Ah, so she thought to rub salt into his wounds, did she?
“How could it wilt when in the presence of such dazzling beauty?” he asked. “Are you free to dance?”
“Absolutely not,” she said with a sigh. “I am spoken for for the next three sets at least. However, sir, I daresay we will contrive to dance with each other later.” She smiled at him.
He bowed to her as she was led onto the floor for the next dance. He watched her throughout the whole of it and saw only Emily, who was dancing with Harris.
He was being thoroughly foolish, Roger thought. He should leave immediately and see to the packing of his trunks so that he might be on his way early the next morning. There was no longer a reason to stay. But he had asked Emily Richmond a few days before to reserve a set for him. Besides, it would be unmannerly not to greet his aunt.
He waited until the music ceased and it was possible to move across the room without being bowled over by the dancers. She was standing beside his aunt, her head turned slightly away from him. She smiled as he approached, though he did not think she had seen him.
She looked more lovely even than usual. The domino and the mask added mystery to her appearance, and her hair was curled about her face. He had a sudden memory of its cascading down about her shoulders several days before.
He asked her for the next dance and was granted it. And so he would have one final chance to enjoy her company, he thought as he led her onto the floor, before leaving the following morning. She turned to face him fully as the music began.
And he felt as if he had stepped suddenly from reality into some bizarre dream. Nestled among the green leaves in her hair, almost unnoticeable against its brighter gold, was a perfect golden rosebud. He felt for one moment as if there were not enough air to breathe. It looked just like . . . But it could not be.
“A golden rose,” he heard himself saying. “Very appropriate.” Golden hair. A golden gown beneath her domino.
“Yes,” she said.
“A valentine?” But it must be. Girls did not wear real roses in their hair in February.
“Yes,” she said.
“From Harris?” He found himself holding his breath.
“Yes,” she said, and there was no doubt in her voice, “though he has not said so, of course.”
Pure coincidence. It must be. And it made perfect sense. Emily Richmond was a golden rose, far more golden than the flower in her hair. It looked far more appropriate in her hair than it would ever look in Eugenia’s hand. Though it was not the same one, of course. It could not be.
Unless . . .
Where was that fiend of a boy? But no, even Jasper would not have dared such a trick. There was too much likelihood that Emmy could get hurt by the deception, and Jasper was fond of Emmy.
Was it Harris? Would Harris come to claim her when the time came? She evidently was confident that it was so. And she wished it to be so. He could recall quite vividly her look of radiance five days before when she had told him that she had a valentine.
It must be Harris’. Jasper had had recent experience with the heaviness of his hand. He would not have risked an encore so soon, surely.
Damnation. Twenty thousand damnations!
“You dance well,” he said. “Did you have much opportunity to dance in the country?”
“We have many neighbors who like to socialize,” she said. “But even apart from that, Mama loves dancing and has taught us all, much to the disgust of my brothers. Edgar is the only one who has thought of a way of escape. He learned to play the pianoforte and is needed to provide the accompaniment while the rest of us dance.”
Her eyes were sparkling and her lips smiling. He had noticed before that it was possible to drown in her eyes. Now he was aware too that there was grave danger of becoming enmeshed in her hair, captured beyond all hope of escape. There was a poem. . . He frowned. A sonnet about the poet becoming ensnared in his lady’s golden hair. He had always thought the poor man a fool, though he could not for the life of him remember who the poet was.
Now he was behaving just as foolishly.
He bowed and withdrew at the end of the set. But he could not leave the ball as he had planned to do. He had to wait and see. That was not his rose, of course. It was Harris’. But even so . . .
He sought out his uncle, found him with a group of men who had no intention of dancing for the whole evening but who had set about putting the world to rights, and joined in their conversation.
Eugenia was smiling his way, the silk rose to her lips. Emmy was dancing with King Louis XIV, who looked as if he must have two left feet.
At half-past ten the Master of Ceremonies took the floor between sets to make an announcement. An expectant hush fell on the room.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the next dance will be a waltz. Claim your valentines, if you please.”
