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Stasia and Dorothea clapped their hands with glee, then began to tussle amongst themselves over which sister ought to have the first dance.
Ammalia didn’t much care which one went first. The distraction at least gave her two full sets before Zurri set eyes on Cynthia…
And decided that the woman Ammalia wanted was the one he would take as his bride.
Chapter Eight
From the moment the princess’s royal carriage pulled up before the open door to the grand ball, Cynthia was unbearably overwhelmed.
The assembly rooms were the largest in London, and filled with so many people already that she could not fathom fitting a single additional soul inside, much less all five of the women scrambling out of the carriage.
That was, Dorothea and Stasia were scrambling. Princess Ammalia did not scramble. She floated to the ground regally, as if thousands of exquisitely dressed lords and ladies in a single room was just another Tuesday back home in Parmenza.
Cynthia, on the other hand, had never been anywhere so fine, or around so many people this rarefied. Everything was so much more than she had expected. The colors were brighter. The lights, dazzling. How many chandeliers were overhead? And with hundreds of lit candles burning on each one?
All the doors and windows were wide open, allowing in the frigid British night breeze, which was immediately vanquished by the crush of so many warm bodies swarming like bees in a hive. Despite the lower temperatures out-of-doors, the ballroom was suffocatingly warm.
Even the smells were overwhelming. Acrid smoke from pungent cigars being smoked by well-dressed gentlemen standing just outside the open doors and windows permeated the breeze. Cynthia couldn’t even make out the scent of the hectare of thick trees and fresh flowers in the gardens surrounding the assembly rooms because of the competing odors of thousands of different soaps and perfumes and pomades and eaux de toilette.
And the sounds—good God, the sounds! Thousands of voices talking over each other was more than a dull roar, and the thunder of so many feet pounding the wooden parquet in rhythmic patterns hammered its way into Cynthia’s skull.
Yet the orchestra managed to be louder than all of it. The violins’ soaring melodies and the cellos’ complementary low tones vibrated the walls and the floor and the panes of glass and Cynthia’s very bones.
It was, in short, magnificent. Despite her dizziness at the sensory assault, Cynthia was determined to commit all of it to memory. She had never seen such a spectacle, and could not imagine herself taking part in a circus like this ever again.
“Ah, there’s my brother now,” said the princess.
Stasia and Dorothea clutched each other and bounced up and down. “Where? Where?”
“Do you see the three empty chairs near the dance floor?” The princess gestured. “I’m to send his dance partners there. You two, take your mother and arrange yourselves conspicuously. I shall send my brother over straight away.”
Stasia was the only one of the trio to hesitate. “What about Cynthia?”
“Yes,” Cynthia said, hurt. “There’s no chair for me? Should I assume there’s no dance for me, either?”
Princess Ammalia’s lips tightened. “Of course you shall have your dance. I cannot matchmake my brother to the most beautiful woman in England if you do not number amongst his partners. If you prefer being first to being third—”
“Third is fine,” Cynthia said quickly. “I just thought—”
“I’ve not forgotten you. I thought we might play companion to each other whilst your sisters have their dances.”
“Yes, Cynthia,” said Dorothea, her voice cajoling. “Do let your beloved stepsisters have our chance with the prince before you flutter your lashes and try to ensnare him.”
“If he falls for you, I won’t stand in your way,” Cynthia murmured.
“Thank you,” Stasia said fervently. “Wish me luck.”
“Wish me luck,” Dorothea objected. “I’m older, which means—”
“Make haste,” Ammalia interrupted. “The minuet is ending, and there is a waltz to come.”
“A waltz!” Stasia looped her arm through her sister’s and the two ladies barreled through the crowd, elbowing higher ranking lords and ladies out of her path like a pair of bulls charging through a field of flowers.
Lady Tremaine hurried in their wake without sparing a single glance for Cynthia.
Not that Cynthia minded. Her eyes were only for Princess Ammalia. And her hands and her mouth and her bosom and everything else. Cynthia would joyfully provide anything the princess asked of her—if only the princess should ask.
After exchanging a few words with a footman, Princess Ammalia took Cynthia’s hand and expertly threaded her through the crowd to the rear of the ballroom, as far from the voluminous orchestra and turbulent dance floor as it was possible to get whilst still remaining in the same large chamber.
