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Chapter 11
Far different from him. This much was clear, and nothing Ewan was required to remind him of, with useless words spit into his ear as the evening crept towards lateness. “A party girl. The sort of girl who got herself involved with a love triangle back home! Certainly the sort of life we required in our stuffy English season,” Ewan said. His words were slurred together, proof of his drunkenness, and he grinned a crooked grin throughout. It seemed he’d abandoned all desire to dance with any beautiful women and had slouched himself against the wall next to Baldwin. His eyes glowed sleepily, but his foot tapped along right with the beat—proof that some sort of personality still lurked within.
“She must recognise all this for what it truly is, though,” Baldwin began. Even as he articulated the words, he found himself doubting them. “Mustn’t she see how frivolous it all is?”
Ewan seemed not to have heard him. He hummed along with the new orchestral tune, which swept through the air and seemed to sizzle through the arms and legs and torsos of the beautiful listeners. Even Marta knocked her head back and closed her eyes, seeming to inhale the sounds as they fell over her. It was akin to watching someone dance in the rain. Baldwin was overwhelmed with the idea that this woman, this Marta, was far more alive, far more volatile, far freer than he ever had been or ever would be.
Perhaps this alone was proof that she would never consider him to be anything more than what he was: her cousin’s dear, albeit quite annoying and sombre, friend.
Throughout this dance and the next, Marta linked herself with first a broad-shouldered dark-haired man who, Baldwin thought, might have been him from behind, but revealed himself to have a rather staggeringly huge nose from the front. He imagined telling this to Marta and causing her to erupt with laughter. The thought of that laughter both thrilled him and alarmed him. Why did he yearn for something so fictional? Why did he hang his hat upon the concept?
Suddenly, Marta herself spun towards him. Her eyes connected with his. It felt like a fist to the gut. He nearly keeled over, his thoughts stirring and then spinning wildly. How could he possibly articulate them? Oh, but all too soon, she stood before him, her blue eyes sparkling. He suspected they reflected every lake, every pool across Austria. She seemed the sort of woman who could reflect the world’s magic.
“Baldwin! I see you’ve taken your place as peaceful watchman over the party,” Marta said.
“You know our Baldwin,” Ewan interjected. “We wouldn’t be safe without him. He knows precisely when to step in to eliminate that last bit of fun…”
But Marta’s eyes didn’t linger on her cousin. Rather, she fell into a slight curtsy and said, “I seem to have found myself again without a dance partner. What a pity.”
Baldwin questioned her motives. Did she yearn only to utilise him for her own sport—to toy with his emotions for her own selfish gain? As the music swelled, he felt guided by an unseen and unknown force. His hand slipped across the little curve of her lower back; her tiny hand found his. He felt dominant, sure, no longer the stoic and faraway creature in the corner but the formidable man who dared to dance with Marta Schnitzler, belle of the ball, a second time. He imagined the ballroom’s flurry of conversation: did you see them? What do you think has got into him? Does she really offer such magic to tug Baldwin Terrence back onto the floor?
“How has your evening been?” Baldwin asked. Immediately afterwards he cursed himself for asking such a banal question.
But Marta seemed grateful for the question. “To be honest with you, it’s been a rather strange burst back into the social world. I struggled more recently with a dismissal from what I assumed at the time to be my entire life--the societal gossip and parties and courting of Austria. Now, it appears I’ve joined yet another jungle.”
“And a jungle it most certainly is,” Baldwin returned.
Marta chuckled. “You seem happy enough to stay as far out of it as you can. I must say, I respect it far more than I respect Aunt Margaret’s view on things. The woman’s lifeblood is gossip.”
“And always has been,” Baldwin returned. “I love the woman dearly, but she sees you far more like a doll at the moment, meant to be dressed up and played with.”
Marta’s eyes glittered. “And I suppose she doesn’t see you that way.”
“Unfortunately not. All my life, I’ve so yearned for Aunt Margaret to lift me up, dance me around like a little toy soldier. Yet all my life, she’s deemed me far too serious for such action.”
“Consider yourself terribly lucky,” Marta said.
Ah, but the truth of it: Baldwin felt only luck while his arms wrapped themselves tenderly around Marta’s thin frame. He felt this luck as his feet found sure and soft steps alongside Marta’s. He wished he could have paid the orchestra half his yearly wages if only to extend this song three minutes more. All too soon, as their conversation drummed on with light and excitement, the music petered out and cast them apart. Baldwin’s lips parted. He yearned to tell her just how grateful he was that she’d sought him out, despite her clear position as the party’s most sought-after creature. But such words would have painted him in desperation.
Marta gave another little cursy, a cheerful giggle. Baldwin felt he could have listened to such a sound for the remainder of his life.
“Thank you for the dance. I will stop bothering you,” she said. “I dare say you and Ewan have a great deal more banter to return to.”
“Yes. How reckless of you to interrupt us,” Baldwin said. “It’s only the same sort of stale conversation we’ve had for years.”
Marta laughed and turned around. Her skirts followed after her, fluid, the fabric catching the candlelight. Baldwin’s hands fell to his sides and clenched. As she went, that wretched man, Lewis Remington, again strolled towards her. Baldwin’s heart sunk into his belly.
“There he is again. Her predator,” Ewan said. His voice was scratchy in Baldwin’s ear.
“A wretched man,” Baldwin said. His eyes remained on Lord Remington’s face as his cheeks scrunched up in laughter. Whatever they joked about, Baldwin felt sure it far out-weighed everything that had occurred between himself and Marta. She’d obviously reserved the better banter for the likes of him.
“You’ve always detested him. Now, though, there’s an extra bit of colour to your cheeks. I don’t suppose it’s proof of any sort of jealousy?” Ewan asked. His grin widened.
“Don’t be foolish, Ewan.”
“But that sort of foolishness suits me,” Ewan returned. “You know that altogether too well.”
Baldwin swallowed. “Why do you suppose your mother wishes Marta to court Lord Remington so desperately? Doesn’t she see what we do? The Regent dotes on him, but the sort of stories we’ve heard outrival any sort of positivity.”
“The reckless partying, you mean? The high life? The excess?” Ewan recited. He dug his elbow into Baldwin’s upper arm.
“You tease, but I dare say you’ve heard the same stories as myself,” Baldwin returned. “I don’t imagine him to be a worthy partner for anyone. Most certainly not for your cousin.”
“Relax, Baldwin. All they’ve done thus far is dance and speak. If Lord Remington is anything like who we assume him to be, he’ll have forgotten all about her within five minutes of his departure this evening. Tell me you know this to be true.”
Baldwin felt apprehensive about this. He felt that, in Lord Remington’s shoes, he wouldn’t have forgotten Marta Schnitzler at all, not for a moment.
