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Chapter 13
The first party of the proper season was, in fact, held at Baxter Peterson’s, just as Ewan had said. Aunt Margaret ensured that Marta had a brand-new gown, the fabric light gold, and the bodice cut tight around her waist, so tight that her breasts bulged out aggressively and formidably. She joked with Laura that she’d become a woman of only breasts. Laura suggested that she sit for a sculpture session with a Greek artist. “Goodness. I dare say I won’t be able to breathe by the end of the night,” Marta said, gasping through her German words.
Ewan and Marta rode in the carriage to Baxter Peterson’s estate. Since their strained conversation days before, they’d spent little time with one another. Marta’s heart swelled as she searched for something to say, anything to quell the strange air between them.
“I don’t suppose Baldwin will be a member of the crowd today?” she finally uttered.
Ewan clucked his tongue. “He usually tries his hardest to spend as much time as possible away from these sorts of affairs.”
“Oh.” Marta’s heart sunk. “That’s wretched.”
“Not for him,” Ewan affirmed. “He’s had such a time of it, picking up the slack for his father’s business. I joke that he’s a fifty-something-year-old man, but in truth, he’s just a young man carrying around a great deal of trauma and pain.”
Marta considered this. She couldn’t fully envision why Ewan felt he wanted to lend out this information. He adjusted himself on the carriage seat, one leg over the knee, and then switched back again. Perhaps he, too, thought he’d spoken too much.
When they arrived at Baxter Peterson’s estate, Ewan mocked Marta for her big-eyed-wonder, her sincere shock at the grandeur of yet another home. She rolled her eyes playfully at his digs.
“I suppose it’s much easier to be cynical, then, isn’t it, cousin Ewan?”
“I am convinced it’s the only way to live,” Ewan affirmed.
When they entered, Marta felt it: proof that the words her aunt had spoken were entirely true. All eyes fell upon her; whispers seemed to cling to her name. Ewan collected them both glasses of berry wine and muttered to her, his voice joining the hubbub, “Do you have your eye on anyone this evening, dear cousin? They’ve all directed their eyes towards you. I believe some of the women have more of an air of anger and rage, however. I hope you’re willing to take a few out the back for a bit of a fight.”
Marta chuckled. “I’m meant to be a lady.”
“I know you beyond that fine dress, cousin Marta. I know how much you love the air and dirt and adrenaline of a screaming match in the out-of-doors…”
“Such a silly false construction,” Marta said.
Her eyes scanned the crowd as she stood off to the side with Ewan. The orchestra seemed to consist of the same players as the previous week—their heads bowed over their strings, their fingers flying with precision. Amid a particularly overzealous song, she locked eyes with none other than Lord Remington, who seemed to tower over the rest of the onlookers and dancers. A particularly beautiful woman beside him seemed to be explaining something to him. Her smile stretched wide as she hit the climax of the tale. Still, Lord Remington seemed overtaken with Marta’s beauty, her charm. He dismissed himself from the woman beside him with a brief nod and then cut through the crowd.
Marta urged her heart to beat faster; she urged her thoughts to dance. But she felt stone-like and stoic, a direct reflection of Baldwin Terrence himself.
“Here he comes,” Ewan muttered. “Have you mentally and emotionally prepared yourself, cousin Marta?”
“You’ll embarrass me all evening long, won’t you?” Marta whispered out of the side of her mouth.
But suddenly, Lord Remington was before them. He bowed his head slightly towards both and uttered, his voice a boom, “Good evening, Lady Schnitzler. Ewan.”
“Lord Remington,” Ewan returned. If Marta wasn’t mistaken, there was a slight hiccup in his voice—proof that he lacked the appropriate regard for the Duke. He bowed his chin just a bit, yet kept his eyes upward.
It seemed almost akin to a challenge. Marta shifted uncomfortably. It seemed there was still so much beneath the surface of every English encounter, situations that her Austrian-born-and-bred mind couldn’t fully deduce.
“I don’t suppose I could trouble you with a dance?” Lord Remington asked. His eyes flashed about dangerously.
Marta knew that this was her lot in life. If her aunt heard tell that Lord Remington had asked her to dance and she’d refused, she didn’t wish to learn of the repercussions. Her small hand found his; again, she was wrapped in his sturdy arms. He whisked her away from the sizzling sarcasm of her cousin, towards the centre of the ballroom. From there, the bright, swirling fabrics and candlelight and bite of the music crafted a sort of kaleidoscope of inventive promise and creativity. Her stomach bubbled with it. When she blinked into Lord Remington’s eyes, she felt a slight jump. Perhaps this was it: the start of something.
“I must tell you that it’s been a unique pleasure, finding you here at these last events,” Lord Remington said. He sounded as though he’d never been unsure of a thing in his life. “Ewan and I have never known one another very well, but he seems to really have something. A bite to him. I’d love to get to know both of you.” A larger, almost carnivorous smile broke out between his cheeks. “Or perhaps I only wish to know you better. But I’m willing to know Ewan as well, as I believe him to be part of the package.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Marta admitted. Her heart felt heavy.
“Look around us, Marta,” Lord Remington said then. They moved towards the side of the ballroom, their feet tip-tapping beneath them.
“What do you mean?” Marta asked.
“All eyes are upon us. Can’t you feel them?” Lord Remington asked. “They’re terribly jealous that I’ve taken such fancy to you. But I daresay I cannot help it. I’ve known you to be special from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
The words were familiar. Marta swallowed and cast her eyes down, nearly fumbling her steps in the meantime. Her love back in Austria had said similar things, only months before ending their affair. How she’d fallen into those words back then! How she’d ached to believe them. Now, in Lord Remington’s arms, she felt faced with a similar predicament: how far was she willing to go to believe a man she hardly knew?
