Madame LeClair’s expression remained carefully neutral. “Very good, Your Grace. Will there be anything else?”
Hudson shook his head. “That will be all.”
He left the shop a few minutes later, stepping out into the bright summer sunshine with the distinct feeling that he had just crossed some invisible line.
Behind him, in the quiet of the modiste’s workroom, a dress of silver-gray silk lay folded in tissue paper, waiting to make its journey to Oakhart House and the woman who had no idea it was coming.
Chapter Twenty
“So it begins,” Hudson muttered to himself as he stood at the top of the grand staircase, one hand on the banister, surveying the ballroom below.
The orchestra had struck up the first waltz. He had timed it deliberately, knowing the rhythm of social evenings.
He watched them move through the steps, the ladies’ skirts swirling, the men’s backs straight beneath perfectly tailored evening coats, and found himself scanning the crowd for one specific face.
Mrs. Beale and Cassie had outdone themselves. The ballroom looked rather magical. Guests streamed past him, nodding respectfully, murmuring the conventional pleasantries. Though he greeted them back pleasantly, his eyes still searched forher.
He had not seen Augusta since breakfast, when she had appeared briefly to collect Cassie for their morning walk. Thememory of her face had followed him through the day, a ghost he could not exorcise.
A movement at the far end of the ballroom caught his attention. A flash of blue and a ripple of blonde curls. His heart lurched against his ribs. It was Cassie, in her new dress, her face alight with excitement as she surveyed the room. And beside her…
Augusta.
She had chosen the simpler dress. Yet, she stood out among the more elaborately dressed ladies like a single perfect note in a discordant melody. Her hair was swept up, with a few curls allowed to escape at her temples and the nape of her neck.
Hudson’s mouth went dry. He had known objectively that she was beautiful. He had noticed it that first night at the Nightingale. But seeing her now, in the full light of the ballroom, surrounded by ladies who had been bred and trained specifically for display, he felt as though he had been struck.
She moved through the crowd with Cassie at her side, her attention fixed on the girl rather than the room around them.
Even from this distance, he could see the protective angle of her shoulders, the careful way she positioned herself between Cassie and the press of guests. It was the same gesture she had made at the balloon exhibition, at the confectioner’s cart, in a hundred small moments throughout their weeks together.
He descended the stairs, nodding to acquaintances as he passed, accepting a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray without breaking stride. By the time he reached the far side of the ballroom, Augusta had guided Cassie to a small alcove near the French doors, where they stood watching the dancers with identical expressions of delight.
“Miss Norton,” he greeted, bowing slightly. “Lady Cassandra. I hope you’re enjoying the evening.”
Cassie beamed at him. “It’s wonderful,” she said, her voice laced with awe. “Miss Norton says I may have one dance, if I’m very good and don’t cause any trouble. And Mrs. Beale says I may have a glass of lemonade with dinner, not watered, as a reward for helping with the flowers.”
“A well-deserved reward,” Hudson agreed. His eyes met Augusta’s over Cassie’s head. “You look lovely tonight.”
A flush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks with a color that rivaled the roses on the nearest epergne.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she said, her voice quiet. “And thank you for the dress. It was very kind, though entirely unnecessary.”
“The silver one would have suited you better,” he said before he could stop himself.
“The blue one is more appropriate,” she responded quickly. “For a governess at her first ball.”
“That’s not what I meant—” he began, but was interrupted by the arrival of James, who materialized at his elbow with a grin.
“There you are,” James said, clapping him on the shoulder with enough force to make him step sideways. “Lady Follett has been asking after you. Twice. And Miss Hampton’s mother is making pointed remarks about your absence near the punch bowl.” He turned to Augusta and executed a bow that was just this side of excessive. “Miss Norton. You look radiant. That color becomes you enormously. Doesn’t it, my friend?”
“It does,” Hudson agreed, his voice strained.
“Excellent,” James said. “Perhaps I shall escort Miss Norton and Lady Cassandra to the refreshments table.”
Before Hudson could object, James had offered his hand to Cassie, who took it immediately. Hudson’s eyes found Augusta’s, and he opened and closed his mouth, searching for words that never came.
“Miss Norton?” James’s voice broke the loaded moment. “Shall we?”
