“Nothing.” She slid off the desk. “Wear the blue coat and tell Beadle to have the carriage ready by eight o’clock.”
She was gone before he could think of a reason to call her back.
He sat in his study for a long time after she had left.
The letter was on the desk.Your devoted betrothed.He picked it up, read it once more, and then set it down.
Eventually, he went to find Beadle and gave instructions about the carriage, the blue coat, and a particular bottle of champagne that he wished to have sent ahead to King Street. On the way,he did not look at himself in any of the mirrors because he was almost entirely certain that he had begun smiling again and that he did not know how to stop.
The ballroom at Almack’s was, by ten o’clock, already too warm.
Cassian had taken up a position near the second of the great windows, with a glass of indifferent ratafia in his hand that he had no intention of drinking. He had been there for three-quarters of an hour, and Alice had not yet arrived.
The orchestra was playing the third quadrille of the evening. The room was full of muslin and white satin and the kind of polite chatter that filled rooms in which everyone present was being watched by everyone else.
Joanna had gone off ten minutes ago to greet a friend whose name he had not caught and did not care about. He had been alone for those ten minutes, which had been a small mercy, and he had spent them watching the doorway.
“Langton.”
He did not turn.
“You look,” Lord Everlong said, settling beside him at the window with a fresh glass of his own, “like a man waiting for a hanging.”
“I look like a man at Almack’s.”
“It is the same thing. Some hangings, however, are at least quick.” He smiled.
Victor Hamilton had a particular kind of smile he saved for ballrooms. It had not quite reached his eyes since they were nineteen.
“Are you waiting for her?”
Cassian did not reply.
“Cassian, I am asking as a friend.”
“Then ask as a friend about anything else.”
“Very well.” Victor took a sip from his glass. “I was going to congratulate you on the betrothal if you will permit it. I have not had the chance. I was, I think, less than gracious at the dinner. I should like to amend it.”
Cassian turned then. He looked at the man he had grown up with. At the dark hair going slightly silver at the temples earlier than it ought to and at the mouth set in its accustomed shape of dry amusement. He could not tell whether Victor was being sincere.
“You are forgiven,” he said. “Such as there is to forgive.”
“You are very gracious, Your Grace.”
“Don’t.”
“As you like.” Victor’s eyes flickered past him, toward the door. They sharpened briefly before returning to him. “Ah, there she is.”
Cassian did not turn around.
He did not need to turn around. He could tell from the change in the atmosphere—the small dip in conversation, the slight retraining of attention toward the entrance—exactly when she had arrived, exactly where she was standing, and exactly how many heads had turned to look at her. Despite himself, he counted how many he could feel turn.
Then he turned.
She was at the top of the small flight of steps that led down into the ballroom, and she was waiting, with her father at one elbow and her mother at the other, while the Master of Ceremonies announced her.
She was in a gown of pale celadon green that Cassian, who knew nothing about gowns, knew at once was the right color for her. It was the color of her eyes. Her hair was very dark against it. Her gloves were white. She had a small spray of something on her shoulder that he could not identify at this distance and a closed fan in her hand.
