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‘Do not discuss Greeks or your churn tonight.’
‘No Greeks, churns or undergarments. I will discuss only Romans and my automated cake mixer. Come on.’ Rilla swung her arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Enough serious talk. Your dream awaits. And you are going to be fabulous.’
* * *
Three hours later, Rilla stood in the Thorntons’ ballroom. Dancing required more stamina than tree climbing. Her feet hurt, her head pounded and her face ached from smiling.
Although she was enjoying the dance. It was rather wonderful, like entering a separate world of golden light, music and magic—Oberon’s palace, peopled with fairies.
And there she had no shortage of partners. Indeed, she had only sat out two dances and had not yet chatted with any of her new London acquaintances or, more importantly, her neighbour and best friend Julie St John, freshly arrived from the country.
Perhaps she could find her now. Rilla scanned the ballroom. A familiar face would be so reassuring. Plus Julie had been out for three Seasons and would doubtless have all manner of suggestions. Hopefully, one of which might include a cure for blisters.
And then she saw him.
Wyburn.
All thoughts of Julie scattered from her mind.
Wyburn stood a few feet from the entrance. Her body stiffened and she knew, in that second, she had been unconsciously waiting for him. She felt a peculiar mix of hot and cold, and heard the quickened thump of her heart.
His very darkness made him different.
He stood tall, surveying the ballroom with an indolent gaze. Dark hair, dark straight brows and dark jacket made the others seem overdressed like brightly costumed actors.
She touched her hair. Then dropped her hand. She refused to primp. She would not even acknowledge that peculiar bubble of pleasure that he would see her here and in this dress.
But gracious, it was hot. She fanned herself. He had moved from the step and was now chatting with several gentlemen. Lady Wyburn had stated that he would ask both herself and Imogene to dance, as they were her protégées.
Except Rilla didn’t want to dance with him. She hadn’t seen him since Rotten Row and, as always, he made her feel like she had two left feet.
And yet to not dance with him would also be peculiarly dampening to the spirits.
She frowned. Since when had she become such a ninnyhammer? A person able to understand the laws of physics should certainly be capable of deciding with whom she wanted to dance.
Perhaps she should consider a suitable design for an automated fan which might be suspended from the ceiling—a much better use of brain power than the tracking of Lord Wyburn’s movements.
Not that he seemed in any great hurry to perform his duty towards his stepmother’s protégées. He was now escorting a large young lady in pink silk to the dance floor.
He’d likely regret that choice. The lady in pink did not appear light on her feet.
And then, in that split second of amused derision, it came.
The horrid, familiar, unwanted cold struck. It spread from the centre of her body down into her limbs. The candelabra and brightly coloured dancers dimmed. The purple-and-pink bouquets swirled and the music muted, as though coming from some great distance.
In its stead she heard a soft, sad whisper.
‘Help him.’
Rilla twisted left and right, but saw only the rubber plant and the blank wall behind it. Goosebumps prickled. Her hand tightened on her fan so that its hard edges pressed almost painfully against her palm.
I will not faint. Or cause a scene. Not here. Not now.
The words repeated in her mind like a mantra or the thumping of indigenous drums. I will not faint. I will not faint.
‘Rilla! Are you all right?’
A tall figure in ruffled green stood before her.
‘Julie,’ Rilla said, her voice oddly distant to her own ears.
‘Are you ill?’
The sweet cloying scent of lavender filled her nostrils.
‘Lavender. I smell— Are you—wearing—lavender?’ she asked, the simple question difficult to phrase.
‘No, I don’t like the smell. But, Rilla, what is it? You look awful.’
‘Fine. Really.’
Rilla had fought this before. She knew how to do it. She knew she must root herself in this hot, overcrowded room. She must focus on Julie and her frilly green dress. She must press her palm hard against the edge of her fan. She must escape the scent of lavender and immerse herself in the smell of flowers and sweat and food from the buffet.
She must ignore the man on the dance floor who was so impossible to ignore.
She exhaled in a slow whoosh.
‘It is the heat,’ Julie said.
‘Yes,’ Rilla said, disregarding the goosebumps still prickling her arms.
‘You will get used to it. I have. This is my fourth Season.’
‘When did you get into town?’ Rilla managed to ask, ludicrously proud to have said the simple sentence without pause or stammer.
‘Only two days ago. Mother wants to keep our costs to the minimum, you know.’
‘And how is she? Your mother, I mean?’
Julie shrugged with a rustle of fabric. ‘Dragging every unmarried man under a hundred to meet me. I’m a disappointment, although I’d likely do better if I did not resemble a wilted lettuce.’
‘You look lovely.’
‘For a lettuce.’
‘But never a wilted one,’ Rilla said and even smiled.
She took her friend’s hands, glad of the human contact, the reassuring pressure of Julie’s finger and the clean, wholesome talcum scent of her. ‘I am so happy you are here.’
‘And I you.’ Julie paused, looking towards the wide sweeping staircase which descended into the ballroom. ‘Gracious, he’s here too. We could have a schoolroom reunion.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Jack.’
Dislike knotted her stomach as Rilla saw a familiar young blond gentleman descend the staircase, his expression one of cynical indolence.
‘Roving for an heiress, I would guess. He needs one. Is he deigning to acknowledge us?’ Julie asked.
‘Apparently.’ Rilla watched the man’s approach.
Jack St John, Earl of Lockhart, looked well enough. His clothes were well cut, his movements easy. Yet she felt herself cringe, edging towards the rubber plant.
‘My dear sister and Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.
‘Lord Lockhart.’
‘Miss Gibson, I did not know you and your sister were coming for the Season. I hope you are enjoying the evening and that it has been convivial.’
The earl gave the last word peculiar emphasis, rolling it in his mouth.
An emotion, close to fear, twisted through Rilla’s body, although his words were innocuous enough. ‘Everyone is very pleasant,’ she said.
‘Ah, yes, the ton can be delightful, but then the mere whisper of a rumour can make it cruel.’ He smiled. His face was pale and, in stark contrast, his lips looked too red for a man.
Rilla swallowed. The fear grew. Her palms felt clammy within her gloves.
‘Jack, don’t say you’ve done something scandalous?’ Julie asked, worry lacing her tone.
‘Not at all.’ His smile widened. ‘And Miss Gibson is fortunate that she has such an admirable character she need never fear rumours or odd tales.’
Did he linger on that word ‘odd’ like a man tasting brandy or was it her imagination?
But before Rilla could formulate a response, the earl made his bow and left. Rilla swallowed. The heat, the dancers, the music pressed in on her.
Julie touched her arm. ‘You’ve gone quite pale again. Don’t worry about Jack. He probably remembers the goat.’
‘The goat?’ Rilla said blankly.
‘The one you rode?’
But, of course, the goat. The relief was so great she almost laughed out loud. Her smile grew wide. She had quite forgotten the goat. Good lord, he could talk about the goat ad infinitum, if he chose.
‘Julie!’ Lady Lockhart’s strident voice startled both girls. Julie turned so quickly she nearly tumbled into the rubber plant.
Her mother approached, bearing down on them in a well-corseted purple dress. ‘There you are. Whatever are you doing, hiding in the shadows? People want to dance with you! You’ll never make a match indulging in idle chatter.’
‘No, Mama.’
‘Good evening, Amaryllis.’ Her ladyship cast an appraising glance over Rilla’s gown and coiffure. ‘You’d best be standing straight. Giggling is never attractive in girls. They appear vapid. Indeed, you’d best make yourself presentable if you hope to find a husband.’
‘Yes, my lady.’ Rilla dropped a curtsy.
‘Come along!’ Lady Lockhart propelled her daughter away. Rilla watched. Julie looked smaller, as though only propped up by the abundant cloth of her gown.
Alone once more, Rilla glanced back to Jack as he crossed the room. He had all the swaggered arrogance she remembered from the schoolroom and, more recently, when he’d visited Father. If only they hadn’t gambled—
To be beholden to such a man.
An unladylike swear word flashed through her mind and she had to bite her lip to keep from saying it aloud. The obnoxious man had gone to Imogene.
The earl was asking her to dance.
For a brief unreasonable instant Rilla wanted to sprint across the floor and physically pull him from her sister. An impotent anger vibrated through her and she felt her fists tighten.
‘Goodness, why so fierce, Miss Gibson?’
Rilla jumped at the low male voice. Turning, she found herself staring at a broad masculine chest encased in a white-satin waistcoat and black jacket.
* * *
The girl looked more like a golden statue than a human form. The cream muslin dress was shot with gold and shimmered with her every move. Her hair was a crown of ruddy gold, piled high with soft tendrils curling at her neck.
Miss Gibson was definitely not pretty, that would be too insipid. Nor beautiful, her face was not cast in classic lines. No, she was striking, inspiring almost.
Good Lord, and he was staring at her like a goggle-eyed fool.
‘Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.
She turned and frowned as though disorientated. ‘Lord Wyburn, you startled me.’
‘My apologies, Miss Gibson. You were engrossed,’ he said.
‘Yes, I was watching—’
‘Your sister’s success. Without much pleasure, it would appear.’
Colour rushed into her cheeks, but she caught his meaning quick enough.
‘I’m not jealous of my sister, if that is what you mean,’ she said.
‘Blunt again. Jealousy is a natural feeling.’
‘Natural to some—not me. I’m happy for my sister.’
‘If not envy, then why the angry countenance?’ Paul asked more gently.
‘I disapprove of my sister’s partner.’
