The Queen's Ball

by Anthea Lawson

  Matthew straightened, his laughter only slightly fading. “Not so! I am escorting you into the woods so you might not be unaccompanied and intend to assist you in finding your ball, as it was my actions that sent it into such a place. And I will even let you have two strokes to make up for the misdeed.”

  Two strokes? She smirked a little, her mind spinning. Two strokes could get her out of the woods easily, if she was in position enough to accommodate it, and she just might be able to overtake him if all went well.

  If, and that was a very large if, indeed.

  “Well,” she huffed, determined not to give anything away, “only time will tell if your actions truly amount to anything gentlemanly. It would be only too horrid if my ball would be stuck in a thorny bush, or . . .”

  “In the middle of a rather large mud puddle?” Matthew suggested.

  She opened her mouth to reply, only to see that her precious green ball was, in fact, swimming in a dark, muddy body of water right ahead of them.

  A gentleman would fish it out for her. A gentleman would insist on getting dirty himself rather than her risk her skirts, let alone any other part of her. A gentleman would . . . Well, a gentleman would never have put her in this situation in the first place, but it was what it was.

  And she refused to leave anything else to a gentleman simply because it ought to be done.

  Abigail cleared her throat, then picked up her skirts just enough to be safe from the puddle, then marched herself to her ball.

  “Abigail, you aren’t serious,” Matthew said with a faint note of alarm.

  She ignored him, her mallet in one hand and her skirts in another, her boots sinking at once into the mud and water as she continued awkwardly on her way.

  “How in the world are you going to hit the ball with your skirts occupying a hand?” he asked, amusement finding its way back into his voice.

  Abigail eyed the ball, walking around it once to take in every aspect. Strategy would be crucial in this, and she would only get one opportunity. Her mother would likely scold her for soiling her boots, particularly when they were new, and there was no telling what she would have to say about whatever state her skirts ended up in. But her pride would be salvaged and her honor defended.

  “Abigail . . .”

  She looked up at him at last, quelling him with a cool glare of determination. She hefted her skirts over one arm, though she knew there was nothing to be done about her petticoat in the back, and did her best to handle the mallet with two hands without losing her hold on the skirts. She focused on the ball once more, held her breath, and swung her mallet with a firm thwack.

  Mud splattered up at her, and she could feel the cool sludge hit her stockings above the level of her boots. She hissed, then looked down.

  Her ball was gone.

  Delighted and bewildered, she looked up and saw it rolling toward the head of the woods, apparently none the worse for wear. She laughed and looked at Matthew for his response.

  He wasn’t looking at the ball at all, but at her. His eyes were warm, and his smile was both impressed and proud. He wasn’t laughing at whatever mud splatter she had created on herself or teasing her about the skirts lifted above propriety and slung over her arm.

  This wasn’t a look of friendship. It was so much more.

  But rather than be upset about it, Abigail felt her skin warm and tingle, while her lungs seemed to constrict in the oddest fashion. She couldn’t look away from him, couldn’t find the strength and sense she had been so carefully maintaining. This was the Matthew she had known and loved. This look was more familiar than anything in recent memory, and she wanted to race across the mud and the green to fling herself into his arms, no matter the current state of her attire. She wanted his lips on hers, his arms around her, his hands cupping her face . . .

  She wanted everything she had sworn never to give him. Never to feel for him. Never to experience with him.

  Absolutely everything.

  She ought to be horrified and embarrassed, ought to avert her eyes and ignore her blushes, change the subject, and return to Francis’s house without a word.

  But she could not move. She was still breathing painfully, deep and almost frantic, and Matthew was echoing it.

  Something needed to happen.

  Something . . .

  “Abigail! Matthew! Come and eat!”

  Janet’s voice broke through the impossible tension of their moment, and Abigail blinked with a ragged inhale that seemed to stretch her corset to new and agonizing extremes. But it did allow cool air and something almost resembling sense to flood back in, and she wrenched her eyes from Matthew, starting toward the edge of the pond. “We mustn’t keep Janet waiting,” she muttered aloud, hoping he would hear, as her voice had absolutely no strength. “She’s been too kind to have us all here, and Maren will only leave us scraps.”

  “Your sister does have a voracious appetite,” Matthew replied, his voice maddeningly calm.

  Then his hand was on Abigail’s, taking the mallet from her and looping her arm through his.

  Abigail dropped her skirts to the ground and nodded, unable to meet his eyes. But his arm was delightfully warm against the sudden chill that seemed to be coursing through her, tingling her skin in an entirely different manner from what she had just been experiencing. She could only stare at her fingers on his arm, unnerved by how natural and comfortable it felt. How easy it was to do.

  Three years. Three years since she had felt anything like this with him, and the fact that she did feel it seemed a peculiar puzzle. Was it too soon? Was it wrong? Was she an idiot for swaying in his direction though she knew she ought not?

  “This isn’t over,” Matthew murmured to her.

  Abigail jerked in his hold and looked up at him. What wasn’t? That moment? Her feelings? The sensation of dying for the touch of his lips? Or just the idea of them? All of that had to be over. It could not continue, not for an instant!

  “Oh?” she managed weakly.

  Matthew nodded once. “You think after a shot like that I would concede the match? You’ve just made things far more interesting, and I refuse to leave it unfinished.”

  The rush of her exhale was unexpected, and her lips parted into a relieved grin. “Naturally,” she replied in a much stronger voice. “I am determined to win, despite the obstacles.”

  He laughed at that and pressed against her side with his elbow. “Don’t tell my more competitive self, but I may be rooting for you.”

  Abigail echoed his laugh, an act that spilled over into giggles about the whole muddled mess of things. It was absolutely ridiculous, and the confusion and shock of it all suddenly struck her as being the height of hilarity and madness. She had no restraint and no resistance left. Matthew stared at her as though she had lost her mind, smiling the sort of patronizing smile one gives to those swimming in the sea of insanity.

  No matter. Eventually, she would calm, and her walls would rebuild, and all would be well.

  Or well enough, at least.

  ***

  An evening without Matthew was a blessed relief, and mindless card playing with cousins and mere acquaintances had been the perfect respite for her frazzled mind.

  What had she been thinking? Playing croquet with her friend was one thing, but hungering for him and finding his beard and his eyes and his form more appealing than anything else on this earth? It was horrifying, and she ought to have been far too hardened for such idiotic sentiments.

  And there was her admirer to consider, after all. He had never betrayed her and wrote with a gentle honesty that pulled at her heart. He was a man she could trust, could turn to, and one she could wrap about her for protection, comfort, and adoration. Soon she would have to meet him in person and put an end to the mystery. They could not spend eternity in this one-sided correspondence, not if he felt for her as sincerely as he proposed, and not when she was beginning to feel something of the same.

  And she was beginning to feel it.

&n
bsp; His last two letters had been so tender, so captivating, and so perfect a gesture of courtship that she had begun to read them all before going to bed, desperate to bring some of the magic he spun into her dreams.

  Dearest Miss Sterling,

  I went for a stroll in the beauty of the park at St. James today and felt it would only be more perfect were you to have joined me . . .

  Abigail snapped out of her pleasant reverie as she entered the house, stripping off the gloves and letting the maids take her cloak.

  “Pardon me, miss,” one of the girls said as she draped the cloak over an arm, “but this came for you just a short time ago.” She produced a neatly folded missive from her apron pocket and handed it to her.

  Abigail bit back a squeal and plucked it from her. “Thank you, Jeanie!” She looked ahead to ensure her family were not in view and rushed to the parlor, where the fire was still lit, to read her message.

  The seal broke easily and she leaned closer to the fire to read the now-familiar tidy scrawl.

  Dearest Miss Sterling,

  Tonight, I saw you by the grace of chance, and it was all the more delightful for being unexpected. I don’t know where you were going or by what mercy it was so close to my own residence, but I shall not complain of my ignorance under the circumstances. I am exceedingly grateful for any opportunity to be graced by your presence, even if you are unaware of mine. I could not follow you, though I longed to do so, and would not dare to infringe upon your evening or your person. The pleasure of seeing you in the evening light, so close to my home, brought me such joy and hope, though I had nothing to feel particularly hopeful for.

  I could not tell the color of the dress or the shade of the ribbons in your lovely, dark hair—the distance was too great. But the image, such as it was, of you smiling and laughing with your family as day passed into night will be enough to sustain me for some time. You are magnificent, Miss Sterling, and are so many things. You are strong and passionate, warm and caring, intelligent, witty, and bright, and quick to smile or to laugh without being frivolous or flippant.

  I have to wonder, Miss Sterling . . . could you, perhaps, be everything?

  The time is drawing near, I believe, for you to know me for myself. I feel determined that we should meet, to see if what I feel could exist in truth, and to see if all that I feel might possibly be returned. I will find the opportunity and let you know when it shall be, if you are agreeable. Wait for me, if I may hope.

  Yours most sincerely.

  Abigail exhaled roughly, pressing a hand to her furiously pounding heart. This lovely, caring, perceptive man was growing dearer to her by the letter, and he, too, felt it would soon be time to meet. What a breathless, exhilarating thought!

  Wait for him? If he were half as perfect as his letters made him seem, she would wait an eternity for him. No matter who else invaded her thoughts or her life.

  Chapter Seven

  How Matthew had managed an invitation to an informal ball at the home of some Sterling relative whose connection he couldn’t recall, he would never know, but the Lambert family seemed pleasant enough. Even more incomprehensible than his invitation was how perfectly friendly they all were to him.

  Still, he was grateful for the opportunity to attend any events in London, particularly when he knew that Abigail would be in attendance. He hadn’t seen her yet, but he had only been here a quarter of an hour, and the collar of his dress shirt was beginning to chafe against his skin. Matthew barely restrained the irritable sigh known well to all reclusive individuals forced to integrate themselves with the social members of their society and did all in his power to avoid leaning back against the wall.

  A sudden glimpse of brilliant white drew his attention across the room, and his throat seemed to plummet squarely into the center of his chest, pounding in synchrony with his heart and twice as painfully.

  There was the woman he adored, smiling and glowing for all the world, entirely unaware of him.

  Her gown was white, giving her more of an angelic look than she ordinarily bore, and the bodice was dotted with bits of blue embroidery that he couldn’t make out from here. A ribbon of a similar shade wrapped around her waist, accentuating the remarkable figure she possessed, and the skirts flowed with a gauzy overlay dotted with blue over voluminous layers of white. Her shoulders were bare, the color of her skin a rosy ivory compared to the crisp white of her dress. At her throat, she wore pearls set off by a large blue jewel, which hung in the center, just below what had to be the most tempting dip of a throat he had ever seen on any living soul.

  He had never seen her look thus, had never seen her hair so luxuriously curled and pinned, framing her face in a delicate halo. She had always been lovely to him, and certainly in their younger years she had been similarly dressed and coiffed, but this was entirely different. This was no slip of a girl he fancied and drew unto an understanding; this was a woman, all grace and poise and loveliness, that he adored with an undying fervor and could not imagine his life without.

  This was how he always should have seen her, no matter how she was adorned.

  He found his breath at last rushing out of him in a painful exhale that nearly had him swaying where he stood. How could someone he had known and loved for most of his life continue to affect him in ways he was entirely unprepared for?

  Gathering what courage he had, he exhaled and moved toward them all, smiling with warm politeness. Something, and he wasn’t entirely sure what, told him to go to Maren instead. She was dressed in a lovely shade of green that enhanced her natural looks to perfection, and the younger men would certainly be eying her for potential courtships soon, if not this very evening.

  “My, my,” Matthew praised gently as he approached her. “Here I was thinking little Maren was too young for such dances, but here I find a grown woman, all loveliness and elegance. I must atone for my error and misjudgment. If you would not object, Miss Maren, I should very much like my first dance of the evening to be with you.”

  Abigail heard him and turned to watch the exchange in a secret delight that only elder siblings can know.

  Maren grinned without any sort of reserve, as was her natural way, and she nodded, sending the emerald earrings she wore dancing against her hair. “I would be most pleased, Mr. Weber-Grey.”

  “And for that,” Mrs. Sterling chimed in from behind her children, smiling at him in a way he wasn’t sure she had before, “you will get to dance with all the Sterling ladies, sir.”

  “For what crime?” Thomas protested with a crooked grin. “The man only asked for Maren, why should he . . . ?” He was cut off by someone, likely his father or his cousin Francis, pressing the back of one knee, making him buckle slightly.

  Matthew moved Maren out to the dance before any other hijinks could occur.

  “Thank you,” Maren said quietly. “I was so worried no one would dance with me. Especially with how well Abigail looks this evening.”

  Matthew kept his expression perfectly blank. “Who?”

  She beamed and nudged him in the ribs, her cheeks coloring. “Oh, you . . . You know perfectly well you are trying to dance with Abigail tonight in the only way that you know she won’t refuse.”

  “I am not!” he coughed in mock surprise, knowing she could tell if he lied. “I find myself entirely devoted to this dance with you for your own merits and charms. Any other dances I may or may not engage in tonight will be entirely up to the same on those ladies in question.”

  Maren rolled her eyes, rapped his knuckles with her fan, and moved into the dance position. “Dance with Mama next. Then you can spend as long as you like with Abigail.”

  She winked at him, and he returned it with a smug smile. “You are a very fine ally, Maren Sterling. Now, no more talk of any other persons you may be related to. I am dancing with you, not the feminine Sterling collective.”

  Once he had danced with Abigail’s mother as well, he had to wait for Abigail to finish her dance with Francis before he could have her.
He instead spent the time chatting with Thomas Sterling, who, for the first time, did not seem in any way inclined to murder him, either on the spot or in the very near future. Matthew took that as a very great sign of some success, though he could not decide what to attribute the change to.

  Their conversation, such as it was, stopped midsentence as Francis led Abigail over to them. Abigail was flushed and smiled brightly on her cousin’s arm, and her brilliant eyes, still alight with laughter, rested on Matthew.

  And did not change.

  “Well?” Abigail asked as Francis released her arm with a knowing chuckle. “Is it finally my turn to dance with the man who is intent on gracing the dance floor with every female Sterling in attendance?”

  Matthew bowed to her, still a bit breathless from what he saw in her expression, and scrambled for wit. “If Miss Sterling will allow me, I should dearly love to complete the set with her as the final partner.”

  There was no response, and he glanced up to find Abigail fighting a smile and pretending to consider the proposition. Then she sighed and tossed her head, sending her dark ringlets swaying against her fair skin. “Oh, why not?”

  She held out her hand for him to take.

  He snatched it as quickly as he could, squeezing tightly, relief shaking his knees in a way destined to make him a pathetic dance partner. He couldn’t say another word and only smiled, dipping his head in what he prayed was smooth acknowledgement and not scattered desperation.

  He must have been convincing, for Abigail laughed again and let him lead her into the dance. He cleared his throat just as they bowed to each other, and he smiled at his partner. “What has you in such a fine mood, Miss Sterling?”

  Abigail still bore the coloring and smile of laughter as she passed about him. “It is a perfect evening, and my cousin is excessively diverting. And, if you will look to the end of the line, you will see my sister partnered with a most handsome young man who seems to be rather amiable.”

  Matthew did look, and just as Abigail had said, Maren was blushing and giggling while dancing with an almost gangly youth who could not look away from her. “That is rather promising, isn’t it? Shall we send your Uncle Hensh or Cousin Francis to interrogate the lad?”