“But it is beautiful,” she said, “and real, though this is only February.”
“Ah,” he said, smiling, “a valentine.”
She felt herself flushing. “Yes,” she said.
They scarcely spoke after that, but concentrated on the steps of the dance. When he returned her to Lady Copeland’s side, he said nothing about dancing with her again. But then, of course, he did not need to do so. He would automatically dance with her when the gentlemen were given the signal to claim their valentines.
There was a great deal of laughter and excitement in the ballroom. But Emily wondered if any of the ladies felt quite as full of eager anticipation as she. Even if he was just Mr. Harris, she would pretend for this one evening that he was a knight in shining armor. She smiled at the thought.
“You are enjoying yourself, Miss Richmond?”
She turned her head sharply to find that Mr. Bradshaw had approached without her even realizing it. The black of his domino made him seem even taller and more imposing than usual. The mask accentuated the brightness of his gray eyes.
“Yes, I am,” she said, hearing her own breathlessness with some dismay.
“Good evening, Aunty,” he said to Lady Copeland. “Can you manage without your companion for a time while I dance with her?”
“You don’t think I came here tonight just to have dear Emily sit beside me, do you, Roger?” she said. “Foolish boy.”
“Just so,” he said, and turned to Emily. “Miss Richmond?”
“Thank you,” she said, putting her hand in his and feeling that she would surely suffocate. It is just a dance, she told herself. Think of Mrs. Langtree’s red rose. Think of your own golden rose. Think of Mr. Harris.
“A golden rose,” Mr. Bradshaw said quietly. “Very appropriate.”
“Yes,” she said.
“A valentine?”
“Yes.”
“From Harris?”
“Yes,” she said, “though he has not said so, of course.”
“Of course,” he said. “He is a fortunate gentleman.”
Roger stood in the doorway of the ballroom looking about him. He was obviously late, though he had been congratulating himself on being early. He had forgotten, of course, that if one did not arrive promptly at Bath entertainments, one was likely to miss them altogether. Even tonight’s ball would be over by eleven o’clock. Not that he minded that. The night would be correspondingly longer.
Eugenia Langtree was immediately noticeable, clustered about with her usual court, though several of them looked dejected, Roger noticed with some amusement. She was dressed as Queen Elizabeth, an appropriate choice, given the redness of her hair. She was carrying a long-stemmed rose in one hand.
Roger looked intently. Even across the width of the ballroom he could see that it was in full bloom and a very dark red. As he watched, the hand holding the rose lifted slightly in greeting, and when he looked up, it was to find her watching him across the room, a smile on her face.
Well. One of his rare losses. They had both played a game, but it seemed that it had been a different game. He had expected them to be mutual winners. She obviously had intended from the start to be the sole victor. Or perhaps she wished to prolong the game, play cat and mouse with him for another week or more. However it was, the message was unmistakable. For tonight she had decided to snub him and favor someone else.
Roger stood where he was and waited for the onslaught of disappointment or anger or amusement. He was surprised to find that he felt nothing. Except perhaps a little relief. There would be nothing to keep him in Bath any longer. He would be able to leave the next day.
Yes, there was definitely a feeling of relief. He needed to get away, though he supposed he should stay away from London for a few weeks or even months longer. But he could not stay in Bath either. His heart was beginning to ache, which was a remarkably silly way of describing his feelings. But then, the feelings were remarkably silly too.
She was there already, standing beside his aunt, since the dancing was between sets. He had not needed to look to see if she had arrived. He had felt her presence as soon as he entered—another remarkably silly idea. But it was true. When he did finally glance briefly and sharply in that direction, sure enough—there she was in a midnight-blue domino and mask, her hair curled and golden, a touch of greenery threaded into it.
Well, she was there, and he felt like a breathless schoolboy. And embarrassed because he had backed her into the shadows below his aunt’s staircase less than two weeks before and made some veiled and quite inappropriate suggestions to her and kissed her.
He had to get away. He needed to get away. He strolled across the room to Eugenia Langtree. The rose, he saw at close quarters, was made of silk.
“Your majesty,” he said, making her an elegant bow, “may I commend your condescension in favoring your subjects with your presence?”
She touched him on the sleeve with the rose. “Mr. Bradshaw,” she said, “you are late. It is a good thing this rose is not real or it would have wilted even before your arrival.”
