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She wasn’t a youthful imbecile any longer. She’d been through the worst of it. She’d trained herself in the art of pessimism.
“You must believe it. Don’t you, Marta?” Lord Remington asked.
Marta flashed a pure smile. She’d only been at the ball for perhaps twenty-five minutes, and already, she yearned to grab Ewan’s elbow and drag him out, back towards the carriage, free themselves from the trauma of cultured life. She scanned the crowd as her hands broke away from Lord Remington. The song filtered out and shifted into another.
“Of course I do,” Marta said. “And I thank you for such a beautiful dance.”
Lord Remington stepped closer towards her. His lips were only a few inches from her ear, and his breath was hot and insistent. “We’ll have many more. I feel sure of it, Marta. This is the start of something. I know I’m ready for it. And I’m willing to wait for you if you require a bit of time to think.”
Marta’s blonde brow furrowed. How desperately she wanted to scream at him: darling Lord Remington, you know little to nothing about me. Whatever tale you current spout is something of your own creation, without bounds to the reality in which I live.
But she knew that those sorts of words would only bounce off of his rather perfect, sharply-chiselled face. Thus, she smiled a final time and said, “I look forward to our future as well, Lord Remington.”
Just before she cut away from him, he gripped her elbow. There was no electricity between them: just skin on skin. Marta swallowed and blinked back up to find his menacing eyes.
“You must attend an upcoming party,” he began.
Marta arched her brow. “My schedule has already flung itself across the summer calendar. I dare say that I…”
“It’s a party thrown by the Regent himself,” the Duke continued, speaking over her syllables as though they had little value.
She supposed, in his eyes, her value was tied up entirely in her looks, in her credit, in the way she returned his gaze.
“The Regent himself,” Marta echoed. She couldn’t begin to explain to him just how little that sort of thing mattered to him. She hardly knew the point of a Regent, nor why she was meant to care so deeply about this invitation. But she felt the weight of it reflected in his eyes.
She understood: if she’d been another member of the ball, another woman, she would have been completely honoured with such an invitation.
“You must come,” Lord Remington said. He said it as though he hadn’t expected to say something like that—as though he hadn’t expected to have to convince her. “I’ll send you a proper invitation in the morning.”
“Thank you again, Lord Remington,” Marta heard herself say. “I hope to speak with you soon.”
When she returned to the side of the ballroom, she spotted Ewan in the middle, his arms wrapped around a beautiful blonde. He seemed in the midst of teasing her, his eyes spitting light excitedly. Marta’s stomach churned. If her aunt seemed poised to push her towards Lord Remington, and Lord Remington was perceptive to this, did this mean she would live out the rest of her days amid such banal conversations? She imagined it: long afternoons, during which Lord Remington informed her of the importance of something in English society, something she couldn’t possibly care a thing about. Would that be the rest of her life? Pretending to care?
Finally, Ewan broke off from his dance and reappeared at Marta’s side. He’d collected them both fresh glasses of wine.
“Your cheeks are bright pink!” Marta said playfully.
“As are yours! All that flirtation with the Duke,” Ewan said.
“Ha.” Marta yearned to dip into her true feelings about this strange man but wasn’t entirely sure who to trust. “And who was it you danced with?”
“Her name is Audrey,” Ewan said. “She seems to have taken a real interest in me, unfortunately.”
“And why is that unfortunate?” Marta asked. “She is quite pretty, isn’t she?”
Ewan gave a sombre shrug. “Difficult to explain, I suppose. I didn’t feel a hint of a spark.”
Marta explained to Ewan about the Regent’s party. Ewan looked mischievous. “That’s quite an invitation. The sort that many-a woman in the county craves. You’re making it look all too easy.”
“I can’t very well go without an escort,” Marta said. “Perhaps I can drag you along? If it isn’t too much trouble, of course.”
“Marta, know that you can drag me to any fancy party you please,” Ewan said. “You know it has all the things I love the most. Fine wine. Beautiful gowns. Beautiful people. Fresh gossip…” He sighed and rolled his eyes back, an acknowledgement of this, the most pristine of his many hours. “In fact, I thank God above for my beautiful Austrian cousin daily. For without you, it would have been quite the drab season. You’ve elevated my social calendar in nearly every way. And countless creatures approach me when I’m out in the village, hungry for any news about you.”
Marta laughed. “I suppose you tell them the truth? That I spent the majority of my days reading in the garden?”
“I would never tell such a dreadfully boring truth,” Ewan said.
“Thank you. Because of you, my image will remain intact.”
The evening continued in much the same fashion. Even as the hours drifted away, Marta was conscious that this night would blend into the others, the many balls and parties of the season, so much so that, in a year’s time, she surely wouldn’t be able to articulate what she’d worn or what she’d discussed. Lord Remington did seek her attention just once more, as though he wanted to dangle himself in front of her sparingly, a tactic, Ewan explained, that Lord Remington assumed would only increase her interest.
When he said this, Marta half-suspected that Ewan could see her innermost desires and know that they had very little to do with the Duke.
Only once throughout the rest of the evening did the two of them discuss Baldwin Terrence. Baldwin hadn’t been to the estate at all during the previous week, and Marta asked, rather tentatively, if he would be about the estate over the next. At this, Ewan gave a sombre shrug. “Baldwin is his own man. I can’t begin to assume I’ll know what he’ll do next.”
After the ball, Ewan and Marta returned to the estate in the carriage. They rode without speaking for several minutes. Marta felt herself at a loss for words, marvelling at the way it seemed England tossed her about like a doll. She could only begin to comprehend the weight of Ewan’s thoughts. When the estate came into view, she turned slowly towards him and asked, her voice tentative, “What do you enjoy about the season, Ewan?”
Ewan made a strange little noise in his throat. His smile was crooked, as though he wished only to illustrate how little joy he derived from such a situation. “Thus far, I’ve enjoyed how little you’ve enjoyed it the most. Not that I take any pleasure from your disinterest or discomfort—no. That isn’t what I mean. Only that you’re perhaps one of the first in our society I’ve perceived to comprehend the frivolous nature of it all.”
