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“Oh, William,” she whispered, touched by his sincerity.
They danced to the vivacious music, its joy combining with the happiness she felt in his arms again, and she forgot to monitor whether Viscount Chavasse was watching Clara. Though Bea could not say that all the pain between her and William was forgotten, it had at least somewhat healed, in no small part because of his efforts to show her consistently how much he valued her—outside the bedchamber.
After the dance, several men buzzed around Clara, including her former admirer, Lord Breyle, years into marriage to someone else following the rejection of his suit by Clara’s brother. Clara’s politeness could not be faulted, but knowing her as she did, Bea could see how much her friend wished to be free of his attention.
“Oh, goodness,” Bea muttered to William with delight. They both watched as Clara linked arms with Lady Breyle and the two women made their way toward the refreshment room—leaving Lord Breyle behind, sputtering and outmaneuvered. The man’s eyes were fixed on Clara, not his wife, as the two sailed away.
“Serves him right,” William murmured.
When Clara returned sometime later, Lord Breyle edged in front of Viscount Chavasse, speaking first. “Will you dance this next waltz?”
Her head dipped elegantly, and Bea approved of Clara hiding her eyes, which might have given her away. “I am sorry, but I am engaged for this dance.”
William took Clara’s arm, reading the situation accurately. Though he had earlier invited Clara to dance as a courtesy, she was most wise to have invoked that invitation now in order to avoid this other man, and Bea was grateful to watch the two move to the dance floor.
With an inward sigh, Bea engaged Viscount Chavasse’s attention, preventing him from staring too unabashedly as Clara waltzed and also ensuring that he was nearby when she returned.
“I admire Lady Clara’s dancing myself, but of course I may only do so from afar. You, however, may ask her for the next dance,” she said quietly and pointedly.
He blinked like an owl. “I thank you for the suggestion, my lady. What, pray tell”—he leaned closer—“do you advise as to conversation? What would she enjoy discussing?”
“Avoid discussing the weather with this lady, Lord Chavasse. I suggest…yes, music! Ask her if the piano sonatas by Chopin rise to the standard set by Beethoven!”
Bea’s eyes sparkled at the delight on the Viscount’s face. He possessed a keen intellect, and knowing Clara, that would carry a great deal of weight.
As soon as William escorted Clara back, however, Bea knew something was amiss. The air in the ballroom was stifling, but instead of appearing pleasantly dewy, Clara looked downright clammy.
After swallowing, she turned blindly to Bea. “May I borrow your fan?”
Clara’s dangled from her wrist limply, but rather than bring that to her attention, Bea simply snapped hers open and set to fanning her friend. Her beautiful green eyes closed gratefully, and Bea was relieved when some color returned to Clara’s cheeks. In her periphery, the viscount shuffled from foot to foot, and meeting his gaze, she shook her head. He looked as though he wanted to approach and help, but it would not do to draw attention to the matter.
It soon became clear why, even in the busy ballroom, Clara’s state was not gathering more attention. A raven-haired man with a brutish build was parting the crowd, followed by the simpering Earl of Denton, who was drenched in sweat. Bea tried not to pay attention to the taller man approaching, however striking the sight.
Her eyes widened fractionally in alarm and the rhythm of her wrist movements with the fan faltered.Good Lord.Not only was the stranger head and shoulders above the rest of the room, his face was rather handsome—and he had come to a stop directly behind Clara! The perfect tailoring of his coat with tails was the only part of his appearance suited to the ball. He exuded a coiled energy, a rawness, that was most unrefined.
Bea’s hand fell with the fan, though Clara didn’t seem to notice. She had turned around slowly to face Lord Denton and the newcomer. Bea looked at William briefly, who, like everyone else, was wholly focused on the bizarre introduction unfolding—quite inappropriately—between Clara and this stranger.
He’s not a stranger,Bea realized, taking in her friend’s reaction to the man Lord Denton had just introduced as James Robertson.
Something terribly odd was happening, that much was clear. The Earl of Denton was mopping his brow and speaking as if held at sword point. His onion-like odor announced not only his presence to all around, but his apprehension. “Lady Clara Chadbourne,” he mumbled, completing the introduction.
Bea stifled her gasp when Clara wilted into her, but couldn’t suppress a fresh one when Mr. Robertson swept Clara into his arms. She called out her friend’s name, but soon saw how fruitless that was—Clara’s head lolled against the man’s broad chest.
Exclamations rippled through the ballroom as Mr. Robertson once again parted the sea of nobles, this time carrying Clara off. Concerned for her wellbeing, Bea followed, aware of William’s supportive hand on her elbow.
Oh, no!
Before the rash man could carry Clara through the terrace doors, the ball’s host—aduke!—stepped in front of him to demand an explanation. When James Robertson merely plowed forward, the Duke moved out of his path, but not quickly enough, and Robertson shouldered him out of the way.
“Was that Lady Clara?” the Duchess inquired sharply before Bea could follow everyone else onto the terrace. It seemed that half the ballroom was trying to watch the spectacle.
“Yes, Your Grace. I must see to her.”
“Very well, but you’ll come seemeafter.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
Pushing away thoughts of the lurking social disaster, Bea stepped out outside, her only worry her friend’s health. Clara had started the evening with such radiance. How had she ended up unconscious?
