by Alyssa Deane
“Just imagine,” whispered Unity, returning to her current favorite topic of Corporal Lewis, “finding love so soon upon entering society."
“Love? Unity, please,” Roxane begged, rolling her eyes.
“If it were proper, I would give him the first dance,” Unity persisted.
“Well,” responded Roxane, “it is not. And now, at least, I shall have company while I sit out."
Beside her, Unity's joy momentarily withered.
“Oh, Roxane, why hasn't he come?"
“Who?” said Roxane, feigning indifference. Though she continued to smile politely at the room in general, her ability to do so was waning. “Do you mean Captain Harrison? I suppose he has his reasons. Perhaps he has not yet returned. Or there may be something else—"
“What? What do you think has prevented him coming?"
Roxane did not reply. Spearing a perfectly cut square of poultry with a two-tined fork, she removed it with her teeth and began to chew as if there were nothing to trouble her beyond the consumption of her meal.
What, indeed? Had she so angered him in those few moments that he no longer cared for her company? So be it. Better it occurred now, while her heart and life were still her own, than after years of marriage, with a child, the only child of what had been thought to be a loving union, abandoned by the man who had claimed to love them both.
Realizing that she was confusing what her father had done to her mother with the unproved actions of one Captain Collier Harrison, Roxane tried to steer her thoughts elsewhere.
Perhaps, she thought, some harm had befallen him. Maybe he had been thrown from his horse. Or worse. What was it he had said, about the condition of life itself precluding any absolutes? I might die, he had said, tomorrow, in battle, or sickness....
Stop this! she chided herself silently. Was it not entirely possible that he had merely been delayed by whatever business he was attending to, whatever business had taken him away in the first place?
Spearing another piece of spiced chicken, Roxane returned her attention to the ballroom. At the center windows, the orchestra was tuning up, its members resplendent in white uniform. Lamplight and candle flame reflected everywhere, in the surfaces of wood and brass and silver. Though conversation and laughter nearly drowned out the sound of the readying of instruments, Roxane could still hear the violin and the cello, the one high and sweet, the other melancholy, like an undercurrent of deep longing.
Oh, Collier, she thought, where are you?
Suddenly, overhead, a great pale moth fluttered near the chandelier, casting a shadow over the crowd directly beneath. Roxane saw a few shoulders shiver, a few heads turn, glancing up. And then a native servant came with a long net and caught the insect, flinging it out of doors.
Roxane turned to Unity, overwhelmed with a sudden sense of foreboding, of premonition. The girl smiled back at her, unaffected, enchanting in her blue gown and flowers.
What if Collier were right? What would happen to all of them, to Unity and her parents, even to the irritatingly carnal Rose Peabody? Roxane glanced about the room. Even here, European guests were outnumbered two to one by native infantry standing guard outside the building, and by the servants moving easily around the floor.
Roxane's mouth went abruptly dry, and the food she had been about to swallow caught in her throat. She coughed and, waving her hand, spun in search of a servant she had seen a minute earlier, carrying a tray of champagne-filled glasses. Someone behind her, noting her distress, pressed a glass of the bubbling golden wine into her fingers. She drank, rather too quickly, raising her eyes gratefully to her benefactor.
“Collier!” she choked, then laughed, her smile bright and welcoming.
“Miss Sheffield,” he rejoined, his own smile irritatingly tranquil. Roxane found herself reveling in it. “Am I forgiven, then?” he asked.
“Am I?"
“Of course,” he said, still smiling. She stepped forward, a small step that one might barely have noticed, just enough to smell the scent of the soap he used and witness the reflection of candlelight in his slate-gray eyes. His white-gloved hand came up very slowly, resting beneath her chin.
“First dance open, dear?"
“Oh, yes."
At that precise instant, the orchestra struck a full-blown chord, alerting the guests that the time for dancing had come. Collier took Roxane's hand, leading her toward the open floor. Roxane smiled at Unity's enraptured countenance as she passed.
“Is it not romantic?” the young girl enthused in a syrupy rush.
Roxane, gliding out toward the dance floor with her hand firmly ensconced in Collier's warm grasp, could find no reason for argument.
First dance was, traditionally, a waltz, and Collier positioned himself in front of Roxane, his right hand on her waist, his left gently clasping her right in the air. He could feel her breathing, feel the expansion of her rib cage against his palm. The scent of her, of lavender and something else, a light fragrance in her hair, filled his senses, so that he no longer noted the more exotic aura of flowers and the various perfumes of ladies poised with their partners to either side.
She was smiling, her dark head turned to a young woman on her left, exchanging a pleasantry regarding the evening. He noted the silver ribbon in her hair, and wondered who had possessed the wisdom to place it there, to capture the flame of every candle, the light of every star, in her dark locks. Her skin was creamy, with a pale, powdered sheen upon shoulders and breasts and, on her cheeks, a mild flush of rose. She turned, then, to look at him, and her green-glass eyes were aglow.
“That gown becomes you well."
“Thank you."
The lead-in measure of the waltz began, on a sweet, shimmering note.
“Are you ready?"
“Yes."
She was an excellent dancer, Miss Roxane Sheffield, moving to the strains of the waltz with perfect timing and grace; he wondered, after, why that would be, when she had claimed not to have danced often, but he did not ask. He knew only that she felt in his arms like no other woman before, and the brief points of contact, there on her waist and across her fingers, were exquisitely, deliciously, warm.
“You were late,” she said, smiling.
“I know, dear."
She did not question why, but her smile deepened, and she turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. Two dark tendrils of hair curled about the satin expanse of her throat. He pictured himself smoothing them away, then pressing his mouth down, hard, lingering where once they had been.
“Collier?"
“Yes?” He dragged his eyes up to meet her own, and the flame there nearly took his breath away.
“It is a wonderful night, isn't it?"
“You've not had many, have you?"
She laughed, a spurt of girlish glee. “There are those less fortunate who never know this excess, this magic. I count myself lucky to have just one to remember."
He smiled. “I should very much like to kiss you, Miss Sheffield,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “You wouldn't!"
His smile expanded to a grin. “I suppose that I can wait,” he said, and laughed, leading her about the floor to the tempo of three-quarter time, warmed by the feel of her in his arms, the scent of her, the knowledge, in his blood, that she was, even if only for this one magical night of her heart's creation, his alone.
The music ended, and he continued to hold her hand, lifting it to examine the card on her wrist.
“Who is this?” he asked.
“That?” Roxane peered at the name. “I—I don't remember. Someone who met Mrs. Stanton's approval, you can be certain."
“Where is he? Do you see him?"
Roxane turned her head, looking left and right, then toward the outer edge of the dance floor.
“I—oh, there he is,” she said, indicating with a nod a handsome young cavalry officer advancing toward them.
“Hmm."
Collier waited until the last possible moment, and then he s
wung Roxane out onto the floor as the music began, leaving the other officer staring after them.
“This is highly improper!” the fellow shouted, scowling as they circled past him.
“I know.” Collier grinned, winking broadly, then smiling more gently down at Roxane's shocked countenance.
“Do you really want to dance with anyone else?"
“No,” she answered.
“Neither,” he concurred, “do I."
Their orbit took them past Unity and her blond young dancing partner. Unity beamed over at Roxane.
“Mother,” she laughed, “will be outraged."
Roxane smiled her response, spinning away.
“Who,” Collier asked against Roxane's ear, “was that with Unity?"
“The wonderful Corporal Donald Lewis,” Roxane replied. “Unity fancies herself in love already."
“Does she, now?"
“She does, indeed,” retorted Roxane, tipping her head back in warm laughter.
Collier, watching the joy on her face, was moved once again by a nearly overwhelming desire to protect her, to keep this woman he loved close and safe.
“Let's not argue again, shall we?” he whispered, passing his lips over the top of her head in a brief, discreet caress.
“Oh, I suppose we shall. There's no helping it, is there? But let's promise not to go away from each other again, without settling the dispute."
“Agreed,” he stated, circling toward the orchestra, and then away, with the oddest sensation that there was nothing even vaguely resembling terra firma beneath his feet.
The dance ended, and the next began, and Roxane did not leave his side. Sailing past the buffet, she slid the ribbon with the dance card from her wrist, depositing it on the tabletop, right up against the punch bowl. Tendrils of hair at her brow curled damply with exertion. The rose in her cheeks deepened, as did the natural ruby of her lips, much as if he had just kissed her, long and deeply. With every turn that brought her near, she glanced up at him from beneath thick, black lashes, the expression in her green eyes both chaste and profoundly sultry. He found himself in imminent danger of capitulating to an unremitting impulse.
Colonel Stanton rescued him from his own inclinations by cutting in and taking Roxane away on his arm. Collier moved to the sidelines.
“You should be ashamed,” Rose hissed abruptly in his ear.
Collier turned to her, brows arched. She was dressed in a pale salmon gown, designed with an alarming décolletage. Her blond hair was twisted at the back of her head in an elaborate chignon pinned with a large silk flower. “For what, Miss Peabody?"
“You have ruined that poor girl's reputation,” she said, smiling.
Snatching a drink from a passing tray, he took a long pull of the cool liquid. “Indeed. How so?"
Her eyelashes dipped, more times than were necessary, as she continued to smile at him, her head tipped coyly to one side. “If you are unaware of your social blunder, then why should I explain it to you, Captain Harrison? But,” she went on, with an airy wave of her fan, “I can assure you, there isn't a soul here tonight who has not witnessed Roxane's dishonor and will be discussing it for weeks to come."
“Her dishonor?” he echoed, “I would hardly call it that."
“What then? All eyes were on the two of you and your gross display. You were looking at her very much as if you already knew what lay beneath that diaphanous gown of hers. Can it be that you two are actually lovers?"
Collier's jaw hardened. Carefully, he set his tumbler down on the table at his elbow, before the glass had the opportunity to break in his hand. He smiled at Rose, but there was no humor in it.
“Can it be that you have any business asking such a question, except to meddle in affairs that are not your own? You do love to create trouble, Miss Peabody. I believe you are jealous, as you may no longer be the topic of the hour."
Rose drew in her breath sharply, threatening to overflow her bodice. She tossed her blond head in disdain. “Oh, really? Speak with your lovely little paramour tomorrow, and see if she finds this a laughing matter, Captain Harrison.” She stalked away from him, along the edge of the dance floor, back to Harry Grovsner's side. Harry's nod to Collier was cool, and barely executed. Both, however, turned to Roxane with anything but impartial expressions. Looking to Roxane, Collier witnessed the uncharacteristically complacent curl of her lip directed to Harry, as she spun past him on the colonel's arm. A ruddy hue crept up from the man's collar and along his sallow jawline, like a rash.
Catching Collier's eye, Roxane smiled. Contrarily, the expression in her eyes was quite fierce. Chuckling, Collier returned to the dance floor to reclaim his partner. Whatever had passed between her and the loutish captain this night, he felt fairly certain that he need have no concern for Roxane, but only a vast amount of undeserving pity for Harry Grovsner.
At the end of the quadrille, the dancers politely applauded each other's efforts and turned to exit the floor for a brief intermission. Roxane pushed the damp hair back from her forehead, waving her fan delicately before her flushed countenance.
“Roxane, shall I get you something to drink?"
“Would you mind terribly getting me a glass of champagne? I'll be outside."
Heading toward the open doors leading to the gardens, she stepped outside, waiting just beyond the light shimmering through the windows. After a moment she was joined, unexpectedly, by Rose Peabody.
“There you are, Roxane. Hiding?"
Roxane spun slowly. “Good evening, Rose,” she responded, in an attempt at civility. “Why on earth would I be hiding?"
“Don't be obtuse, Roxane Sheffield,” she scolded, tapping Roxane's arm with her folded fan. “You must know that every female here, and nearly all their men, are aghast over your immoderate behavior with our darling Captain Harrison."
“Now why,” Roxane countered, beginning to stroll in the general direction of the garden, “would I be the cause of such a disturbance, when this community could much more easily satisfy a thirst for gossip in observance of your scandalous appetites?"
Rose laughed, seeming to find genuine humor in Roxane's retort. Still smiling, she reached up to tuck a strand of blond hair into her chignon.
“Roxane,” she stated, “I am, quite frankly, old hat. No one cares what I do anymore, except, perhaps, little sister Anastasia. And even I practice some discretion. You, on the other hand, are as brazen as a butcher, flaunting your conquest in front of all. I must say I admire you. Truly,” she added, as Roxane turned to her with an expression of arch skepticism.
“Truly,” she repeated. “I wish I had your nerve—and your style—but I do not. So, as I believe I have said before, I make due with my other—talents.” Smiling with a mockery of sweetness, she snapped her fan open, waving it demurely beneath her chin.
“Still,” she went on, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “it isn't fair what he is doing to you, exposing you to condemnation the way he has. Darling Collier"—and here, Roxane felt the hair lift at the nape of her neck—"should know better, even if you do not."
Roxane halted and Rose, who had been walking alongside with her face close to Roxane's ear, bumped against her shoulder with a small expulsion of air.
“It was not,” Roxane declared in a flat, but angry voice, “a matter of knowing better, or not knowing better. Understand this, Rose Peabody, I do not care what people think of me. I never have. Tradition, custom, social mores, all serve their purpose, but they do not govern my every action. Neither, for that matter, does a man—any man. I do,” she concluded, turning away, “as I see fit."
Behind her, Rose made a noise, very much like a squeaking mouse. Not troubling to look back, Roxane strode into the garden, skirt whispering along the crushed shells beneath her feet. After a moment, she paused, glancing back for Collier. He was there, silhouetted in the light thrown through the open doorway. Rose Peabody was nowhere to be seen. Raising her arm, Roxane signaled to Collier with her open fan. He w
alked quickly to her side.
“Roxane,” he said, handing her a fluted glass of bubbling champagne, “I believe it would be wise if we returned you to your table."
“Why?” she asked, tipping the glass to her lips.
“I've taken more than adequate advantage of your time, and your hosts’ good dispositions, and Mrs. Stanton did seem most anxious to speak to you before the last dance—"
“Most likely she wishes to berate me for my behavior. I know that she will, of course; I have committed a grievous social sin, allowing you to partner me without a break."
“Your reputation is at stake, Roxane,” he persisted, taking her by the elbow.
Roxane smiled. “What is said or thought about me, will no doubt change with the caprice of the bearer. I cannot alter that. Even the most innocent of actions may be construed by those who are ill-minded to be scandalous."
“Roxane, I am serious,” Collier protested.
“As am I,” she answered him, and led the way into the garden.
The champagne was charming, bubbly and dry and fizzing in the back of her throat as she consumed more of the contents of her glass. She felt enchantingly light-headed, and the soft breeze over her exposed, heated skin caused her to shiver with delight. Several strands of hair had loosened in the course of the last dance, and she reached up with one hand behind her head to tuck them back into place. They did not seem to want to stay put.
“Roxane?"
“Hmm?” She held the champagne glass dangling lightly in her fingers at her side as she walked, swinging the closed fan in a delicate arc with the other, back and forth across her skirt. The small curve of a smile was on her lips.
