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“Of course, your lordship,” Ruth said.
Alice smiled sweetly and accompanied him to the center of the ballroom.
CHAPTER6
Harold extricated himself from an inane conversation with a young, red-haired woman. She was waxing lyrical over the finery of the ballroom or perhaps it was the house’s hall. Something. Harold had barely been listening, smiling politely, nodding, and making appropriate sounds of comprehension. This seemed to encourage the young lady. Harold saw Max moving through the crowd on the arm of his wife, cutting through them like a boulder by the force of his broad grin and overbearing booming voice.
“My dear chap. There you are!” Max beamed, “you know my wife, of course.”
Harold bowed over the hand of Lady Essen, wife to Maximilien Essen, Baron of Schengerstein and Viscount of Marple, courtesy of his family's long association with the house of Hanover. She had blond hair, piled in elegant coils about her head and a swan-like neck. Max wore the dress uniform of his Prussian military rank, medals seeming to weigh heavily on his chest.
“You are not in uniform yourself, Redwood?” Max observed. “I see plenty of redcoats here tonight. Your countrymen are not so reluctant.”
“I resigned my commission, Colonel Essen. As you may well remember.”
Max chuckled. “I do. I remember you slapping the Prince of Orange across the face and using language that would make an infantryman blush as you told him what you thought of his orders.”
“Slapped a prince, Your Grace?” Lady Essen gasped.
Harold shot a warning look at Max, who always took too much pleasure in this tale.
“An exaggeration, lady. I assure you,” he said.
“Well, how are you liking the ball, Harold?” Max said, ignoring Harold’s superior rank as he always did.
“As all such occasions. Tedious. Frivolous. I can think of a dozen things I should be doing which are both more edifying and productive than this,” Harold replied.
“Oh, Your Grace. Perhaps it is a female perspective that is needed,” Lady Essen said. “But this is quite the most exquisite arrangement I have attended. This season at least. You must appreciate the aesthetic, though?”
“Madam, I appreciate the aesthetic of a well-bred stallion. That is of use to a gentleman as well as being an object of beauty. This is simply…gaudy,” Harold replied.
He maintained a tone of perfect civility as he spoke. Max laughed aloud, drawing some eyes, and ignoring them.
“You see, Anna. The man is made of stone. Remember our conversation at Redwood, old friend. The purpose of such gatherings and their value to a man of your position.”
Harold bowed his head briefly, conceding the point.
“Ah, I understand. The Duke seeks an heir. That is what forces you to indulge?” she said with a mischievous smile.
“I am told this is how such things are done,” Harold replied stiffly.
“Do not make fun of the Duke, my dear. Even in jest. He is too proud. Always has been. A problem of the English aristocracy,” Max said.
“Or the source of our strength,” Harold replied. “A reason why our two nations found common cause against the French in the recent unpleasantness.”
“Touché, is the expression, I believe,” Lady Essen replied as the delicate sound of metal chiming against crystal brought the assembled guests to silence.
“My lords, ladies, and gentlemen. I have the honor to present to you, Miss Alice Hathway of Lindley Manor. Sister to Lord Simon Hathway of Lindley Manor and daughter of the late Richard Hathway, Lord of Lindley, and Member of Parliament for Borough Vale,” a servant proclaimed in a raised voice.
Harold looked towards the stairs where moments later he saw a young woman step into view. The room disappeared. The dozens of guests that stood between him and the radiant beauty atop the stairs, became hazy and insubstantial as ghosts. Those phantoms were applauding. The sound reached Harold’s ears but did not connect to anything real. His hands stayed by his sides. His gaze was fixed on the figure of Alice Hathway.
Her hair was shaped into bouncing ringlets. It was coal black, shining almost blue under the sparkling light. Her dress seemed to float around her like a cloud. She seemed faerie-like in her delicacy. A creature of mystery and magic. A neck of pure white and a face of fragile porcelain. And eyes that made the clearest summer sky seem dim by comparison. Such blue. They were like twin beacons, lancing out from a lighthouse.
Those eyes drew him in, refusing to allow him to look away, to even blink. Then they alighted on him and his breath caught in his throat. For one delicious moment, it was as though those eyes froze every part of him. Heart and lungs ceased to act. There was a second in which Harold hung on the precipice of a moment, chained there by her eyes. And she was aware of him.
She looked directly at him. A sea of people separated them across a wide room. But her eyes resting on him felt like a touch. Then the man who was escorting her, a man whose name Harold had instantly forgotten, turned, and said something to her. She looked at the man and the connection with Harold was lost. In that moment, he hated whoever that man was. Suddenly and irrationally. Freed from the spell of her eyes, Harold was recalled to himself. The room and the people in it rushed back into his awareness. Max was looking back over his shoulder at him, a speculative look in his eyes.
Harold grimaced.
