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Chapter Twenty One
The Embassy ballroom blazed with light from the hundreds of candles in branched wall sconces, and in the great chandeliers hanging at intervals down its length. It had taken a team of workmen most of the week to lower them, polish each lustre, and hoist the great weight up again.
At the far end, chairs and music stands were being set out for the orchestra and beyond that, the double doors stood open into the long drawing room where supper would be set out. The Ambassador had granted permission to use the Embassy silver, as well as the ballroom and his servants, and the overall effect, Cassandra thought, was as grand as a palace.
She had slipped in on her way down to dinner for a last look at the flower arrangements she had been helping with all afternoon, and had stopped in amazement at the transformation. With the dust covers removed, the lights ablaze, and watering cans and flower stems tidied away, the room was magical.
‘It looks very fine,’ said the Ambassador behind her, causing her to jump. ‘I’m sorry, my dear, didn’t mean to startle you.’
Cassandra bobbed a quick curtsey. ‘Not at all, sir, and I must thank you for letting Godmama have the ballroom and all the servants this evening. It must have put you to a great deal of inconvenience.’
‘Not at all.’ He consulted his pocket watch, then offered her his arm. ‘Time to be gathering for dinner. Will you do me the honour?’
Sweeping into the reception room on the Ambassador’s arm to be presented to the minor royal who was the guest of honour, Cassandra had to pinch herself to bring her feet back to earth. Could it truly only be ten weeks ago that she had climbed out of her bedroom window and down the apple tree to escape Lord Offley?
Never, in her wildest imaginings, had she dreamed of a night such as this, held just for her. Whatever happened in the future, whatever became of her and Nicholas, tonight would be a special memory to treasure always.
Having made her curtsey without a stumble, and exchanged stilted conversation with the somewhat plain Grand Duchess, Cassandra thanked the Ambassador and slipped away to join her godmother.
‘Come and stand quietly with me, dear,’ Lady Lydford said kindly. ‘Let me look at you.’
Her gown, her first ever silk gown, was not in white or pink like most of the debutantes, but a deep cream, trimmed with old lace around the deeply flounced hem. The bodice and tiny puffed sleeves were smocked and caught with gold knots and the high waist caught with a broad golden ribbon which matched the tiara in her hair.
Godmama’s hairdresser had pomaded her chestnut curls until they gleamed and clustered around her head and, as a finishing touch, Godmama had given her a pair of gold drop earrings.
Cassandra pointed one toe to admire her new satin slippers, then smiled at her godmother who smiled back. ‘You look a picture, my dear. Every man at the ball will fall in love with you.’
Cassandra was laughing off the compliment when Nicholas arrived, impeccable in knee breeches and swallow tail coat, a filigree holder of dark yellow roses in his hand. She had scarcely seen him during the last week, since the outing to the western hills with Lord Stewart and the Hartley sisters.
He had been cold, distantly polite, but she would not let herself give up hope that his behaviour proved that he cared for her. Looking at him critically, she thought he looked pale, and his face, handsome as ever, showed signs of strain.
Having kissed his mother, he turned to Cassandra with a slight bow. For one wild moment, she believed he was about to offer her the roses, they went so perfectly with her gown.
‘Nicholas, how lovely,’ she began impetuously, stepping forward smiling, her hand already outstretched to take the flowers.
He raised a brow in apparent surprise, took the proffered hand and bowed over it, kissing the air a good half inch above her fingers. Then he turned and made his way across the salon to where Lucy Hartley stood. She blushed prettily as Nicholas bowed over her hand and presented the flowers.
Cassandra stood cringing with embarrassment, convinced everyone in the room had witnessed the rebuff. Then the butler came in to announce that her ladyship was served.
The ball might be her come-out but, as a very junior debutante, Cassandra found herself seated well down the table, between the Ambassador’s nephew and someone’s aide de camp. Neither of them seemed greatly inclined to conversation, allowing Cassandra ample opportunity to watch Nicholas.
He was seated next to the Grand Duchess, nodding gravely at appropriate moments in the conversation she was dividing between him and Sir Marcus. He appeared to be managing royalty with aplomb, but the Grand Duchess had neither the charm nor the looks to engage his total concentration.
Their eyes met as he glanced down the long polished table, and without thinking Cassandra gave him a small, conspiratorial smile. To her joy he returned it, suddenly the old Nicholas again, sharing a secret joke in some wayside inn. Then he turned back to his duty, leaving Cassandra glowing with an unexpected hope.
It was almost half past ten when the dinner party made its way through to the glittering ballroom. Cassandra took her place between Godmama and Sir Marcus at the head of the sweeping double staircase, and the next hour passed in a blur of compliments, bobbed curtseys and unfamiliar faces. Sir Marcus’s diplomatic connexions and Lady Lydford’s social circle had combined to produce a dazzling assembly of notabilities. Lady Lydford intended to make this ball the talking point of the Season, and already she recognised with satisfaction the heady buzz of. a truly successful occasion.
When the receiving line thinned to a trickle, Lady Lydford dismissed Cassandra. ‘Off you go into the ballroom now, dear, and dance with your beaux. Enjoy yourself.’
Cassandra stepped into the ballroom with some trepidation. It seemed so full of unknown faces as the mass of dancers passed by in a swirl of coloured silks, a confusion of dress uniforms, and the dark elegance of male evening attire.
Then the music stopped and as couples came back to the gilt seats around the walls, she began to recognise people. Soon she was the centre of a cluster of eager young male admirers, all clamouring for a place on her dance card. Laughing, she pencilled in names, trying to save space for Nicholas.
Surely he would come and ask her to dance soon? Surely that shared, secret smile meant something? She was clutching at straws, but to give up would break her heart. Cassandra looked around, hoping to see him, but could only catch a glimpse of the back of his head, bent as he listened to a group of young ladies across the room.
‘Dare I hope you are looking for me?’ Lord Stewart was at her side, having displaced, with no apparent effort, a number of less effective young men.
Cassandra, her heart already engaged, was able to admire him dispassionately and realise that she was an object of considerable envy by many of the debutantes present. Anthony, Lord Stewart, was as blond as Nicholas was dark and nearly as tall. He carried himself with a careless elegance that drew the eye to the sombre magnificence of his evening attire, moulding the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his well-muscled legs.
