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Chapter Thirty-Three
James couldn’t fathom how these people not only tolerated but enjoyed such an event. Yet here he was…attending a ball at a duke’s residence where men and women bobbed, pranced, galloped, and generally behaved as fools—all in a highly choreographed fashion.
What’s more, the price of admittance required proximity to Lord Denton, his irksome and reluctant social benefactor for the evening.
The indebted earl had pursued James relentlessly, promising anything in exchange for an opportunity to invest. With his misfortunes on the verge of discovery, Denton was desperate to recover his losses before they became public knowledge.
James had no sympathy for gamblers and wastrels—even less for entitled nobility—like Denton. Only for Clara was he associating with the man.
James wasn’t as confident as Clara about the prospects of her plan, but he was determined to support her. It was important to her, and he, more than anyone, understood the desire not to lose family.
The flaccid-faced earl whined up at him through lips as thick as a trout’s. “Do take care not to be seen looking about like that!”
James ignored him and his begging, pink-rimmed eyes. How the bloody hell was he supposed to find someone without looking? He perused the room, hunting for Clara’s tall form.
Whatever his cool treatment of Denton, James was nervous. The greatest price of infiltrating this ball wasn’t tolerating the earl, the inconvenient preparations with the tailor, or the fuss of dressing like a dandy.
No, what cost him most was volunteering for possible rejection, for being deemed unworthy. For feeling as though he was reaching, stretching for approval.
In other words, feeling like a fool.
There was but one person at this ball whose opinion mattered to James. What wouldClarathink of him?
His presence here could simply end up reminding her of the barrier that separated them—social class. It was as artificial and invisible as it was real and insurmountable.
The longer James spent searching for Clara in this sea of privilege, the more confident he was that Chadbourne would never accept James as one of them.
His attire was more than appropriate. He sported a new dress coat cut most fashionably—high in the front, with short tails in the back—and crafted by a sought-after tailor, using the finest quality fabric. His underutilized valet was giddy at the request to arrange his hair.
But James knew he didn’t pass. He was too big, too brutish; he moved more like a dockworker than an anemic aristocrat. He didn’t belong and didn’t want to—not with these over-bred, over-coiffed, overdressed, and under-worked elite.
Making his way through the room, he noticed the wrinkled noses of distaste, the bulging eyes that took in his coarse muscles, the averted gazes of the maidens who deemed him dangerous, the lingering perusals of the brazen.
For just a moment, he thought he glimpsed Clara whirling on the dance floor. He glanced from his own huge feet to the dancers again.
Tha’ `ll nae happen.
Mirthlessly, he continued searching. Anyone without skirts was dismissed from notice. His eyes skipped woman to woman, each receiving the minimum attention necessary.
His gaze moved past a horse-faced, bony brunette; a blond with a swan-like neck; a brunette who swayed and bent so that her breasts nearly spilled out of her dress; a joyous, freckled redhead whose hair was coming loose. No, no, no, and no.
The search continued.
“If it’s a lady you seek,” Denton spoke through his teeth, “you needn’t continue further. Why, half the women we’ve passed have signaled with their fans!”
James disregarded the man’s droning voice and renewed his attention on the dance floor. Now that one set ended, people were coming and going.
There she is!
Clara made her way onto the dance floor, escorted by a man with bushy whiskers on his cheeks.
Her gown.James’s breath caught in his throat.
The pattern on her voluminous silk skirts was a gray and sage-green tartan—and he knew in his bones and his bollocks that she’d chosen it for him. He hadn’t seen a single comparable gown tonight.
Her fitted bodice of watered silk was grayish-green sage, the small cap sleeves peacock blue. The oval neckline dipped far lower than her other gowns, open to her delectable shoulders.
For me. She wore tartan for me.
