Page 41 of Just a Little Daring

Viv obeyed Aisling’s order, smiling as she dipped her hand into the hat. The dares rustled and sighed as she stirred them about and finally made her choice. She pulled the slip out, realising it was one of the original dares, the paper yellow and brittle. Viv unfolded it, peering at the faded writing.

“Well?” Evie demanded, sitting up on the bed.

“Dare to reach great heights,” Viv read aloud.

“What on earth does that mean?” Evie asked.

Aisling pondered this. “Well, great heights could mean an achievement, like becoming famous, but that seems rather a lot to ask. I think it means to be taken more literally. To get up high. Like to climb a tree or to the top of a tall building.”

“Lud!” Vivien exclaimed.

“What will you do?” Evie asked Vivien, who laughed and stared at the slip of paper in consternation.

“I don’t have the faintest idea.”

13th April 1841, The Duke of York Hotel, Brighton

The ballroom was full, with everyone decked out in their finery. They had opened the large glass doors upon the terraces to let the mild evening air stir the fug of perfume and overheated bodies. Everyone was chattering and in high spirits, and the whirling dancers spun to a stop as the music faded.

August wished he’d not come, wished Sylvester had not talked him into staying, but that he’d turned around and gone back to London, or even home. God help him. Though what home looked like now, full of artists and eccentric types, he dared not consider. Instead, he pasted a smile to his face and tried to give the lady upon his arm his full attention now their dance was over.

“Do you enjoy Brighton, Miss Thrussell?”

His companion looked up at him, smiling, staring at him as though he were the most fascinating man in the world. He wondered if she practised in a mirror or if she really found him of that much interest. He had the sinking feeling the answer would flatter neither of them.

“Oh, certainly. It is most diverting, and the weather is so kind to us at present.”

“Indeed, like summer has come early,” August replied, wracking his brain for something other than the weather. Conversation with Miss Thrussell did not come easily to him.

“Do you read much, Miss Thrussell? I have just finished Nicholas Nickleby.”

Miss Thrussell shook her head. “My father does not approve of novels, or poetry. He says it is a bad influence on the female mind and leads to unrealistic fantasies about life.”

August’s eyebrows shot up. “And what do you think?”

Miss Thrussell’s expression became one of mild panic. “M-Me?”

“Yes, you are female, after all. What is your opinion? Do you think reading a novel would make you believe in fairy tales? Would it lead you into wickedness?”

The young woman’s hand went to her throat, and she paled a little. “I —I am sure I would not like to test the theory. My father has my best intentions at heart, and it is not for me to question him.”

August blinked. “Don’t you ever question him?”

Miss Thrussell shook her head. “Of course not. It is not my place to do so. My domain is the running of the household, keeping it orderly and comfortable for him now Mama has passed on, God bless her. In due course, I hope to do the same for a husband and… and for any children, should we be so blessed.”

She whispered the last and blushed prettily.

August stared at her in consternation. Everyone spoke highly of Miss Thrussell, extolling virtues that made her the perfect young lady. Everyone vaunted her exquisite manners, told him her charming company was a boon to any gathering, not only that, but she was also lovely to look upon and though her dowry was modest, they expected her to be snapped up before the season was over. This was the wife who would give him a comfortable home, a life with no upsets or dramas. They would have children, which she would dote upon and keep from under his feet. His life would be peaceful, organised, comfortable… and yet— an unaccountable surge of panic rose inside him.

“I’ll return you back to your party,” August said, wondering why his chest was so tight, why it was so hard to breathe.

“August, old man. Good evening.”

August stopped in his tracks at the familiar voice. “Blackstone. I didn’t know you were here.” His gaze fixed, however, not on his friend Jules Adolphus, Marquess of Blackstone, but upon the exquisite woman on his arm. “Miss Anson,” he said, the words catching in his throat.

She was beyond stunning. Her gown was a deep blue green, bringing out the colour of her eyes and highlighting the generosity of her curves. Vivien’s face was impassive, beautiful but somehow devoid of her usual sparkle, too contained, any feelings she might have had ruthlessly suppressed behind a mask of polite civility. A necklace of sapphire and diamonds glinted against her golden skin, the glittering jewels as cool as her expression, and August wanted to weep with longing, wanted to fall to his knees right there in the bedamned ballroom and beg her never to let him go, no matter if she ought to… no matter if he was the last thing she needed.

Vivien curtsied, her lovely indigo eyes travelling to the lady beside him. Her expression never faltered.