“You look wonderful, Relia,” Amy declared, coming up behind her.
Aurelia smiled at her twin, bright as a sunbeam in a jonquil-yellow gown. “So do you.” Picking up her fan, a delicate creation of painted silk mounted on ivory sticks, she rose from her chair. “Enough primping. Time we were on our way.”
Suzanne placed the velvet evening cloak over her mistress’s shoulders, and the sisters went downstairs, where their mother and Lord Trevenan awaited them. The carriage conveyed them to a splendid mansion on Park Lane, large enough to have its own grounds and gardens, as well as a ballroom spacious enough to accommodate the cream of Society. Lady Warrender and her husband—an attractive, fair-haired man of perhaps thirty-five—stood at the head of the stairs, greeting their guests with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.
After welcoming Lord Trevenan and Mrs. Newbold, Lady Warrender turned to Amy. “Delighted you could attend, Miss Newbold. And this must be your sister?” The baroness’s brown eyes were warm and friendly. “The resemblance is truly remarkable.”
Aurelia did not doubt their hostess had seen her scar. But her breeding, along with the kind heart Amy had sworn she possessed, would have precluded any mention of it.
“My twin, Aurelia,” Amy confirmed. “She’s just returned from abroad.”
“So glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Aurelia,” Lady Warrender said, smiling at both sisters. “Is this your first ball of the Season?”
“Indeed it is, Lady Warrender,” Aurelia replied. “Though I hope it may not be the last.”
“So may we all, my dear. I hope that you enjoy every moment of it,” she added, before turning to greet the guests who had come up behind them.
Lord Trevenan offered Amy his arm and led the way down the grand staircase into the lavishly bedecked ballroom. As always, they looked wonderful together, their contrasting good looks emphasized by his dark evening clothes and her golden gown. Accompanied by her mother, Aurelia followed in their wake, buoyed by the memory of her reflection in the glass. If no longer her sister’s equal in looks, she felt she was no disgrace to her present company.
As was only to be expected, Amy and her betrothed attracted most of the attention, though Aurelia was conscious of a few glances cast in her direction—more curious than hostile, fortunately. But she kept a smile upon her lips, letting her gaze rove about the ballroom, hung with pale peach-colored silk and decorated with massive arrangements of roses at the height of their bloom. Lady Warrender clearly had exquisite taste.
More guests arrived, and the musicians struck up a quadrille, the opening dance of the evening. Scarcely had the first notes sounded when Lady Warrender appeared, accompanied by a tall, broad-shouldered young man with fair hair and an open, attractive face whom she introduced to Aurelia as William Sutcliffe, Viscount Sutcliffe’s heir.
Mr. Sutcliffe bowed. “Might I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Newbold?”
His face and manner were both so pleasant that Aurelia did not hesitate to accept. Conscious of her mother and sister’s delight, she let him lead her onto the dance floor. Her left leg did not so much as twinge when she walked, though she supposed the slight halt in her step might be noticeable to someone consciously looking for it. Still, a quadrille was far more sedate than a polka or a galop. And after three years of being a wallflower, she felt a thrill of excitement at once again taking part in the very first dance at the ball.
Smiling at her partner, she took her place opposite him in the set. A new era in her life was about to begin, and she meant to enjoy every moment of it.
***
“Enjoying yourself, my dear?” James asked, drawing his betrothed into their first waltz.
Amy’s blue eyes sparkled. “Oh, yes! Everything’s going splendidly. Have you noticed that Relia has danced almost every dance so far?”
“Indeed I have,” he assured her. “She’s having quite the triumph this evening.” With difficulty, he managed not to glance in the direction of a certain green gown swirling in and out of the throng; its wearer was well on her way to becoming the belle of the ball tonight.
“It’s just what she deserves,” Amy declared stoutly. “Do you know, I don’t think she’s looked back once since that quadrille with Mr. Sutcliffe. One of your friends, my lord?”
James shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t claim the credit for that association. Sutcliffe is one of Thomas’s friends, a viscount’s heir and a very good fellow, I’ve been told.”
“Oh!” Amy’s brow furrowed slightly. “Did Mr. Sheridan tell him to ask my sister to dance? As a favor, perhaps?”
“He might have made the initial suggestion, but he wouldn’t have required Sutcliffe to claim more than one dance. As you see he has already done.” James nodded toward the couple.
“A quadrille and a waltz,” Amy mused aloud. “That might prove fruitful ground, mightn’t it, Trevenan?”
“It might.” James quickly suppressed the odd pang he felt at the thought. Aurelia was a lovely young woman coming into her own, he reminded himself, or rather, coming back into her own. No wonder London society was so eager to make her acquaintance, the young men especially. As Amy had said, she deserved every moment of this triumph.
Amy—his betrothed, who deserved his full attention.
Fortunately, she did not appear to notice any neglect on his part. In fact, her attention had strayed to another corner of the room. “Talking of Mr. Sheridan, I did not realize that he and Lady Warrender were on such close terms.”
Following the line of her gaze, James observed that Thomas had arrived and was engaged in conversation with their hostess, who was smiling warmly up at him.
A faint, speculative frown creased Amy’s brow. “Is she perhaps a patroness of his?”
Surprised at her curiosity, James said, “She might be, but I doubt that’s the reason. They’ve known each other since they were children—their families are neighbors in Devon.”
Amy’s eyes widened. “Really? I didn’t know.”
“I told you Thomas has a vast number of connections,” James reminded her. “I don’t know the Martins well personally, but—”
“Martins?” Amy interrupted him. “Would Lady Warrender’s Christian name happen to be Elizabeth, by any chance?”
Elizabeth? James just managed to contain his surprise. How had his fiancée found out about her? Surely not from Thomas. “Lady Warrender’s Christian name is Eleanor. Elizabeth was her older sister, I believe.”
“Was?” Amy echoed, clearly startled.
James hesitated a moment before replying. “She died some years ago.”
“Oh!” An expression that seemed equally composed of shock, regret, and remorse flashed across Amy’s lovely face. “How very sad.”
“Yes.” James debated whether to say more, then decided any further details were Thomas’s to relate, not his.
Once the waltz had quavered to a close, he bowed to his intended and led her from the floor. Her partner for the Lancers Quadrille would be waiting—and so would his, he realized with an odd little shock. He was engaged to dance it with Aurelia.
***
“Thank you, Mr. Sutcliffe,” Aurelia said somewhat breathlessly, fanning herself as they left the floor. “That was a delightful waltz.”
He smiled down at her. “The pleasure was mine, Miss Newbold. Might I have the honor of partnering you for the supper dance?”
Aurelia consulted her dance card. “I’m afraid that I have already promised it to another,” she said with genuine regret.
“Then, the first dance after supper?”
That, fortunately, was unclaimed, and Aurelia penciled in Mr. Sutcliffe’s name beside it. He bowed to her one last time, then approached another young lady, one of several seated in this particular corner. She rose with alacrity, and they strolled toward the middle of the dance floor, a number of envious gazes following them.
Not at all surprising that they should, Aurelia thought. Mr. Sutcliffe was both eligible and a
ttractive: fair-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered…as her first love had been. But where Charlie had been a youth, scarcely more than a boy in some ways, Mr. Sutcliffe was unquestionably a man. She realized with a not unwelcome shock that for the first time in memory, she had thought of Charlie without pain.
Plenty of fish in the sea, her mother and her sister had assured her during those years she had mourned Charlie’s defection. Now, she found she might just be ready to believe that truism; dancing almost every dance did wonders for one’s confidence. She hoped that she was not so naïve as to think that all the gentlemen attending this ball had been struck by the light of her beaux yeux. Indeed, she suspected that Amy and perhaps even Trevenan had had a hand in the number of partners who had presented themselves to her before each dance. But more than one young man, like Mr. Sutcliffe, had asked for a second dance after the conclusion of the first, which Aurelia dared to think might actually have something to do with her.
Better still, she had yet to glimpse on anyone’s face the revulsion she had once dreaded to find. She had seen surprise from her partners, even a touch of pity, when they beheld her scar, but no disgust. None had averted his gaze or angled his head so as to avoid looking at it, or her. Most remarkable of all, the pity had faded once she had demonstrated her own determination to enjoy the evening. Faded and given way to respect, a triumph far sweeter than the most extravagant of compliments.
She glanced down at her card and felt a sudden frisson when she saw the name beside the next dance. But of course Trevenan had committed himself to one dance with her; they were to be brother and sister, after all. And if one secret part of her still experienced a wistful ache at knowing they could not be more to one another, she had that part well under control.
And here they came, Trevenan and her sister. The twins exchanged fond glances—as ever, not needing words to convey how they felt at this moment. But as Amy and Trevenan neared, a feminine murmur grew behind Aurelia, sharpening into disastrous clarity at the exact moment the musicians paused to tune their instruments and a lull descended upon the room.
“—those twins! Beauty and the Beast…”
“Oh, hush!”
From that horrified whisper and the awkward silence that followed, Aurelia knew exactly of whom they had been speaking. Impossible not to know. Amy’s eyes widened, then blazed, and her cheeks flew two scarlet flags. She, too, had heard.
Aurelia’s heart seemed to stutter to a stop, the cold of utter shock stealing through her veins. The first unkindness. The first breath of malice since her return…
And the moment she discovered what she was made of. Whether she was indeed the queen—or merely the little mouse.
She lifted her chin and gave the approaching couple her most dazzling smile. “Ah, there you are, dearest,” she greeted her twin, pitching her voice just loudly enough to be heard in that whispering corner. “Did you enjoy the waltz?”
Amy rallied at once. “Indeed, I did. Thank you, my lord,” she added to her fiancé.
Trevenan raised Amy’s hand to his lips. “The pleasure is mine—to be partnered with two such lovely women. Are you ready for our dance, Miss Aurelia? I’ve been looking forward to it.”
“As have I, Lord Trevenan. And as this is to be rather a lengthy dance,” she took care to emphasize the word lengthy, “perhaps you might tell me more about Cornwall during the set?”
“Delighted to oblige.” He proffered his arm and Aurelia took it, stepping out onto the floor without a backward glance at the now-glowering wallflowers. And to think she’d felt rather sorry for them before—clearly a waste of sympathy!
“Brava, Miss Aurelia,” Trevenan said softly as he led her to their place in a newly formed set. Amy’s partner, a Mr. Ashby, was doing likewise on another part of the floor.
Aurelia attempted Claudine’s Gallic shrug, hoping she looked even half as nonchalant. “I’m done with hiding in corners. Or cowering in fear of an unkind word.”
“They’re envious, you know.”
“Because I’ve managed to find some partners, despite my limp and scar?”
“Because you’ve made those things irrelevant. Don’t undervalue yourself—or the pleasure you’ve given to your partners tonight.”
Startled, she glanced up at him and saw that he was in earnest, his dark eyes intense as he returned her gaze. She felt herself flush and hoped that the heat of the ballroom could account for her change in color. Before she could sink deeper into confusion, the music came to her aid.
Five figures in a Lancers Quadrille. Years ago, as a schoolgirl just learning to dance, that knowledge had filled her with dismay. Now, however, she was relieved to have so many steps on which to focus. She remembered to smile as she danced, and after the successful completion of the second figure, the smile felt more genuine and less forced. She caught Trevenan’s eye then, and felt her heart give an odd little jump when he smiled back and half-closed his eye in a wink. Concentrate, she reminded herself sternly as the third figure began.
Trevenan acquitted himself well in the quadrille, and during the moments they came together, he even managed to impart a few details about Cornwall—mainly regarding the north coast: its towering cliffs and many echoing caves, the latter carved out by the relentless wash of the sea, so beautiful and turbulent. It did sound magnificent, Aurelia thought, if not much like Newport, and she looked forward to the day when she and Amy would see it for themselves.
The dance now concluded, Trevenan escorted her from the floor, leading her to a different corner of the room this time. She was just about to thank him for his consideration when another unwelcome voice assailed her ears.
“Aurelia! How lovely to see you! I told you the Newbolds were still in London, Charlie.”
Aurelia stilled, waiting for the sudden humming in her ears to subside. Under her hand, the muscles of Trevenan’s arm went hard as iron as the earl also registered the identity of the person addressing her. Surely some cosmic irony must be at work that she should have to face this trial tonight as well. But at least she was not facing it alone.
Affixing a bright, inconsequential smile to her face, she turned around—and there they were. Sally attired in a frilly, girlish white gown, and her brother standing stiffly beside her.
He looked older, Aurelia thought, broader in the chest and shoulders, his face more defined and less boyishly soft. But then, it had been three years—nearly four, now.
She regarded them with a serenity she was far from feeling. “Mr. Vandermere. Miss Vandermere. Good evening to you both.” To her relief, her voice sounded almost normal.
Charlie’s throat worked as he swallowed; he looked nervous, and she could not be sorry for it. “Miss Aurelia. Good evening. And to you, sir?” He glanced uncertainly at Trevenan.
“This is the Earl of Trevenan, Amy’s betrothed,” Aurelia replied. “My lord, you have already met Miss Vandermere. This is her brother, Charles Vandermere.”
“Of course.” Trevenan inclined his head with a haughty air not at all like his usual demeanor. “Sir. Miss Vandermere.” His tone thawed only fractionally when he addressed Sally, who appeared too awed by his position to be offended by his coolness. “You must excuse us. I am taking Miss Aurelia for some refreshment. Good evening.”
Amused in spite of herself, Aurelia let herself be swept off on his arm.
“Well played, my lord,” she murmured, once she was certain they were out of earshot. “I’ve never seen such airs and graces. You sounded positively imperial.”
“I’ve never seen such unruffled calm,” he countered. “My dear, are you sure his presence here has not distressed you?”
Aurelia sighed. “I own, I wasn’t best pleased to encounter him tonight. But with the Vandermeres in London, I suppose it was only a matter of time before we ran into each other. I’m just—relieved that I was able to carry off the meeting with some degree of assurance.”
“You have carried off everything tonight with the assurance of a princess.”
Incredibly, she felt her lips quirk in a smile. “Or a queen?”
“A very empress,” he told her, smiling back.
“Thank you.” Aurelia took a deep breath. “Now I can concentrate on this evening, and the rest of our stay in London, without worrying about whether I’ll meet him again or not. Though perhaps we should find and warn Amy that he’s here. Otherwise she might commit a breach of etiquette and call him ‘Stupid Charlie’ to his face!”
“From what I’ve learned of your sister, she might consider that almost worth the social opprobrium,” Trevenan remarked.
Aurelia rolled her eyes. “Well, I don’t!” she declared, and glanced about for her twin.
***
At the conclusion of the quadrille, Mr. Ashby led Amy toward a corner occupied mainly by older ladies whose dancing days appeared to be behind them. She felt at once relieved and regretful. A part of her would have enjoyed putting the fear of God into those spiteful cats who’d mocked her twin. But for the sake of propriety, she supposed she was better where she was.
Mr. Ashby bowed and withdrew to claim his partner for the next dance—a galop, Amy noted, on consulting her card. She had no partner listed, but after the intricacies of the Lancers, she was glad enough to sit out this set and catch her breath. Fanning herself, she glanced about the ballroom, then stiffened when she caught sight of Mr. Sheridan, less than twenty feet away, in deep conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman gowned in peacock-blue.
And not just any woman, Amy discovered on further inspection, but Sybilla Crowley—the dashing widow of an elderly but wealthy baronet. She’d emerged from mourning late last summer, opulent as a full-blown rose, with her lush figure, auburn hair, and vivid blue-green eyes. Lady Crowley had also received numerous mentions in The London Lady and Town Talk, two widely read Society magazines. The most exclusive establishments vied for her patronage, and her photograph was to be found, with that of other professional beauties, in almost every print shop in London. Not since Lillie Langtry had a woman enjoyed such a meteoric rise to prominence, and Amy had been heartily sick of her by the time the Season ended. Lady Crowley had gone to winter on the Riviera, and in her absence, other fashionable wives and widows had succeeded her in the limelight, though she now seemed intent on reclaiming her place there.
Waltz With a Stranger Page 11
