Chapter Ten #2
And there were quite a lot of them. Wilfred had not been sure just how many people one invited to a ball.
One didn’t want the place to look empty, after all, and there were bound to be several people who were unable to attend.
Better to invite, say, fifty additional people on the assumption that they simply would not turn up.
Everyone, it appeared, had turned up.
“How lovely to see you, Your Graces. My lady—ah, my lord, you are not in London, I see,” said Wilfred helplessly as scores of people poured past him through the hallway into the ballroom, each officially announced by his butler before they spoke to their host. “Lady Romeril—”
“You have never hosted a ball before,” the older woman said accusingly, jabbing a finger so directly into Wilfred’s chest that he rather thought it would leave a bruise.
He smiled weakly. “No! No, I have not, and may I say what an honor it is to have you gracing it with your presence.”
“You may, indeed,” said the woman curtly, eying him as though he were an interesting diamond she was considering purchasing. “No particular reason that you decided to host a ball all of a sudden, I suppose?”
It was with great fortitude of mind and strength of character that Wilfred only looked over at Irene, laughing hard at something her brother had just said, and did not declare his undying affection for the woman at the top of his lungs.
Wilfred cleared his throat. “No.”
“Hmmmm.” Lady Romeril did not appear convinced, though in fairness, he could not blame her. “Well. I expect I shall lead the dancing.”
Well. No.
That was what Wilfred wanted to say. With no mother, no sister, no lady relative of any kind, he had hoped he could lead Irene out at the beginning of the dancing.
Or at the very least, her mother. Though to be honest, he knew the honor would have to go to the lady who ranked highest in attendance, and that was unlikely to be the viscountess.
He wasn’t sure how Lady Romeril ranked, exactly.
If Irene’s aunt or cousin-in-law attended—though the latter was unlikely, as she had recently given birth—there would be a dowager duchess and a duchess both, and they probably were higher in rank than the mysterious doyenne.
Or was it the Duchess of Axwick who ought to have enjoyed this honor?
He’d have to ask his housekeeper, as she was sure to have studied which estate was older.
Still, he was hardly going to say no to a woman whose power and influence over the entirety of Society meant that a young lady’s prospects could be cast to the wind and a gentleman’s honor could be irrevocably lost.
Wilfred smiled weakly. “It would be my honor, Lady Romeril.”
She eyed him beadily for a moment as he attempted not to show his disappointment. Then she cackled and poked him in the chest again.
“You think I would deprive you of one of these young snippets? You are very gracious, Aynor, if I may call you that. Just like your father.”
The woman had swept into the ballroom before Wilfred could say anything, which was a great relief. What was one supposed to say to that?
“Got something in your eye, Wilfred?”
Wilfred blinked hastily. “No.”
Irene peered at him. Precisely where she had come from, he had no idea. “I thought we could meander into the ballroom and look at people.”
“Sorry, I have to stay here and welcome everyone,” he declined with true regret. There was nothing he enjoyed more than observing people with Irene—though in fairness, he probably should not do such a thing at his own ball. “Being the host, you know. I have to ensure I welcome everyone.”
And so he did: suit after suit, gown after gown, Wilfred welcomed people.
And then he spoke with Mrs. Ansley to ensure that there was sufficient claret, considering that the entire Chance clan appeared to have arrived, even the new mother, the Duchess of Cothrom.
And then he had to assist a footman who had been cornered by Lady Romeril, and then he had to greet the latecomers, and then he had to instruct the musicians, and then there was that opening dance with Lady Romeril, though that was the only dance he managed to undertake himself—
“Are you ever going to come and talk to me?” asked a voice that was more than a little piqued.
Wilfred would have smiled if he weren’t feeling so harassed. Balls! Who would ever throw one once they’d experienced this chaos just once? “I’m sorry, Reeny.”
To his utter astonishment, the expected refrain of ‘Don’t call me that’ did not appear.
Irene frowned. “I thought—well, I thought we would be able to spend more time together.”
Wilfred’s stomach twisted as he attempted to take in this rather odd pronouncement.
Irene. Irene wanted to spend more time with him?
It was a foolish thing to find joy in. They were best friends, after all; they spent a great deal of time together.
But not like this. Not with her dressed up to the nines, looking so ready to be plucked…
Wilfred swallowed. “I just—it’s my ball. I have to make sure everyone is having a good time.”
“And are you having a good time?” Irene asked, eyebrow raised.
He smiled weakly. “Not especially, no.”
The answering twinkle in his eye warmed him quicker than any amount of claret. “Well, then, we had better change that. Come on.”
The way she grabbed his hand and pulled him forward was so familiar, Wilfred could not help but exhale with happiness, all tension in his shoulders melting away.
Irene had done the same thing when he had first bumped his knee, dragging him to her mother to be comforted.
She had done the same thing when they had accidentally bought a cow at Borough Market, pulling him toward the man and confidently saying that the Duke of Aynor’s man would be around to pay for it later.
She had done the same thing when they had last shared a picnic at Stanphrey Lacey, pulling him away from her family so they could ramble slowly through Stanphrey Lacey Forest, talking occasionally but otherwise just… just being together.
A lump formed in Wilfred’s throat as she halted before the musicians and started whispering to them urgently.
And that would all end when Irene found a husband. When she went off to pull some other man forward into her next adventure.
“There,” Irene said firmly. “Come on.”
The musicians had started playing one of Wilfred’s favorite waltzes, and before he knew precisely what was happening, she had placed one of his hands on her waist and taken the other one in her hand.
Wilfred’s throat bobbed. Her waist. The waist he had wanted to touch the instant she had arrived at the ball, his ball, and now he was doing so and it was glorious. She was soft and he wanted to put both hands on her waist and pull her tight against him.
Irene stepped into his embrace. “Dance with me, Wilfred.”
What could he do but obey?
It was strange. From the instant that he moved and Irene moved with him, following his every step, almost anticipating his movement but waiting respectfully for him to act first, Wilfred could feel the stress of the evening melting away.
Sufficient claret? What does it matter?
“There,” Irene murmured in a low voice.
Wilfred jerked his head around. “What—where?”
“No, I meant you,” she said with a wry smile. “I can see you visibly relaxing. Is that better?”
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that he was better because he was with her, with her in a way he so rarely was. But he managed to stop himself as they swirled around the ballroom, her parents joining them as Michael flirted on the sidelines with a pretty woman Wilfred did not recognize.
“Much better,” he conceded.
Irene’s smile was kind, and knowing, and the only one he ever wanted to see. “You were so busy trying to ensure that everyone else was having a wonderful time that you had completely forgotten someone.”
Wilfred’s frame tightened. Dear Lord, he had? But Lady Romeril was quite happy, and the Duchess of Axwick—
“You, you dolt,” Irene said conversationally, as though it were perfectly normal to insult a duke at his own ball in such a manner. “And you’re relaxing now, aren’t you?”
Yes, he wanted to say. Except for a certain part of me that has only become more stiff the longer I hold you like this.
“Yes,” he said aloud.
Irene nodded with a satisfied expression. “There. I always know what’s good for you.”
Wilfred swallowed the instinct to say, Yes, yes, you do, and it’s you. It was always you.
“Still, uh…” Irene’s eyes glanced around the sea of faces. “You do seem to have forgotten someone else, haven’t you?”
Forgotten? Him? He hadn’t forgotten a thing.
“Miss Fletcher?” specified Irene with a raised eyebrow. “How could she possibly not have received an invitation?”
“Miss-Miss Fletcher?” For a moment, Wilfred almost choked as he led Irene through a turn.
He wondered what his housekeeper would have thought if he had invited a woman of Miss Fletcher’s standing.
Still, he knew it was only right for Irene to expect her here, with how he had teased a relationship between them.
“She was otherwise occupied this evening.” At least, he assumed so.
“Hmm?” said Irene, her feet flowing naturally in the proper steps. “I find that rather odd, Wilfred. I would have thought perhaps you’d gone to all this trouble for her.”
It was for you. Only ever for you.
He should tell her. This whole nonsense had gone on long enough, Wilfred knew. Yes, he had attempted to declare his love before—twice—and he had been a coward at the very last moment and held back the truth: that the kiss had meant everything to him and he did not wish for it to be their last.
Unfortunately, even if he had wished to say such an inflammatory thing to his best friend, whom he had kissed and from whom he had received nothing but a horrified expression in return, he would have been interrupted.
By Lady Romeril.
“Ah, Your Grace,” she said stiffly as she was gently steered across by a flushing and most irritated Michael. “I see that you and the young Miss Irene are dancing together. A prelude to nuptials, I presume?”
“You presume incorrectly, madam!”
Irene’s words had rung out across the ballroom so loudly that some of the dancers had actually ceased their waltz to look over at the scarlet-faced woman.
Wilfred dropped his best friend’s hands.
“Quite incorrect, in fact, and I would ask you to keep such suppositions of inaccuracy to yourself!” hissed Irene, evidently trying to keep her voice down but not doing the best job.
“Irene,” Wilfred murmured.
Precisely what he would have said after that, he was not sure. Once again, he was saved from his own stupidity by Lady Romeril’s booming voice.
“Well, I declare, I meant no insult, Miss Irene. Though I suppose you are Miss Chance now, after your sister’s impressive marriage,” the older woman said with a faint smile.
Michael, his steps rather stilted with an older lady for a partner, looked as if he wanted to disappear into the ground.
“And you see no future for yourself in such a happy state with this gentleman?”
“I-I—preposterous,” Irene spluttered, her face now a boiling red that Wilfred rather thought he could toast bread on, as they had done when they’d been children. “Utterly ridiculous!”
“Child, do you really think no one has spotted the two of you about town? With no chaperone in sight? It’d hardly be entirely proper for a betrothed couple, though it might be more forgivable, yet you tell me again and again, that is not the case between you.”
Irene swallowed visibly. “Come on, Wilfred.”
Perhaps undermining herself by grabbing his hand and pulling him away, Wilfred could do nothing but permit himself to be so dragged. Across the ballroom. His ballroom. Filled with people.
“Well!” Irene exhaled as she closed—or more accurately, slammed—the ballroom door behind her. “What do you think of that?!”
The hallway was empty, thank goodness, and Wilfred could do nothing but stare at the beautiful woman before him who was still holding his hand. His pulse was pumping wildly and there was a frisson of heat pouring down his spine.
“‘Think of that’?” he repeated, his mind attempting to catch up.
“That—that, what Lady Romeril said!” Irene exploded, thrusting her free hand toward the ballroom door in a wild gesticulation.
“Can you believe what she said! That you and I—that we… And that we ought not to be seen in public together without a busybody watching over me. Can you think of anything more ridiculous?!”
Wilfred did not allow the pain searing through him to show on his face. At least, he did not think so. “‘More ridiculous’?”
Irene looked up at him, her attention entirely fixed on him. “Do you think that there is anything more impossible?”
The moment hung in the air, a tinkling, sparkling moment that could direct Wilfred’s path in one of two directions.
He knew he should tell the truth. Surely, this was the most important moment of his life. Surely, this was when he should spill out the honest thoughts in his mind; that it would be the greatest honor to have her by his side for the rest of their lives, not just as friends, but as lovers.
As my wife.
But as Wilfred looked down into Irene’s clear-as-crystal eyes, he could see fear there.
Fear, perhaps, that what they had would change.
Fear that the rapport and comfort they enjoyed would be destroyed once he made it irrevocably clear that he wanted more.
Fear that the friendship they had would be lost.
And he would not do that to her. Love her as he did, Wilfred would not allow those fears to become reality.
Much as it pained him, Wilfred cracked a smile and nodded. “Yes, yes, most ridiculous.”
Chance would be a fine thing, indeed.