“I’m impressed already.”
“My nom de plume was Sir Jestington Jotsworth. Clearly false.”
“Sure.”
“But that was part of the humor. The stories followed a certain Lady Serendipity and her aristocratic cadre. It poked at eccentricities and was generally preposterous, but in the spirit of fun. It became popular. Mr.Alby would even read excerpts at dinner. Mamma and Henry often ended up in stitches.”
Tuck’s heart twanged as her eyes took on a faraway look, remembering a moment when she had caused joy for her family, even if they didn’t know—she had, and that warm memory had lingered.
“Anyway, Mr.Alby found out eventually. I was careless and left a draft out on my desk while I had breakfast. A servant brought it to my stepfather and let’s just say he was no longer amused. I was forbidden to write, and to punctuate the point, he sold my pony.”
“What!”
“I had a white pony named Petalwhisk. I loved her and so he sold her as my punishment for going against the family’s wishes.”
Slow, strong rage gathered in Tuck’s gut. How could anyone purposefully cause this woman pain, let alone a parent? And to sell a girl’s fucking pet because she wrote some smart stories?
She giggled.
“This isn’t funny.”
“No. It’s not. I’ve lived it and I know indeed how bleak it feels. But you... I believe you growled.”
“Huh.”
She giggled again. “You did. You growled sitting there.”
The carriage came to a halt. “We’re here.”
A stream of people poured into a well-lit townhome. The footman hadn’t even opened the door and the sound of the people outside still filled the space.
“No growling allowed in there.”
“We’ll see. Depends if anyone thinks about hurting you.”
Her gaze found his. “You act as if we’ll be among beasts.”
He took her hand in his; even if it was small, it was still strong. How many years had this woman walked among these people and never been allowed to be her full self? He liked holding her hand. He liked it so much he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to let go.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Crawfords’ ballroom gleamed with mirrors strategically positioned to catch and amplify the dance of five hundred candles. Beyond the mirrors, glass, crystal, and polished metals worked in concert to light up the space, each reflective surface sparkling for the evening’s festivities. In every gap, hothouse flowers burst in vibrant colors. The blooms not only added pops of natural beauty but also carried a sweet fragrance, masking the exertion from the lively dancing. Excited waves of chatter flowed and ebbed through all corners of the room.
“You’ll relax if you have a glass or two of punch,” Lizzy murmured, nodding toward a bewigged servant in a coral-colored velvet jacket making his way in their direction, a silver tray gripped tightly between his gloved hands.
“I’m going to need something that hits harder than kiddie punch.” Tuck tugged his cravat for the third time in as many minutes, peering up at the musicians on the balcony.
“It will be fortified with rum, brandy, and wine. I can assure you that it’s no beverage for children.” She had to lean in to speak. There was noise. Gossip. Laughter. Music. Heavy breathing.
The dancers whirled in muslin and taffeta to the cotillion, everything gay, light, and airy until you looked closer and realizedthe dance floor was a battlefield, and each glance carried the weight of intrigue. Henry flew past, red-cheeked, sweat sheening his forehead as he appeared to gulp a breath and disguise it as a chuckle.
“Dancing is hard work,” Tuck observed. “I don’t know why, but I never pictured it to be so strenuous.”
“Oh, yes, my legs are always sore for days after a ball. But if a woman wants to dance, she must say yes to whoever asks. If you tell a gentleman no, that’s it—you are not able to dance the rest of the night unless you’re willing to risk your reputation.”
“That’s bullshit. What if you don’t want to dance with the person?”
“Then you get to be called Lizzy Wooddash, and welcome to what is known as my life.”
