Hell and damnation.
Harriet was looking at him oddly, no doubt confused by his perusal of her. He shook himself.
“It’s a dance, by the way, that prostitutes do. In the nude,” he said, to distract her. Her eyebrows pinched in further confusion before rising in excitement.
“Oh, how lovely!”Lovely?She crossed over to the paper she’d been writing on and scratched a note to herself. “I wonder how Mr. Dawkins knows of such things,” she tittered.
Alexander had wondered the same, though he did not like the thought to be in Harriet’s head. And since when did Harriettitter?
He was going fully mad. The rain must have waterlogged his brain. He left the library without excuse and retreated to his study.Perhaps there was a piece of paper there he could read again. Or a column of sums to go over.
On the night of the Henderson ball, Harriet stood in the entryway feeling rather like a little girl waiting for her parents. Alexanderhadtold her to wait at half past eight. It was now nearly nine. Her gloves were on, she had a small reticule with a pencil and paper inside, and she had donned her pelisse a quarter of an hour ago. All she was missing was her escort. Alexander had indeed taken care of her gown for the evening. If one was so generous as to consider the fabric she wore a gown. Clearly, he employed the same modiste as Philippa.
Issues of immodesty aside, the dress was the most exquisite piece of clothing Harriet had ever laid eyes on, let alone been allowed to wear. It was a light-green dress, heavy and beaded, with puffed, diaphanous sleeves and only the suggestion of a bodice. He had also procured new dancing slippers and a reticule to match.
Anne had delivered all these gifts, as Alexander had been away from home all day. He had, according to Presley—who was standing sentinel with Harriet in the entryway—returned shortly before and was dressing now. Harriet did her best not to fidget; all this waiting was only inflaming her nerves. Perhaps she better claim a megrim and cry off. How did she expect to face a ballroom of peers onhisarm?
Right as she was cresting the hill of anxiety, Alexander appeared at the top of the staircase. Every thought she had of spending her evening anywhere but next to him fled. He was—he—
In a fit of madness, she spoke: “Oh my, you are the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
The smile that cracked open his face was almost worth her embarrassment at having let the words escape her mouth.
“I’m inclined to agree,” Presley said, and Harriet had no idea how serious he was. It sent her into a fit of giggles, which she tried desperately to cover.
“Thank you both,” Alexander said, taking his hat and gloves from Presley. “Harriet, I must sincerely apologize for making you wait. It was most ungentlemanly of me. I will endeavor to prevent such a delay in the future.”
“You were worth the wait.” Oh, heavens above! What was she saying? Alexander looked down at her as he donned his cloak and raised an eyebrow.
“I had no idea formal wear excited you so,” he whispered in her ear, as they left the house. “I would have worn it ages ago.”
She nearly swallowed her tongue as Alexander helped her into the carriage.
Tonight would be her first ball with him. Her first ball as a wife. Their first time in public. Tonight would be different.
Despite her change in status and station, Harriet felt, if anything, more invisible than ever.
Well, there had been one moment when she hadn’t. When she’d removed her pelisse at the top of the stairs and Alexander had finallylaid eyes on the dress he’d had made for her. That had felt the exact opposite of invisibility. His eyes had swept over her, and his pupils widened in awe. He seemed, unless he was performing, truly overcome.
“I am not entirely certain we need to attend this ball,” he said, his gaze not leaving her body. There was much to be said for a gentleman meeting one’s eye when he spoke, but there was even more, Harriet found, to be said for one’s husband’s gaze not being able to make it to one’s eyes.
Unfortunately, he seemed the only member of thetonwho noticed her at all.
Had someone approached her and said, “Did you hear? Lord Alexander married, and he’s brought his wife with him,” she would have looked around the room for the woman in question. She was a stand-in, an understudy for some other woman in everyone’s mind, whether they knew it or not. On some level everyone, herself included, seemed to assume that another more suitable match would present itself either this season or the next or even five years from now, and that woman, the eventual duchess—if rumors about the elder son were true—would so seamlessly replace Harriet that no one would ever remember she’d been there at all.
This was reinforced by two separate gentlemen congratulating other nearby women upon their nuptials to Lord Alexander, before turning in confusion to Harriet. One woman, upon introduction, simply said, “I’m surprised,” and offered no further elaboration. Another lady, both drunker and kinder than the first, whispered,“Enjoy yourself. He’s marvelous, isn’t he?” in Harriet’s ear before she stumbled off. Alexander didn’t seem to notice the slights, or the fact that no one actually spoke with her. After the fifth conversation in which she was clearly not desired, Harriet decided mentally tallying the number of women wearing ostrich feathers was a better use of her mind.
In fact, she was so engaged in the Great Ostrich Accounting that she only registered Alexander’s absence from her side when she noticed him dancing with feather-wearer number 27. Harriet didn’t know the woman and tried her best not to concern herself with their pairing. Better to refocus on her tally.
She tried, she really did, only she’d nearly run out of ladies and feathers anyway, and it was difficult not to study the way the lady was looking at Alexander as if she wanted to devour him. What did ostriches even eat? Harriet would have to look it up when she went home.
Her reverie was broken with a glass of cold lemonade pressed against the back of her arm matched almost instantly with the deep, throaty laugh of her beloved sister.
“You look parched. Or perhaps ill?” Philippa said, almost gleefully. “Perhaps a sign of a successful honeymoon?”
Harriet gripped her sister tightly, as if Philippa were a raft that had appeared after days lost at sea. It had been too long. Philippa handed over the lemonade, sipping on champagne herself.
“Is he that bad?” Philippa asked, in a voice that was light with humor but eyes that searched out the truth. When Harriet didn’tanswer, she looked around for Alexander and found him on the dance floor and then let out a soft “Hmmm.”
