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“It’s only Laura and the boys,” she said. “You know, Marta, it’s a funny thing. Now that the girl has a bit of English language to her, she seems to have improved her intelligence, as well. I’ve always imagined that England is the far superior country to Austria, not only based on your mother’s letters, but also through various conversations with businessmen. They tell me, oh and I’m sure this won’t hurt your feelings due to your English nature, my girl, but they tell me that there is a sort of banality there. An idiocy.”
“Is that so?” Marta said. Ewan could sense she was on the verge of volatility herself, ready to blare her true feelings to her rather wretched, yet well-meaning auntie. “I have to say, after living there my entire life, I cannot believe I missed this.”
Her sarcasm was palpable. As usual, Ewan’s mother seemed to swim underneath it, able to craft a world she appreciated far more. A world more in-line with her innermost emotions and firmly-drawn lines.
The carriage ride proved to be more of the same. Of course, his mother was quite clear that she had hardly a care for Ewan’s romantic alliances, which gave her plenty of energy to declare her enjoyment for the Duke of Remington and blare excitement about their approach.
“I was in correspondence with him yesterday to ensure that he would be in attendance,” Ewan’s mother said.
“Mother, that seems terribly unnecessary,” Ewan said. “He told us himself around the dinner table that he would be.”
“One can never be too careful. In the issues of courting, I believe one must live on the side of caution at all times,” his mother returned. “Perhaps you wouldn’t understand this, Ewan, but Marta and I are women, and women must continually build lines in the sand. Regardless, I shouldn’t have been truly worried. It’s clear that Lord Remington has truly taken to you, darling. He answered back that he wouldn’t miss the party for all the world.”
“It’s truly assuring to know that our dear Duke has such an affection for the world of drink and dance,” Ewan said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I, for one, would never want the county run without a healthy dose of alcoholism.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Ewan, but I suppose I’ll agree with you if it means we’re on the same page,” his mother returned.
Ewan and Marta shared a big-eyed look. Seconds later, the large estate appeared, just beneath the canopy of trees that swept over the top of the country road. Marta gripped her skirts hard with white-tinged knuckles. Ewan felt a similar clench in his gut. It was remarkable to him that he could know Baldwin all his life and still feel this lurch of panic. Love was a sinister thing.
Still, the night felt different, alive in ways he’d forgotten were possible. A stablehand opened the carriage door and assisted Marta onto the path that led to the vibrantly-lit ballroom. A trail of gorgeous fabric led them up the steps and into the ornate and enormous room. When they entered, his mother gasped for air and gripped his elbow.
“I didn’t know it was required to move so quickly upon entering a ballroom,” she said. Her cheeks were pale, and her eyes glittered strangely.
“Didn’t mean to push you, Mother,” Ewan returned, arching his brow. “I assumed you knew what this event would demand of you.”
“Ewan, I can’t possibly understand…”
Suddenly, Baldwin emerged from the centre of the ballroom. He walked beside the red-headed Penelope Sussel and wore a slender smile across his face. His eyes didn’t follow the smile. Throughout Baldwin’s entirely brief affair with Penelope, he had never once divulged any affection for the girl to Ewan. In fact, he’d largely avoided the subject throughout, even dipping around it when Ewan brought it up.
Marta seemed to stiffen at the sight of Baldwin with Penelope. Jealousy etched itself across her cheeks and forced her eyebrows down. However, the moment Baldwin’s eyes found Marta’s, it was clear where his endless affection remained. They stepped before Margaret, Ewan, and Marta. Penelope dipped into a splendid curtsy. Ewan found his eyes dancing across the gorgeous swell of her breasts. Her red hair caught the candlelight like a miracle, frantic with life-affirming light. For a strange moment, Ewan’s heart bulged in his throat.
Throughout Ewan’s teenage years and into his Baldwin-adoring adulthood, he’d frequently thought of women. He was human, a fluid creature who comprehended the brevity of gorgeous skin and beautiful eyes and the splendid nature of the youth of both himself and those around him. Although he’d wasted a good deal of his life pondering the vitality and power of his love for Baldwin, his eyes now fluttered, and his stomach pounded with want.
Penelope Sussel?
Of course, he’d flirted with her endlessly in the past. This had been his mechanism to ensure many didn’t suspect his affection for Penelope. Throughout their brief courting, he’d never perceived Penelope to be any sort of competition. He knew Baldwin’s heart better than that.
“Look at you two!” Ewan’s mother chirped. “Have you decided to rekindle the old flame?”
Baldwin and Penelope flashed eyes at one another. Baldwin’s face shifted uncomfortably. It seemed that the air between the five of them rushed out, unable to handle the tension.
“Don’t you dare be so embarrassed,” his mother continued. “I think it’s marvellous. The two of you were always such a handsome pair.”
“Penelope,” Ewan interjected. He bowed slightly and gave her a confident grin. “Please, don’t mind my mother. The moment she sees anyone, she immediately falls into a frenzy, attempting to stitch them together romantically with whoever happens to be around.”
“Oh, yes. I’m quite familiar,” Penelope said. Her laughter sparkled.
“We wanted to catch up a bit,” Baldwin said. “I told her that I expected the two of you to be a bit tardy. Auntie Margaret, I’d forgotten to expect you. What a unique pleasure.”
Only perhaps Ewan and Marta’s ears were attuned to his personal brand of sarcasm. Ewan followed Baldwin’s eyes towards Marta’s. Marta’s cheeks burned pink.
“Darling, look!” Ewan’s mother blurted. She reached across Ewan to grip Marta’s elbow hard. “The man of the hour. Of the year. Nay, of the decade!”
Lord Remington stood like a powerful and stoic statue towards the far end of the ballroom, in seemingly disinterested conversation with a rather beautiful raven-haired woman who looked at him as though he himself had hung the moon. His eyes skated across the ballroom and found the five of them. He sputtered something to the woman beside him and then strode towards them, shoulders back, his face almost violent in its assuredness. Ewan had never hated anyone more. Of course, his own feelings were plastered across Baldwin’s face. Ewan longed to press his hand against Baldwin’s shoulder and whisper, “You must remember to focus your face. You look as though you’re moments from murder.”
“Lady Thompson,” Lord Remington said, sweeping low to drop a kiss on Ewan’s mother’s cheek. “It’s a marvellous thing that you came this evening for a bit of the fun. Ladies like yourself seem to make every excuse to remain home. You’re no such lady.”
“Oh, no. My mother? Never one to keep to herself,” Ewan said.
