by Jen Turano
Asher tilted his head. “I don’t enjoy pity either, but surely there must have been a few times over the past season or so where you were invited to dine with a gentleman not at their last prayers or offered as a pitying gesture.”
Permilia gave a breezy wave of her hand. “I’m afraid not, but there’s no need to look so horrified. I’ve grown quite accustomed to my position within society and am perfectly content to fade into the background.” Her hand fell back to her side. “I must admit that whole fading into the background approach hasn’t gone exactly as planned this evening, though, what with all the unexpected attention gentlemen keep casting my way.”
She leaned closer to him, lowering her voice to a mere whisper, which had him leaning even closer to her in order to catch her every word, since the violinists had now taken to warming up their instruments. “I thought at one point my buttons on the front of my gown must have come undone, which would have explained the bewildering attention, but . . . that didn’t turn out to be the case, since each and every one of my buttons has remained securely fastened. If you must know, I’m now at a complete loss as to why tonight of all nights gentlemen have taken to noticing me. I’ve never attracted attention at any of the other society events I’ve attended, and believe me, there have been many over the past few years.”
Staunchly pushing aside the image Permilia’s words had conjured, one that had buttons popping free from buttonholes that just happened to reside on Miss Griswold’s delightful gown, Asher straightened and took a step back, considering her for a moment. His gaze traveled from the top of Permilia’s sparkly tiara nestled in her unusual curls down to the tip of one of the shimmering slippers barely peeking out from the hem of her gown. Lifting his head, he smiled. “I don’t know why you’re questioning the reasoning behind attracting so much attention this evening. You make quite the picture dressed in that enchanting bit of froth you’ve procured for your costume, and . . . have you done something different with your hair? Because, well, it looks very lovely indeed.”
Permilia, instead of sending him the expected smile of appreciation over his compliments, began tapping her delicate shoe against the floor beneath her feet. “I’ve done nothing different with my hair this evening. And while my gown is indeed enchanting, it’s not nearly as lovely as the gown I wore to Mrs. Astor’s last patriarch ball. I can assure you that I received not so much as a second look from any of the gentlemen attending that event, yourself included.”
Asher’s collar immediately took to feeling somewhat tight again. “You were at Mrs. Astor’s patriarch ball?”
“Of course I was. My stepmother insists I attend all the important events, especially since she and my father are seemingly still optimistic that I’ll eventually secure the interest of a suitable gentleman.”
“Then you should be very happy that you seem to be attracting a lot of attention of the gentlemanly type this evening.”
Permilia’s lips thinned. “I never said I wanted to secure the interest of a suitable gentleman. I said that’s what my stepmother and my father seem to want. However, that’s neither here nor there. The burning question for me at the moment is . . . why am I attracting so much attention this evening?”
Asher glanced around at the throng of guests surrounding them, all of them exquisitely dressed and all of them seemingly enjoying the night of their lives. He smiled when a perfectly reasonable explanation flashed to mind and returned his attention to Permilia. “This Vanderbilt ball isn’t like any of the other society events you’ve attended. As we spoke about before, a large number of the guests here tonight do not travel within the highest levels of society, even though many of their fortunes are greater than most of those residing in the upper realm of our world.”
Permilia’s eyes began to sparkle. “What a brilliant deduction, Asher. That’s exactly why I’m garnering so much attention. Those gentlemen are members of the nouveau riche, as Mrs. Astor would call them, and as such, they have no idea that I’m a wallflower.”
She tightened her grip on his arm and began speaking in a voice that was little more than a whisper again. “While this is a rather abrupt change of topic, I’d like to return to the subject of Mr. Slater, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Having no idea where Permilia was going with her questioning, or why she’d taken to whispering again in the first place, since it wasn’t as if Mr. Slater was a scandalous topic, Asher bent closer to her, catching something about Permilia wanting to know what Mr. Slater did for a living. Before he could respond to her question, though, he found himself completely distracted when the most delicious scent tickled his nose, a scent that seemed to be originating from the base of Permilia’s throat, and a scent that was beyond tantalizing.
It was a blend of vanilla, citrus, and something he couldn’t define, but it suited Permilia even though it clouded his senses. Dipping his head, he allowed himself the luxury of breathing in the scent more deeply while resisting the temptation to place his nose right up against the white skin of her neck, a delightful spot if there ever was one, and one she’d evidently spritzed ever so lightly with perfume.
A not-so-subtle elbow to his ribs had him straightening, shaking his head in order to dispel the fog that had descended over him. Taking a step away from Permilia, he found her watching him with a look in her eyes that clearly suggested she was now of the belief he’d lost his mind.
“What in the world are you about, Asher?” she demanded, her words taking a few seconds to sink through the haze that continued to cloud his thoughts.
“I’m pondering my response” was all he could muster up to say.
“Do you usually descend into a dazed and confused condition when you ponder?”
Not believing it would benefit him in the least to reply to that type of nonsense, he tugged down the hem of his waistcoat, using the time it took for that action to gather his scattered thoughts. When he felt as if he’d achieved a small measure of success with the gathering, he lifted his head. “Mr. Slater’s in mining—copper, I believe, although he might have interests in other minerals as well.”
He was not expecting the unusual response those words had over Permilia.
One second she was regarding him as if she was certain he’d lost his mind, and then the next she was beaming a lovely smile his way and looking at him as if he’d just extended her a most savory treat.
“Is he really?” she breathed right before she took a very firm grip on his arm and began sailing forward, pulling him along beside her.
“I do wish I’d known that about the man when he first walked over to me, because I certainly wouldn’t have made such a cake of myself,” she said, her strides increasing with every step until they were practically galloping across the room. “I’ve never lost my ability to speak with industrialists before, and learning Mr. Slater is in mining, well . . .” She turned her head and smiled at him. “I know how to speak mining.”
“I didn’t realize mining was a language,” he said, a remark she completely ignored as she craned her neck and began scanning the crowd, likely looking for Mr. Slater—an idea that set Asher’s teeth to grinding again.
“Do you suppose he’s a gentleman possessed of a sense of humor?” she asked, wheezing ever so slightly as she tugged him along, dodging numerous guests.
“I’m not well acquainted with Mr. Slater, Permilia, but before you chase after the man, may I remind you that we are supposed to be on our way to line up for the Go-As-You-Please Quadrille?”
Permilia stopped in her tracks. “Goodness, you’re right, and . . . I do believe the orchestra has finished warming up, which means the quadrille is about to begin, but . . .” Her voice trailed away to nothing as her shoulders sagged.
The sagging had him moving closer to her but then stopping abruptly when he recalled he had completely lost his ability to think the last time he came too close to her. “If you’re concerned about the quadrille steps, you shouldn’t be. I’ve been told I’m a very good dancer, which means I�
��ll not allow you to stumble.”
Permilia wrinkled her nose. “I’m a perfectly adequate dancer, Asher, thank you very much. It’s not as if we’re about to dance one of the more difficult quadrilles, and . . . if you neglected to notice, Mrs. Vanderbilt has cut down the timing on some of the dances this evening in order to fit all the festivities in, which means we won’t be on the floor overly long.”
Asher opened his mouth, an argument to the statement about the steps to the quadrille not being difficult on the very tip of his tongue, but before he could get the argument past his lips, Permilia sent him a wry smile, paired with what could only be described as an adorable shrug.
“In all honesty, I’ve trampled a few feet here and there over the years, but what lady hasn’t had that happen to them a time or two or . . . three?”
Having never had his feet trampled by a lady but unwilling to disclose that particular information to her, Asher struggled to compose some type of response and settled for a single “Ah . . .” when nothing appropriate sprang to mind. He was spared a further response, though, when Permilia took to craning her neck and perusing the crowd.
“Ah, wonderful. She’s right over there,” she said as if he should know exactly who the she was and why Permilia was searching for a certain she in the first place.
“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage,” he said when she quirked a delicate brow his way.
“My stepmother, Ida Griswold.”
“I’m familiar with your stepmother, Permilia, but what does she have to do with our current situation?”
“You promised you’d stroll past her with me on your arm before our quadrille.”
“Indeed I did, but I fear, given that the orchestra members have now picked up their instruments, we may have missed our opportunity to do any strolling.”
Permilia’s shoulders sagged another inch before she looked past him, drew herself up, smiled a smile that looked incredibly forced, and tightened her fingers on his arm in what he could only assume was some type of a telling gesture on her part.
“Ida’s looking this way,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, barely moving her lips. “Turn around as casually as you can, smiling at me in the process, quite as if you’re beyond delighted to be in my company.”
“Turn . . . around?”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought Permilia might have let out a grunt. “How else will she be able to see I’ve taken her advice and lured you to my side using my feminine wiles?”
“What feminine wiles have you been using on me?”
Waving away his question even as her forced smile seemed to widen, she moved closer to him, her reasoning behind the moving becoming perfectly clear when she stepped on his foot.
“Honestly, Asher, there’s no time to explain that business properly, but do know that I’m woefully inadequate when it comes to plying any wiles, so there’s no need for you to look as if I’ve been up to no good. Having settled that, if you would now be so kind as to turn and face my stepmother, I’d be ever so grateful.”
A dozen questions rolled through his mind, the most important being why Ida Griswold had seemingly been encouraging Permilia to lure him to her side, but Asher knew he’d get no answers to his questions unless he cooperated with Permilia’s request. He turned in what he thought was a casual fashion but was less than amused when, after his turning, she stepped on his foot again.
“You’re not smiling—you’re scowling,” she muttered through lips stretched into the most frightening smile he’d ever seen on a young lady before.
“It’s a little difficult to smile when one’s foot is throbbing,” he muttered, even as he forced his lips into a smile that he could only hope wasn’t as frightening-looking as Permilia’s. When she gave him a quick jerk of her head, he took the gesture to mean he was complying with her rather bossy instructions, so keeping his smile firmly in place, he directed his attention to where he assumed Ida Griswold was standing.
It took every ounce of control he possessed to keep a smile on his face when his gaze settled on Ida and he discovered that she was watching Permilia with wide eyes and with such apprehension that a trickle of unease slithered right down Asher’s spine.
Apprehension was not an expression he’d been expecting to see, and . . . it was not a reassuring sight in the least.
“I think she’s seen us” was all he could think to say.
“Of course she has, but . . .” She leaned closer to him, giving him another tantalizing whiff of her perfume. “Would it be too much to ask of you to tip your head back and release a hearty laugh, as if I’ve just said something extremely witty?”
All thoughts of tantalizing scents disappeared in a flash. “Tip . . . my . . . head back?”
“And laugh,” she added before she sucked in a sharp breath. “But you’ll need to wipe that confused expression off your face immediately. On my word, that particular expression won’t benefit me in the least, especially since it’s one that numerous gentlemen have sent me in the past, right before they bolt off for destinations far from my vicinity, a circumstance that has distressed Ida no small amount.”
Knowing they’d never reach the ballroom floor in time to participate in the quadrille if he continued arguing with her, Asher tipped his head back and released what he thought was a perfectly credible laugh. The remnants of that laugh, however, became stuck in his throat a moment later when Permilia sent him a telling shake of her head before she tugged on his arm and prodded him forward at a rapid rate.
“I said hearty laugh, not maniacal, but no time to try again since the quadrille truly is about to begin,” she muttered, releasing his arm when they finally managed to join the line of dancers who’d already assembled on the floor. Taking her place opposite him, Permilia lifted her head, smiled a smile that seemed, at least to him, rather determined, and then hurled herself into motion a second later when the sound of music swelled around them.
For the briefest of moments, Asher found himself rooted to the spot.
While the rest of the ladies had begun gliding to the right, with their gentlemen partners stepping ever so smartly to the left, Permilia had taken a very large step . . . backward. That step, regrettably, had her careening smack-dab into another young lady—one who stumbled around for a good few seconds until she finally righted herself. The young lady then sent Permilia a look of admonishment, which Permilia didn’t notice because she was veering off in a different direction, causing additional mayhem as she veered, especially since she was once again traveling the wrong way.
Fearing that certain disaster was soon to strike if he didn’t intervene, Asher forced feet that preferred to stay rooted to the floor into motion. Reaching Permilia’s side, he took hold of her arm, nudging her somewhat forcefully in the direction all of the other dancers were now traveling.
To his utter disbelief, she shrugged out of his hold a moment later. Without so much as a glance to see if he, her partner, was in accord with what she was about to do, Permilia then launched herself into a gap that had opened up between the dancing couples, a gap not meant to be launched into, leaving him with no choice but to follow her.
As he waded through dancers who were trying their very best to avoid Permilia’s flailing limbs, he couldn’t help but think that the word she’d chosen to describe her dancing abilities—adequate, if he wasn’t much mistaken—did not do justice to what Permilia was currently perpetuating
He wasn’t quite certain what word he’d have used instead, although . . . earnest, enthusiastic, or perhaps . . . unhinged sprang to mind.
She appeared to have no sense of rhythm as she jolted back and forth, almost as if a song completely different than the one the orchestra was currently playing was running amok in her mind. She was also counting under her breath, but not the normal one, two, three, one, two, three.
No, Permilia, oddly enough, seemed to be counting to ten, and in a convoluted manner—one, two . . . three, four, five, six . . . seven . . . eight
, nine . . . ten.
When he realized he was becoming somewhat hypnotized by Permilia’s strange counting ritual and the movement of her body as she counted, he reached out and took hold of her arm, drawing her close while the rest of the dancers glided in graceful circles around them.
“I do beg your pardon, Permilia, but I seem to have steered us in the wrong direction,” he whispered into her ear before he tightened his grip on her and led her back into the circle of dancers, all of whom immediately gave them a wide berth.
Permilia did not seem to notice as she drew in a deep breath and began counting again, moving directly beside him until she stepped on his foot, sent him a smile of apology, and then, for some unexplainable reason, turned completely around and headed off the way they’d just come.
He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d mistaken the quadrille they were supposed to be dancing for some other quadrille, or . . . if she thought the Go-As-You-Please title of this particular dance meant that dancers could move any which way they pleased.
Swallowing a laugh when the thought struck him that, given her somewhat curious manner of looking at the world, Permilia most likely believed exactly that, Asher squared his shoulders and drew in a deep breath. Releasing that breath a second later, he headed back through the crowd of dancers, determined to locate Permilia once again and assist her in performing the proper steps of the quadrille, or at the very least, get her moving in the right direction once and for all. Dodging one guest after another, he found himself the recipient of incredibly sympathetic looks being tossed his way.
He couldn’t say he was surprised by the looks, but what he was surprised by was the annoyance that began traveling through his veins because of them.
