.
“Nor do I,” he said. He felt impressed.
She looked away. “Yes. I thought that might be so.”
He turned away from his focus on her face. He thought he might be disconcerting her. He looked out over the garden, and a thought occurred to him. “I reckon that’s why we feel so unwelcome in there.”
“Yes,” she said. “None of them tend to speak the truth.”
Their eyes met, and this time they held each others gaze. He swallowed hard. Brown, dark and intense, her gaze was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Like two pools of midnight sky, her eyes invited him to drown in them.
He had never met somebody with whom he felt so in agreement with. She could have touched his mind and taken the words out of it. So often he had found himself in parlors and drawing-rooms with people with whom he had nothing in common, and to whom he had nothing to say, save empty platitudes.
“Yes,” he agreed. “I feel that too.”
She smiled. It was almost a conspiratorial smile, like they were entering into a secret agreement together. She tipped her head to one side, turning away from him.
“Shall we go in together, then?” she asked. “It might be more fun than if we were to be there alone.”
He felt something flare inside him, an excitement he had thought he’d never feel again. He nodded.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Let’s go inside.”
Chapter Six
At the Ball
The light from the ballroom shone out onto the terrace, spreading a carpet of glowing warmth on the shining tiles. There must have been a hundred candles in there, all brightly lit in the chandeliers high overhead. Raymonde barely noticed the light that poured from the doorway – she was too conscious of the bright light that filled her inside.
She stood next to Lieutenant Wingate, feeling his hand resting beside hers. They weren’t holding hands, but he stood so close that, should she have so wished, she could have reached out and clasped his fingers with her own.
“It’s hot in there,” he whispered.
She raised a brow. “It’s not that bad. I’ll wager we can stand it longer than we can the polite comments about it.”
He grinned. She felt her breath catch in her throat at the way his smile tilted at the corners. It was brief but dazzling. She felt her tummy tingle. The warmth from his hand seemed hotter, as if she became more aware of his proximity to her.
There was a small crowd by the doorway – more people coming out to take the air colliding with the group who were heading to the refreshment table. Raymonde and Wingate wove their way between the people together, in such close proximity that her leg brushed against his.
Her face went red.
“Whoops,” Lieutenant Wingate said.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “It’s so crowded in here.”
“I know.”
She felt the touch of his leg on hers long after it had gone; the afterburn of it seared onto her nerves the way sunlight sears the eyes long after you’ve closed them or turned away. She felt a delicious curiosity, one she’d never felt before.
I wonder what he looks like under that shirt.
She went even redder. She shouldn’t be thinking things like that! As a young lady of good station, she should consider only courtly love, should she not? This strange heat that flushed her body when she looked at him was doubtlessly a terrible transgression. It didn’t feel bad – it felt wonderful, like she’d drank champagne or ran through the park.
Lieutenant Wingate turned and smiled at her. He’d divested himself of the long tail-coat he wore, and the loose-sleeved shirt and waistcoat he wore underneath it only served to emphasize the hard, lean body he had acquired on campaign. Raymonde felt her heart beat faster.
Look away! You’re staring and that’s simply not mannerly…
Raymonde made herself focus on the group around the trestles, ignoring the good looks of the gentleman nearby.
“I don’t know why I wore the torturous thing,” Lieutenant Wingate said dolefully, gesturing at the coat that hung over his arm. “I feel like a cork in a bottle.”
Raymonde giggled in spite of herself. Of all the things to say! She smiled at him. “My dear Lieutenant. You don’t look like one, I can tell you.”
She felt her cheeks flush as she said the appreciative statement, and then something marvelous happened – the Lieutenant went red.
“Thank you, My Lady,” he murmured. “I am… Glad to hear that.”
He was looking down at the floor, then over at the table, seemingly disconcerted. She swallowed her happy laugh and focused on trying to set him at ease.
“Let’s go to the corner, there – I think Mr. Hall will take your coat and put it in a cupboard somewhere. That is, if you intend not to wear it for the rest of the evening?” She smiled at him.
“Um…yes. Let’s do that.” He nodded, throat working uncomfortably. “I reckon I shan’t be needing it until later.”
Still smiling, trying hard not to show her amusement at his reaction, Raymonde led the Lieutenant to the back corner, where a footman in a long coat took his tailcoat and hung it up for him. By the time he turned around to face her, the Lieutenant seemed recovered from his earlier embarrassment. He smiled at her.
“Shall we find something to drink?” he asked. “I don’t know when the dances will start.”
“I don’t intend to dance,” Raymonde said, feeling a
strange horror numb her. Ever since being a little girl, when Osburne had said she needn’t bother about dancing lessons because she was too ugly to ever be asked, she’d hated it. Now, she couldn’t bear the thought of dancing in front of so large a crowd.
The Lieutenant lifted his shoulder in a shrug. “As you like,” he said lightly. “We can sit over there and watch the others, instead. I’m not in a hurry to be on my feet. A sensible man sits down when he’s got the choice. That’s what you learn on a forced long march.”
She laughed. The Lieutenant was so diverting! He was unlike anybody she’d ever met before.
“I can imagine,” she said lightly. “It must have been terrible.”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t that bad. Come, let’s sit down over there before somebody else steals the space on the chaise-lounge. I’ll find us a drink, if you like.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a polite nod.
While the Lieutenant shouldered his way to the trestle-table to fetch them a glass of cordial, Raymonde settled herself on the red velvet seat and watched the crowded room.
Somewhere in the corner, a chamber orchestra tuned up. Men in black tailcoats and knee-breeches talked with ladies in long white dresses or – in the case of married women – dresses in velvets of dark red, blue or green. Raymonde looked down at her own dress. She’d chosen navy blue: a color much more suited for an older woman, but one which she strongly preferred.
I don’t like looking girlish.
She had never felt girlish inside.
Ever since she had been a child, being in any way childlike had been impossible. Around Osburne, she reflected sadly, being anything other than impassive would have been too painful. She watched the crowd around the table instead. Lieutenant Wingate was near the front now – she could see his dark hair and broader back standing out among the others.
I wonder about him.
She hoped, when he mentioned the forced marches, that he would discuss something about his times in the army. His physique suggested he had seen active service, though she had no idea when or where. She felt a strong desire to learn more about him.
You’re foolish, Raymonde. He’s not interested in you, so what are you interested in him for?
She put her head on one side, studying him. She had no idea if that was true or not. He did seem interested in her, however unlikely she might believe it to be. And yes, she was interested in him and she couldn’t help it.
“I trust blackcurrant is to your liking?” a voice asked. She stared up into the Lieutenant’s open gaze.
“It’s my favorite,” she said decisively, taking the long glass he held out to her. “How did you guess?”
He smiled. “It’s dark and mysterious. It tallied.” His eyes sparkled as he handed her the glass.
She felt her cheeks go red, then stiffened her expression. He was teasing her, she was sure. She was about as mysterious as yesterday’s pudding! Osburne had always said she was frightfully boring. She schooled her expression to neutral.
“Thank you for what I presume is a compliment,” she said. Her voice was tight.
He went a shade whiter but lifted one shoulder. “I think it is,” he said frankly. “I have a liking for mystery. Not that you see very much of it when you’re in the army. Espionage be damned! All anybody would have had to do to know our marching plan was to stand a mile away and listen to Bullroarer yell it out at us.”
“Bullroarer?” Raymonde set her glass down on the table by her side, worried that she’d laugh too hard and spill it over. Her shoulders shook with mirth, her hurt dissolving in the moment’s fascination.
“Yes.” He looked slightly embarrassed, though he was smiling still. “Our sergeant. I don’t know where all sergeants learn to yell like that, but there must be a special school somewhere. I just never attended.”
“You were never a sergeant?” she asked, raising one speculative brow at him.
“No. I went in as a second lieutenant,” he said. He was looking away from her, across the room. His face was tight, expression difficult to read.
Raymonde frowned. The rank of second lieutenant was a subaltern rank, and the commission would have cost money. She wondered whether he had saved up, or whether he came from a wealthier family who had purchased the commission for him. It was still difficult to imagine him as a nobleman. Surely, had he been, he would have chosen a cavalry brigade, not foot-soldiering?
“You were promoted, then?” she asked.
“Yes. I was. Not through any actual valor of my own,” he said, turning to face her. He was smiling. “I reckon Arthur would say it was all his fault.”
“Arthur?” Raymonde frowned.
“Yes. My sergeant. A fine man. He works as my valet now – I can’t get rid of him.” He chuckled, but she could see the fondness he felt for his sergeant bright in his eyes.
“You and he did something valiant?” She lifted her cordial to her lips, finding herself caught up in the tale.
“We nearly got ourselves killed,” Lieutenant Wingate said bluntly. “It wasn’t exactly clever. But the regiment got their gunpowder, and we made it through.”
“You should be proud of yourself,” Raymonde said instantly. “I’m proud of you.”
To her surprise, he blinked. Her words seemed to touch some hidden wound. He sniffed and she looked away, touched by how deeply her words had moved his heart.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “Oh. It looks like something’s happening over there.” He raised his glass, indicating the chamber-orchestra, where the conductor had just raised one arm.
Raymonde felt a little queasy. She hated the dancing aspect of balls almost more than she hated the crowds and the noise. The conductor lifted his baton, and a sweet opening cadence sounded.
“I think it’s a minuet,” the Lieutenant said, his low-voiced comment surprising her. “It’s your dance. Do you want to join in?”
“My dance?” Raymonde felt like somebody had slapped her; surprise stiffening her. What did he mean? She suddenly recalled the previous day. The recital. She’d played a minuet then, and he must have remembered! She went pink.
“Alright,” she said.
She felt her mouth open, horrified. Had she just said that? Offered to dance a minuet, with him? She went red. She stared at him in shock, but he didn’t seem to be surprised. He looked at her, then stood up.
“Alright, then,” the Lieutenant raised one shoulder in a shrug. “Shall we, now?”
She felt her mouth go dry. He was standing before her, one hand out, waiting for her to rest her palm in his. Stiffening her spine, she nodded. She made herself stand up.
“Yes,” she said decisively. “Let’s go.”
Together, hand in hand, they walked to the dance floor.
The crowd had parted a little, making space on the checkerboard marble tiles. Raymonde took her place opposite Lieutenant Wingate, feeling her throat go too stiff to swallow easily. Her legs felt like they were stone, her heart racing. She stood opposite him, the skirts of the ladies on either side swishing as they moved. The air smelled of cologne and the heat of the candles.
I don’t know if I can do this.
Her body felt wooden. She glanced around, convinced that everyone could hear how her breath tightened in her throat, that everyone was staring at her, waiting for her to do something stupid.
Nobody was staring. Opposite her, a gentleman stretched his arms briefly, as if readying for the dance. He was standing beside the Lieutenant, and she cast a glance in his direction, wondering if he had noticed how funny it looked.
The Lieutenant was looking out over the dance floor, focused on the orchestra. When she glanced at him, he looked around at her.
Her body melted as his eyes held her gaze. He was looking at her without judgement, without censure. It was a look she’d never seen before, and never thought to receive. He smiled, and there was neither condescension nor amusement in the smile. It was appreciative, and warm, and sparkling with some vague esse
nce she had never seen before, but which made her body tingle like she was outdoors in sunshine.
She smiled back. She couldn’t help it.
The dance began.
They curtseyed and bowed, then joined hands. The dance was written in a minor key, lilting and haunting and delicate. Raymonde stepped through the paces, but it seemed effortless. She felt like she floated, held lightly in the arms of the man with whom she was dancing.
Lieutenant Wingate looked down into her eyes. His hand was on her waist, and the touch of it felt heavenly. She swallowed hard, feeling that green gaze staring into her own. Her heart thumped.
