by Louise Allen
Sweeping into the reception room on the Ambassador’s arm to be presented to the minor royal who was the guest of honour, Cassandra had to pinch herself to bring her feet back to earth. Could it truly only be ten weeks ago that she had climbed out of her bedroom window and down the apple tree to escape Lord Offley?
Never, in her wildest imaginings, had she dreamed of a night such as this, held just for her. Whatever happened in the future, whatever became of her and Nicholas, tonight would be a special memory to treasure always.
Having made her curtsey without a stumble, and exchanged stilted conversation with the somewhat plain Grand Duchess, Cassandra thanked the Ambassador and slipped away to join her godmother.
‘Come and stand quietly with me, dear,’ Lady Lydford said kindly. ‘Let me look at you.’
Her gown, her first ever silk gown, was not in white or pink like most of the debutantes, but a deep cream, trimmed with old lace around the deeply flounced hem. The bodice and tiny puffed sleeves were smocked and caught with gold knots and the high waist caught with a broad golden ribbon which matched the tiara in her hair.
Godmama’s hairdresser had pomaded her chestnut curls until they gleamed and clustered around her head and, as a finishing touch, Godmama had given her a pair of gold drop earrings.
Cassandra pointed one toe to admire her new satin slippers, then smiled at her godmother who smiled back. ‘You look a picture, my dear. Every man at the ball will fall in love with you.’
Cassandra was laughing off the compliment when Nicholas arrived, impeccable in knee breeches and swallow tail coat, a filigree holder of dark yellow roses in his hand. She had scarcely seen him during the last week, since the outing to the western hills with Lord Stewart and the Hartley sisters.
He had been cold, distantly polite, but she would not let herself give up hope that his behaviour proved that he cared for her. Looking at him critically, she thought he looked pale, and his face, handsome as ever, showed signs of strain.
Having kissed his mother, he turned to Cassandra with a slight bow. For one wild moment, she believed he was about to offer her the roses, they went so perfectly with her gown.
‘Nicholas, how lovely,’ she began impetuously, stepping forward smiling, her hand already outstretched to take the flowers.
He raised a brow in apparent surprise, took the proffered hand and bowed over it, kissing the air a good half inch above her fingers. Then he turned and made his way across the salon to where Lucy Hartley stood. She blushed prettily as Nicholas bowed over her hand and presented the flowers.
Cassandra stood cringing with embarrassment, convinced everyone in the room had witnessed the rebuff. Then the butler came in to announce that her ladyship was served.
The ball might be her come-out but, as a very junior debutante, Cassandra found herself seated well down the table, between the Ambassador’s nephew and someone’s aide de camp. Neither of them seemed greatly inclined to conversation, allowing Cassandra ample opportunity to watch Nicholas.
He was seated next to the Grand Duchess, nodding gravely at appropriate moments in the conversation she was dividing between him and Sir Marcus. He appeared to be managing royalty with aplomb, but the Grand Duchess had neither the charm nor the looks to engage his total concentration.
Their eyes met as he glanced down the long polished table, and without thinking Cassandra gave him a small, conspiratorial smile. To her joy he returned it, suddenly the old Nicholas again, sharing a secret joke in some wayside inn. Then he turned back to his duty, leaving Cassandra glowing with an unexpected hope.
It was almost half past ten when the dinner party made its way through to the glittering ballroom. Cassandra took her place between Godmama and Sir Marcus at the head of the sweeping double staircase, and the next hour passed in a blur of compliments, bobbed curtseys and unfamiliar faces. Sir Marcus’s diplomatic connexions and Lady Lydford’s social circle had combined to produce a dazzling assembly of notabilities. Lady Lydford intended to make this ball the talking point of the Season, and already she recognised with satisfaction the heady buzz of. a truly successful occasion.
When the receiving line thinned to a trickle, Lady Lydford dismissed Cassandra. ‘Off you go into the ballroom now, dear, and dance with your beaux. Enjoy yourself.’
Cassandra stepped into the ballroom with some trepidation. It seemed so full of unknown faces as the mass of dancers passed by in a swirl of coloured silks, a confusion of dress uniforms, and the dark elegance of male evening attire.
Then the music stopped and as couples came back to the gilt seats around the walls, she began to recognise people. Soon she was the centre of a cluster of eager young male admirers, all clamouring for a place on her dance card. Laughing, she pencilled in names, trying to save space for Nicholas.
Surely he would come and ask her to dance soon? Surely that shared, secret smile meant something? She was clutching at straws, but to give up would break her heart. Cassandra looked around, hoping to see him, but could only catch a glimpse of the back of his head, bent as he listened to a group of young ladies across the room.
‘Dare I hope you are looking for me?’ Lord Stewart was at her side, having displaced, with no apparent effort, a number of less effective young men.
Cassandra, her heart already engaged, was able to admire him dispassionately and realise that she was an object of considerable envy by many of the debutantes present. Anthony, Lord Stewart, was as blond as Nicholas was dark and nearly as tall. He carried himself with a careless elegance that drew the eye to the sombre magnificence of his evening attire, moulding the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his well-muscled legs.
The arrangement of dark Palma violets in a filigree holder his messenger had brought earlier was a perfect complement to the cream of her gown and Cassandra thanked him warmly, holding the fragrant posy up to her nose to inhale the rich scent. Across the room, she saw Nicholas watching the little scene. He gave a slightly mocking bow, as if in reference to his jibe that she was trying to ensnare Lord Stewart.
Cassandra allowed herself to be swept into the next dance by Lord Stewart. Perhaps her optimistic plan, that she might pique Nicholas into recognising feelings for her he would not admit to, could yet succeed.
As they passed Nicholas and his partner on the floor Cassandra was laughingly protesting, ‘But Lord Stewart, I could not possibly call you Anthony! That would be most improper.’
For a moment, she thought Nicholas was going to ignore the provocation, then as she glanced out of the corner of her eye, he bent towards her and whispered in her ear, ‘Minx.’ Before she could make a rejoinder to this almost affectionate scold, the movement of the dance separated the two couples again.
‘Can I hope you will be remaining in Vienna for the whole Season?’ Anthony Stewart enquired, as he escorted her back to her seat against the cream and gold pilasters.
‘I am entirely at Godmama’s disposal,’ Cassandra responded demurely. ‘Do you intend to remain here, too, my lord? I felt sure I had heard Nicholas say you intended to leave next week.’
‘So I did,’ he responded easily. ‘But then Fate took a hand, and I find my plans changed.’ The look he gave her was warm and full of meaning.
‘How inconvenient for you’ Cassandra murmured, as she sat down and unfurled her fan.
‘May I?’ He sat beside her, took the fan from her hand and began to wave it gently to and fro. ‘I do not find it particularly inconvenient. Perhaps you can guess why?’
This was going too fast for Cassandra. If he were in earnest, and he was too accomplished a flirt for her to tell, she could not risk wounding his feelings. Loving Nicholas as she did, it would be dishonourable to accept any other gentleman’s suit without telling him why she could not return his regard. And, equally, she should not be encouraging a serious flirtation from a man such as this.
The young men of her own age were safe. They were too young yet to fix their interest and think of marriage, and a flirtation was safe
and enjoyable for both parties. But Lord Stewart, like Nicholas, was too old and experienced to be taken lightly.
Flustered, she moved involuntarily and the heel of her slipper caught in the lace flounces at her hem with an audible rip.
‘Oh, dear.’ She twisted to look down at the damage. ‘I had better go and pin it up before it tears further. If you will excuse me, my lord?’
Some of the smaller rooms off the ballroom had been set aside for just such an emergency, and Cassandra slipped quickly through the throng, holding up her skirt carefully to avoid further damage. She remembered Godmama ordering one of the ladies’ maids to remain in the smaller room with pin cushion and sal volatile to attend to whatever emergency might arise, and she pushed open the door, confidently expecting to find the woman in attendance.
A screen had been set just inside the door to afford privacy to the ladies and Cassandra was just about to slip round it when she heard voices.
Lucy Hartley was saying in a voice breathless with excitement, ‘But, of course, I promise! I won’t breathe a word.’
Blushing with confusion to have so nearly interrupted an intimate conversation, perhaps even a declaration, Cassandra gathered up her skirts and prepared to tiptoe out silently.
Then she was arrested by Lucy’s next words. ‘Oh, Nicholas, I am so happy!’
Cassandra felt as if her heart had stopped in her chest, and she reached out blindly to grip the door frame for support. Nicholas? Nicholas and Lucy Hartley? Her worst fears had come true.
But there was still hope, she realised dazedly. The man had not yet spoken, Nicholas was not an uncommon name. Perhaps it was another man and not her Nicholas.
Between the leaves of the screen was a narrow gap. Holding her breath, Cassandra put her eye to it just as Nicholas, her Nicholas, said, ‘Lucy, you are a darling. What you tell me makes me so happy. You cannot believe the torment I have been through.’ Through the crack, all Cassandra could see was the dark head bent towards the blonde and Lucy’s white arm coming up as she reached up to his shoulder to draw down his face to hers.
Cassandra choked down a shattering sob and backed away from the screen in desperate silence. To be discovered there, to have those two feel sorry for her, pity her, was a humiliation she could never endure.
Every foolish hope, every foolish dream she had ever harboured, that Nicholas could feel for her as she did for him, lay shattered at her feet. All that mattered now was to escape undetected, her dignity intact. Now he was engaged to another woman, he must never guess how she felt about him. No wonder he was unwilling to talk further about Venice. What did it matter to a man who was in love, and was loved in return, by a beautiful young debutante?
Cassandra found sanctuary in the retiring room next door and sat shivering with reaction, unheeding of the abigail who pinned up the torn flounce. I must have been mad, she thought, her thoughts chasing round like a rat in a cage. How could I have mistaken his careless kindness, his protective anger, even the fleeting moments of passion, for love?
How am I going to get through the coming weeks of betrothal celebrations and wedding preparations? Lucy would expect her new friend to rejoice with her and share in her plans. But what alternative was there for her now? To throw herself at Lord Stewart’s head?
Cassandra sensed that if she gave him enough encouragement, he would declare himself. But she could not do that to him, she liked him too well to hurt him. And to marry him without love would be to dishonour both of them.
‘Miss, I’ve finished.’ The maid had obviously been trying to attract her attention for some moments. Absently, Cassandra thanked the girl and stood up. Opposite, a mirror showed her reflection, her eyes glistening with the tears she was determined not to shed tonight. She smoothed down the cool silk of her skirts, remembering the hope with which she had dressed, then straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and opened the door.
The first person she encountered as she crossed the passage to the ballroom was the languid figure of the Comte de Courcelles. As she stood there, unable to believe her eyes, she saw first puzzlement, then dawning recognition cross his features.
For one desperate moment, she believed he had not recognised her, then he stepped forward with both hands outstretched. ‘Can it be? Mon Dieu, what a transformation from Paris! Just as I suspected, Cass the valet makes a very beautiful young woman.’
It was useless to deny it and speculation and mischief lit up his face. ‘Guy, what are you doing here, of all places?’
‘Why, I have just arrived in Vienna and I make it my business to have an entrée to all the most interesting entertainments. And you,’ he gestured to her finery, ‘you look beautiful. What a change from fustian and breeches. What are you doing here?’
‘Ssh! Say nothing about that. This is my come-out.’ Cassandra put her hand on his arm and drew him back into the ballroom. ‘Lady Lydford is my godmother.’
‘But, of course, I remember from our conversation in the library in Paris.’ There was a pause and Cassandra was aware of his scrutiny. ‘You are sad, little one. Why so, on your big night?’
‘It is nothing I can talk about, and in any case, it is all my own silly fault.’ She gave him a watery smile. ‘You are kind, Guy, but there is nothing you can do to help.’
The Count shrugged, ‘Perhaps it will seem better tomorrow.’
He broke off as Cassandra gasped at the sight of a beautiful woman waltzing past in the arms of a cavalry officer. ‘But that was Mariette.’ The spiteful card player from the Paris party was unmistakable. ‘What is she doing here?’
‘I made the mistake of offering her escort from Paris.’ He shook his head. ‘She is as sharp as a needle.’
Cassandra could see the woman’s gaze riveted on them now. There was recognition and malicious speculation on her kittenish face. The look boded trouble.
‘Ah, Miss Weston. We have missed you, I am quite pining away, I assure you.’
Anyone less in danger of pining away than Lord Stewart would be hard to find, Cassandra reflected. She saw, with slight alarm, the steely glint in his eye as he glanced at Guy’s hand resting over hers.
‘Lord Stewart, I am so sorry. That silly girl took such an age to do my hem. And on my way back I met the Count…’ Her voice trailed away. How was she to explain her familiarity with the Frenchman when she supposedly had only just come out into Society?
‘An old friend of the family,’ Guy supplied easily. ‘Guy de Montpensier, Comte de Courcelles, at your service, monsieur.’
‘Anthony, Lord Stewart.’ The two exchanged formal bows. ‘Miss Weston, I came to claim my dance. I am on your card, I believe?’
‘I think not, my lord,’ said Cassandra, summoning up composure from somewhere. ‘I have already stood up with you twice, which some might think very forward. I dare not do so again.’
‘Excellent,’ the Count exclaimed. ‘So that means this dance is free? Please do me the honour.’
It was a waltz. Although the Count had not been presented to her as an approved partner for the dance, Cassandra was beyond caring. Perhaps Godmama would not notice.
Guy encircled her waist lightly and, as the music began, asked, ‘Is that the one who is breaking your heart?’
‘No! I mean, no-one is.’ Across the ballroom she saw Nicholas, his expression suddenly arrested as he saw her dancing past with the Count.
‘Nonsense. Do you expect me to believe that? Tell me who it is and I will run him through for you.’
Cassandra could not suppress a somewhat shaky giggle.
‘That is better. Now, tell me how I can help you.’
Cassandra circled in his arms, her eyes fixed on the solitaire diamond in his cravat, and wished she could pour out the story to him as easily as she had told the tale of her flight, that night in the library in Paris.
‘Truly, Guy, no-one can help me.’ She looked up into the sympathetic brown eyes and the attractive, ugly, face. ‘Not even you. I have been foolish, and it hurts,
but I must live with that.’
As they left the dance floor, Anthony Stewart appeared at their side as if by magic.
‘You may not feel able to dance with me, Miss Weston, but surely I may claim you for supper?’ He extended his arm to her, with a challenging glance at Guy.
‘But surely, Cassandra, you will not abandon an old friend on his first night in Vienna?’ the Count pressed in his turn.
Cassandra looked from one to the other and felt herself wilting with the heat and tension. ‘Gentlemen, you must both forgive me, but the heat…’
‘My dear Miss Weston, allow me to take you to the terrace.’ Guy must have seen her doubtful look and he hastened to reassure her. ‘Several of the chaperones are already out there, and some other parties have taken their supper outside.’
‘That would be wonderful.’ Suddenly the swirling colours and the noise of the ballroom on top of the shocks of the evening were too much. Fresh air and the cool flagstones of the terrace would be soothing.
The Count propelled her gently towards the French windows. ‘Out you go, ma petite, and we,’ he cast a resigned look at Lord Stewart, who was obviously not going to give ground, ‘will fetch you some supper and a little champagne.’
The cool air struck the heated skin at her breast and forehead as Cassandra wandered slowly across the terrace to a pillared belvedere which stood empty, looking out across the gardens. She rested her brow against a fluted column for a moment and let her mind empty. Tomorrow she would have to think, to plan, but tonight that was beyond her.
‘Oh, Nicholas,’ she whispered against the cold stone.
‘Cassandra.’ His voice behind her came so prompt on her words, she thought for one mad moment she had conjured him up out of her imagination
‘Nicholas?’ She turned and saw him, unmistakably real, the moonlight striking dark lights from his hair.
She knew she had gone pale, but he did not seem to notice.
‘I thought I was never going to get you alone.’ He took her by the elbow and steered her further into the shadows, his voice low and serious. ‘I must speak to you.’
