Page 18 of Sinfully Daring

“Stop fretting, Cara, you look positively glorious,” Rosamund said, slipping her arm through the girl’s as Cara stared about her with wide eyes. It was true: Lady Cara looked like the goddess of the harvest, everything about her ripe and abundant. Her red hair shimmered in the candlelight and her pale green gown hugged her splendid figure, setting off her fiery colouring to perfection.

“Are you sure?” Cara asked, casting Rosamund a doubtful glance. “Everyone is staring at me.”

“That’s why they’re staring, you silly goose,” Rosamund replied with a smile, though the way some men were looking at her friend made her want to hurry her away.

Her parents had been right to give her a few small tastes of her first season, though, or next year would be thoroughly overwhelming. At least at a relatively minor affair like this one, she could dip her toe in the water without getting out of her depth. Some of the grandest balls could have seven hundred people in attendance and in your first season, it felt like being swallowed alive. One could only hope to emerge on the other side intact and with one’s sanity, and—more importantly to the ton—one’s reputation unblemished.

“Who is your first dance with?” Rosamund asked.

Cara fumbled with her dance card and Rosamund stopped her, taking both her hands and holding on.

“Look at me,” she instructed.

Cara did as she asked, her blue eyes the colour of a summer sky at dusk and full of anxiety.

“Now, take a deep breath and let it out again. You have nothing to worry about. You’ll only dance with people you already know. Jules has promised to stand up with you, remember, and Leo Hunt. There’s no need to be nervous with them, is there now?”

“No,” Cara said, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “No, thank you, Rosamund. I’m being silly, I know. I’ve wanted this for an age and now….”

Rosamund laughed, shaking her head. “Not the least bit silly, or at least no sillier than I was, and likely every other girl who has ever come out to society. It’s thrilling and wonderful and awful and terrifying at the same time. Now, who is your first dance partner?”

Cara glanced down at her card and smiled. “I cannot think how I could have forgotten. It’s Mr Anson.”

“Lucky Mr Anson,” Rosamund said with approval.

“Lucky me,” Cara corrected. “He’s a marvellous dancer, and so very funny. He makes me laugh.”

As if they had conjured him, the man himself appeared before them and gave a deep bow. “Lady Rosamund, Lady Cara. Good evening, and may I say how beautiful you both look?”

“You may say it as many times as you like,” Cara said, her nerves apparently melting away under Ashton Anson’s admiring gaze.

“In that case, I shall. Now, I hope you remembered to put me down for your first dance, for I claimed it well before this evening to be certain all the other gentlemen did not elbow me out.”

“Indeed, I did,” Cara said, beaming at him.

Her gaze drifted down to his waistcoat, which for Ash was quite subdued. Men’s fashion was becoming increasingly sombre, with an emphasis on black and dark colours, something which Ash was quite vociferous in lamenting. At an affair like this, the men were all dressed in identical outfits, with black coats and trousers and pristine white waistcoats. Ash, too, wore a white waistcoat, though his was lavishly embroidered with silver thread.

Ash held out his hand to Cara, his dark eyes alight with merriment. “Then shall we?”

Cara glanced back at Rosamund, who nodded. “Have fun, dear.”

“She’s with me, of course she’ll have fun,” Ash retorted, winking at Rosamund as he placed Cara’s hand on his arm. “Don’t worry, I shall return her safely to her mama when the dance is over.”

With that, they disappeared into the crowd.

“Lady Rosamund?”

Rosamund turned, blinking in surprise as it took her a moment to place the man before her. He was tall and strong, with powerful shoulders and laughing tawny eyes. Rosamund frowned.

“Do ye nae remember me? It’s only been a year and a half since we last met.”

“Muir!” Rosamund exclaimed in shock. “But… But you look….”

Words failed her. The last time she had seen Muir Anderson he had been romping through the fields around his home with dogs barking at his heels, his hair wild and shaggy and looking thoroughly disreputable. Now, though….

Muir pulled a face and rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of embarrassment. “Aye, well, Ma said I had better not let her down in front of all her cronies. I feel a right numpty.”

“You look splendid,” Rosamund said on a breath, meaning it. His hair, for once, was neatly trimmed, and his coat and trousers hugged an impressively muscular figure that was already drawing many admiring gazes from the females in their corner of the ballroom.