Her father handed over her dance card and she slipped the pale blue ribbon round her wrist. How long ago it seemed that she had given her preference for the color of the ribbon to be used at her ball.
She forced herself to smile and said, “You are looking very elegant yourself, Papa.”
Darden came striding in from the ballroom. “The chandeliers are lit, flowers everywhere, champagne on ice, supper cooking below, cats corralled in Mrs. Huffson’s sitting room so that Cook does not keel over in apoplexy, musicians set up, and four sisters are giggling behind the balustrade over our heads. We are ready.”
“Splendid job of it, Darden,” the earl said. “And with a good fifteen minutes to spare before the carriages begin rolling down Portland Place.”
“One wonders what sort of gentlemen we will see here tonight,” Miss Mayton said.
“Do we wonder?” the earl said. “I presumed Darden was well acquainted with anybody on the list.”
“Of course, yes,” Miss Mayton said hurriedly. “I was more wondering about what attitude they might bring and what they might say.”
“I wonder that myself,” Darden said softly.
“Ah, I see your meaning,” the earl said. “Who sent the flowers? Shall the fellow step forward and claim it? In truth, if he does not, I shall think him a very stupid fellow.”
Beatrice suppressed a sigh. Everybody was talking, in one way or another, of the mysterious tortured gentleman. They did not understand that he had become entirely beside the point. A man saying nothing eventually became nothing. Especially when one’s thoughts cleared and one could finally understand one’s own heart.
One’s own very, very stupid heart.
There was a sudden loud banging on the front doors. They all looked at one another. Miss Mayton’s tiara slipped off her veil and clattered to the floor. Darden quickly swept it up and deposited it back in her hands.
Tattleton had not even gone to the front doors yet, ready to receive guests. Who would come so early and bang so hard?
Tattleton passed them by in a run, looking as if he were chased by a murderer. He reached the doors, straightened his tie, and threw them open.
Beatrice was startled to see the picture before her. It was Van Doren and it looked as if he were in the midst of some sort of dire emergency. He was dressed for the ball, but his hair looked as if he’d been through a windstorm. His eyes had a wild look to him. She peered over his shoulders and into the night, expecting to see flames at his windows or some other disaster unfolding.
She saw nothing of the sort. Had somebody been taken very ill then?
He strode in and nearly shouted, “I demand to speak to Lady Beatrice alone. At once.”
“What?” she asked.
“You heard me,” he said gruffly.
Miss Mayton attempted to step forward, but the earl took her arm and said, “We will be in the drawing room.”
A crushing weight of an idea swept into Beatrice’s thoughts. She knew why he had come. He’d come to tell her…he wished to tell her first—he had engaged himself to Lady Mary.
Her father, Darden, and Miss Mayton retreated, the drawing room door closing behind them.
Why had they left her alone to hear this dreadful news?
“Hand over your card this instant, Beatrice,” Van Doren said sternly.
“My card?”
Beatrice did not know what else to do but comply, though now she was confused. If he wished to wed Lady Mary, why did he ask for her card?
Why did he look as if he’d lost his wits? Which seemed both frightening and…rather attractive. Why had he come into the house in such a manner? What was he doing?
She handed over her card and he began to pencil his name in. And then pencil it in again. And then again until every spot was taken.
“Now you see, Beatrice, I have filled out your dance card for every set and shall do something outrageous if you challenge that idea for even a moment.”
“Would you really?” Beatrice said, feeling a little faint.
