by Nicole Byrd
In an anteroom, Clarissa was trying to heed her sister-in-law’s cheering comments and at the same time not reveal she very much wished she were dead.
“You must not waste time contemplating a very ordinary mishap,” Gemma was saying, her tone soothing. “I’m sure very few of the guests remarked upon it.”
“Ordinary?” Clarissa muttered. “How many ladies fall over their own feet on any given evening?”
Appearing almost as distressed as Clarissa herself, Gemma hesitated. Clarissa felt a surge of guilt. Her family was trying so hard—she could not be so ungrateful.
His gaze gentle but his lips set into a firm expression, Matthew said, “If a young ensign under my command slipped off the mast, Clarissa, I would have, for his own sake, sent him right back up again.”
She knew he was right. She had to face and conquer her fear. And anyhow, now that she had embarrassed herself completely, what else could happen? No, she didn’t wish to contemplate the possible answers to that!
She took the wisp of handkerchief that Gemma offered and wiped her wet cheeks, blinking back any more nervous tears. “I’m ready,” she said.
Matthew offered her his arm, and his expression of approval was reward enough for the effort it took to fix her face into a semblance of serenity. Perhaps she was still a bit flushed, but she had to pretend she was a young lady prepared to enjoy a ball, no more and no less.
And if she felt much, much less . . . no need to follow that thought. She waited for Matthew to give his other arm to his wife, and they all, very much united in both appearance and spirit, strode back into the ballroom.
She gripped her brother’s arm tightly. She loved them so much. Clarissa had been alone for all those years, believing Matthew to have died at sea, sure she had no family left. He had come back into her life, found her in difficult circumstances and with Gemma’s help had rescued her, and had given her a loving sister, too. Compared to all that, what was one difficult ball, no matter how clumsy Clarissa might be?
And thinking of all she had to be grateful for, she forgot to be so agitated. She found they had passed by the first clumps of people, and yes, several turned to stare at her. For Matthew’s sake, for Gemma’s sake, Clarissa lifted her chin and maintained her smile.
Watching a footman circulate, refilling glasses of wine, only reaffirmed her resolve. It was too fancy a party to have maidservants working in the ballroom, but Clarissa was sure that belowstairs in the kitchens and pantries, young women labored, their feet and backs aching from long hours preparing for her ladyship’s guests. And Clarissa, with no more to do than dance and chat and partake of the delicacies concocted by an excellent cook, was bemoaning an awkward moment? She had so much to be thankful for.
They found seats and sat and chatted quietly until the musicians paused, and a new set formed.
When Matthew glanced toward the dance floor, Clarissa gulped, but she stood and accepted his escort, with Gemma smiling encouragement. Her pulse racing, Clarissa walked out with him and took her place.
For a moment, she could not think at all, then, as the music began again, and Matthew smiled at her, she drew a deep breath. The tune was familiar, this was a dance she had practiced many times. And her brother was here . . . he would not stand by and permit her to commit any truly awful mistake. . . .
She stepped out only half a beat behind the lady to her side, and Matthew guided her surely and easily through the first turn. Step right, turn left . . . It was coming back, just as Gemma had promised her it would.
Even so, the dance seemed to last a lifetime. Clarissa stepped, she glided, she accepted Matthew’s discreet and skillful guidance, and she made only a few missteps, all hastily corrected. And perhaps by the end of the dance, fewer people stared at her.
She hoped that the heat in her cheeks had faded, even though her palms were damp inside her gloves. When they turned to leave the dance floor, she uttered a silent but heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving.
Matthew guided her back to a chair, where Gemma now chatted with a matron Clarissa did not know. She sat, and her brother bent over her. “Shall I get you a glass of wine, or perhaps lemonade?”
She reflected. Perhaps gulping down the champagne so quickly might have contributed to her awkwardness. At any rate, better to not risk it. “Lemonade, please,” she told him.
Matthew moved away to find a servant.
Clarissa glanced back at the dancers forming a new set, then quickly away—never had she been so happy to sit quietly and watch. And when an unknown young man came up to her, she felt a quiver of alarm.
“Miss Fallon, if the esteemed Lady Gemma would introduce me, perhaps I might beg the pleasure of a dance?”
The gleam in his eyes was too bright. She suspected curiosity or even a touch of malice. Did he wish to learn more about her, only to make sport of her to his friends? “Thank you, but no, I am a bit warm. I believe I prefer to sit this one out,” she told him, her voice firm. Was that response polite or not? At the moment, she couldn’t remember what her book of etiquette said, and she didn’t much care.
“Ah, perhaps another time, then.” He bowed and moved on.
She took a deep breath and listened to Gemma chatting with the other woman.
When a young lady of about her own age, rather tall, with medium brown hair and a nose dotted with freckles, drew near, Clarissa looked up again.
“Is this seat taken? The room is becoming so crowded. . . .”
“By all means,” Clarissa agreed, and the young lady seated herself with more alacrity than grace.
“I am Miss Mawper,” the other girl said. “You are Miss Fallon, is that not so? I heard you being announced. I hope you are all right?”
Clarissa nodded. There was little point in pretending not to understand. She looked at Miss Mawper, whose pale blue eyes were frank.
“I’m fine, Miss Mawper, only my dignity has suffered,” she told her.
“Oh, call me Emmaline, do. Listen, you must not repine. At my first soiree I spilled a glass of wine down the front of my best gown. And I danced, one wit said that night, like an African giraffe who had imbibed too much home brew.”
“How unkind!” Clarissa said before she thought. Emmaline Mawper’s lanky frame did put one in mind of a tall and untamed animal, but still—
“Oh, I’m as clumsy as a cart horse, Miss Fallon,” the other girl said, her tone cheerful. “And I think people have forgotten the comment, though I admit, I have not.”
“Please call me Clarissa. I hope the gentleman who was rude—”
“Ah, it’s the same one who spoke to you before you tripped, the high and mighty earl, one reason I thought I would offer you my support,” Emmaline told her.
Clarissa knew her eyes had widened. “What arrogance! Does he enjoy making sport of nervous young ladies making their debut?”
“No, no, I did not mean to imply that. He has been most attentive tonight, dancing with me very correctly and saying all the polite things,” Emmaline told her. “I did not intend to suggest spitefulness on his part.”
“I am not so sure,” Clarissa declared, her tone dark. “I mean, why on earth would he ask me to dance, anyhow?” She still wondered whether he would reveal her secret.
“You’re awfully pretty,” Emmaline pointed out, her tone a bit wistful. “Perhaps he admires you.”
“You are too generous, but no.” Clarissa argued, though she gave the other girl a quick smile. “I have no fashion, no elan. He must be harder to please than that!” She swallowed hard. The lump in her throat had returned, and she found that her nose threatened to drip, perhaps from her bout of tears. She tugged her handkerchief from the reticule hanging from her wrist and dabbed discreetly. “I sincerely think he is quite horrid—”
Emmaline cleared her throat loudly, and Clarissa paused. A tall form had appeared before them. Oh no, not the arrogant earl again! Why, oh why, was he determined to haunt her?
“I promised you that we would have that dance,”
Lord Whitby told her. Then, before she could find the words to refuse, he turned to Gemma. “Lady Gemma, may I beg an introduction to your sister-in-law?”
“Of course,” Gemma answered, smiling at them both. “Lord Whitby, this is my husband’s sister, Miss Fallon. Clarissa, Lord Whitby.”
“If you would honor me?” He offered Clarissa his hand.
Clarissa found her hand rising automatically to meet his, but she had forgotten the damp handkerchief in her grip. She dropped it hastily and let it fall to the floor, then found she could not meet his eyes. What other disaster could befall her?
The dance floor lay ahead. No, no, she did not wish to consider the possible answers to her unspoken question.
She took a few steps, then hesitated, and he paused, too, to look down at her.
“I—I really do not wish—if you would excuse me—”
“Miss Fallon,” he interrupted. “It is my honor on the line, now. Do you wish me to be castigated as the gentleman who knocks ladies off their feet? It hardly does me credit.”
“I’m sure your credit will survive first-rate!” she shot back, blinking as new tears threatened to rise and disgrace her further. “But people are staring at me still. I’d much rather retire to the side—”
“Do you always run away from difficult situations?”
“Do you always insult your partner?” she retorted. But the coolness of his tone, not to mention his words, brought anger to the fore, and she was able to suppress her nervous tears. She had no desire to cry, now; instead, she wanted very much to slap him. “You don’t know me at all. How can you speak so?”
“I’m trying to give you good advice,” he muttered. “And keep your voice down. If we dance and chat and you look amiable and not like the wildcat you do just now, the gossip will die much more quickly. Do not give the hens more to chatter about.”
She had more angry words ready to fling at him, but his frankness made her pause. He led her forward again. Unless she planted her feet and made a further spectacle of herself, she was forced to follow.
“But I don’t wish to dance,” she muttered.
“Why on earth not?”
“I don’t—I’m not very practiced at the steps,” she almost whispered.
He leaned closer for a moment and spoke into her ear. “Watch the other ladies to see what they do. And when you step out, if you do not remember whether to go left or right, look at me. I will drop my right eyelid if you must lead to the right, or the left for the left.”
She stared at him. She had expected more ridicule, not practical assistance. They were in place now, she in the line of ladies, he facing her and side by side with the other men. They were not, thank heavens, the first in line, so she had a moment to observe what the first couple’s movements were. And the tune sounded familiar.
Clarissa drew a deep breath and tried to remember all those dance lessons. Surely her brother had not wasted his money, or poor Monsieur Meidenne all his hours leading her through one dance form after another.
She watched the first couple cross and dip and come back to their places, then the second pair step out. When it was her turn, she was ready, and she and Lord Whitby went through their steps without errors. Then Clarissa returned to her place and watched the couple below them take their turn. She found she was breathing hard.
The next pattern was more complicated, but the earl was true to his word. When she hesitated even a moment, he signaled her discreetly, lowering his eyelid, and he was also there to reach for her hand and give her the slightest nudge in the correct direction. And when they held hands and circled, she looked up at his well-made face, with the firm jaw and smooth olive skin and intense dark eyes, and she found that this was not at all like dancing with her brother or even the handsome tutor.
For some reason, her heart was beating very fast, and not with panic this time, but some other just as disturbing but more pleasing emotion. Just now his dark eyes held a light in their center, as if the chandeliers above them glinted a reflection, and when he looked at her, her chest seemed to tighten.
After that, she forgot to worry about the dance patterns and was only aware of his closeness when they held hands and circled, of the dark superfine of his coat and spotless white of his linen and the taut muscle beneath, and how broad were his shoulders and how firm the grip of his hand . . . and she was eager for the moments when the dance brought them back together.
How had she not noticed how sweet was the music or how the candlelight suddenly sparkled? And his firm touch on her hand—he seemed to carry her along on the lilting melody. She forgot to think only of her feet and enjoyed watching the smooth planes of his face instead.
This dance flowed by much more quickly. Suddenly the music was fading, her partner was bowing. She quickly dipped a curtsy in return and swallowed her regret that the dance had ended.
“Now, you thank me sweetly, and I will tell you how light on your feet you are,” he told her, his tone low. She was pulled abruptly from her brief reverie.
“Oh, what a cawker!” she exclaimed, forgetting that the slang was not proper speech for a young lady. “When you had to practically drag me through the dance.”
“Not at all,” he answered. “When you stop fretting about your steps, you are indeed as graceful as any young lady on the floor. But a polite thank-you is always in order.”
“I would rather know why you are paying any attention to me at all?” she demanded, looking up at him and determined not to succumb again to that strange and unsettling emotion that had come over her on the dance floor.
“I am trying to guide you,” he told her, offering his arm and leading her off the floor. “Help establish you in the Ton.”
“Why?” she asked again. “Are you a friend of my brother’s? Did he ask you—”
“I regret I am but a slight acquaintance of Captain Fallon’s,” he told her. “Though I’m sure your brother is a most admirable man.”
“He is. But if not—”
“If you are determined to know, I will tell you tomorrow,” the earl told her, his expression impossible to read.
“Tomorrow? But I shall not see you tomorrow,” she pointed out.
“When I come to call and take you for a drive in the park.”
Speechless, Clarissa could only stare at him. But they continued to walk, and fortunately, he kept a firm grip on her arm and this time she did not fall over her feet. When they had safely reached the edge of the room and her sister-in-law, with Matthew now back at her side, the earl bowed and took his leave.
“Well done, Clarissa,” Gemma said, keeping her tone low.
Matthew grinned at her and offered a glass of lemonade. “Indeed, you did splendidly.”
Clarissa took it and sipped—her mouth felt dry. At least she had made her family happy. And as for herself—She looked around, but found Emmaline Mawper had been taken away to dance by a tall skinny young man with a formidable high collar to his shirt. So when Gemma turned back to speak to her husband, Clarissa had a moment to think.
Why was the earl so determined to be helpful? Tomorrow, he had promised, she would find out. . . .
As the night went on, two more young men requested the honor of Clarissa’s partnership, but she made her excuses.
“I’m sorry; I’m afraid I, uh, twisted my ankle in the last dance. I must sit out the rest of the evening. But”—to her annoyance she found herself remembering the earl’s advice—“but thank you, anyhow.”
The young man made a polite comment, bowed, and withdrew. Clarissa tried not to feel guilty; she could not imagine that he was truly cast down at her refusal. Her ankle felt fine. The truth was, she had survived the almighty earl’s escort, and she had no desire to tempt Fate any further on the dance floor—at least, not tonight.
She urged Gemma and Matthew to dance and watched them on the floor, so easy and confident in each other’s arms that she felt a tug of wistfulness. But she kept her seat.
Clarissa chatted further
with Emmaline Mawper—she found that she enjoyed the young woman’s honesty and easy kindness—and also with Gemma and her brother. After a light supper was served to the guests, Gemma and Matthew agreed to her plea for an early withdrawal. It did not seem early to Clarissa, who had been wishing to retreat from the moment she had entered this imposing mansion. It had been one of the most trying nights of her life. Although, perhaps she had enjoyed her dance with Lord Whitby. But her nerves jumped at the thought of doing it again.
On the way home, Gemma said, “You did very well, Clarissa.”
“Aside from the small matter of sprawling on the floor in front of the whole party?” Clarissa could not keep from reminding them.
Gemma frowned. “Now, you must put that behind you. You did splendidly after that, and it does no good to repine upon a simple mistake.”
Matthew nodded his agreement as Clarissa sighed. But she drew a deep breath when her sister-in-law continued.
“You have no reason to be anxious about enjoying your next dance.”
The next? Oh, horrors. Clarissa had given little thought to the future—it had been hard enough to last through the evening. But perhaps in the back of her mind she’d hoped to spend the rest of her life sitting at the side of the hearth like the girl in the fairy story. Clarissa thought of telling Gemma that balls and good-looking men were overrated. She opened her mouth to protest, then recalled how she had felt when she had danced with the earl. Perhaps . . . Then she remembered the earl’s promise.
“Gemma,” she began.
But when both of them looked at her, Clarissa lost her nerve. She would tell her sister-in-law later about the earl’s rash promise. Perhaps he had not meant it. Perhaps it was one of those polite things that gentlemen said to ladies at parties and which did not signify any real intent. She bloody well hoped that might be true!
“Nothing,” she murmured. “Except, thank you both for all you’ve done.”
Gemma smiled at her, and Matthew reached across to press her hand. “I promised myself that you would have your life back, Clarissa,” he said. “And I mean to see that your hardships are all behind you, and you have the chance to be happy again.”
