Chapter Seventeen
Lily
I feel ridiculous. As I walk across the green toward Town Hall and the center of town, I question all my life choices. I’ve anticipated this night for months, but I’m beginning to have my doubts that it will turn out to be what I’ve envisioned in my head. When I ordered my dress for the first annual Regency Ball in Birch Borough, I was elated. I fought with the powers that be for months in the hope that I could persuade them to let us create more culture around here. I want to buy dresses I can wear at a ball and see men in great coats. Long before Sparrow and Rafe announced their wedding, this was the event of the season.
If I couldn’t magically transport myself back to bygone days of men throwing their gloves down to challenge one another to a duel and women having fainting spells, then Lord knows I was going to find a way to recreate it. Halloween is a bust when it comes to dressing up as if we still ride in carriages, because no one takes it seriously. It remains to be seen how seriously they take it tonight .
Unlike Halloween and every other day, except for my occasional lapses in judgment, tonight, I’m not wearing black. Instead, I’m wearing a vintage dress the color of lilacs in bloom. The shimmering fabric almost looks blue when it hits the right lighting, reminding me of a flower raising its head to greet a clear spring day. To complete the effect, a pair of creamy satin gloves whisper just past my elbows. I’ve gone all out tonight, and I expect my fellow townspeople to have done the same.
It’s not that this town is unfamiliar with dressing up, with our historical reenactments and all sorts of events that require a form of costume, anything from celebrating The Great Gatsby to our Christmas parade. It’s just that the one thing I did not calculate was how devastating a certain someone is going to look if he appears at this event tonight. I know he is bound to since he seems to test me in every way with his presence.
I’m determined not to let one infuriatingly handsome man ruin my fun. The Regency Ball is set to be the event of the season. It’s finally my moment to step into the movies and television series I love so much and get my mind off Graham. Anything to get my mind off Graham Winnings.
At least my dress is making a good effort. However, I already think I might smell a bit like someone wore this outfit on stage one too many times without a good dry cleaning. The online reviews for the costume store where I found my ensemble warned that they were old. There were no refunds allowed since my dress made an appearance in a show with someone somehow related to an actress who once played Elizabeth Bennet in London, so I guess I can’t complain too much. It was a lot harder to find authentic clothing than I imagined. Still, I’m hoping that walking outside in the fresh air (while I attempt not to think of Graham and his fresh-air smell) won’t hurt. I’m still reeling from the satisfied look on Graham’s face when he ate nearly a half dozen cookies I gave him at Bake Fest before he wandered home. These past few weeks have been full of wedding planning and final details, mixed with my excitement for this event, so I haven’t had time to properly process what happened that day.
I pause for a moment on the lawn. While the vintage shoes that go with the dress are surprisingly comfortable, they are thin. With the spring rain we’ve had recently, I’m worried about getting mud on them. I’ll be the talk of the town if I show up to the ball I organized with muddy dancing shoes. I laugh at myself for thinking I would fit in perfectly on my favorite show, The Man is a Rake . The show is alarming, it’s borderline outlandish, and the men who feature as guests should be studied for their ability to raise a woman’s temperature, evoking a sudden need to fan themselves. I can relate.
Silently, I applaud some of our locals for wearing garb that would qualify them to be extras in a historical drama as they make their way down the street toward Town Hall. I’m still lingering, amused at the sight, when I feel a bit of wetness soaking through my shoe. Is there anything worse than having your feet wet unintentionally?
“Are you kidding me right now?” I mutter, the stay—or version of a corset for this era—suddenly feeling much too tight. Oh, why did I ever think I’d be happier living in a Regency novel?
If I’d just kept walking, I would have had my answer to that burning question. When I look up and see Graham moving across the square near the gazebo, I know exactly why my daydreams have been filled since girlhood with visions of men striding across a misty lawn while the dew clings to blades of grass. My mouth goes dry as I track his movement. I feel my jaw drop, but I’m too impressed at the sight of him to care. He’s wearing a cravat, people—those incredibly attractive precursors of neckties—and a dark blue coat that has tails. It. Has. Tails . High leather boots fit his calves like a glove. Speaking of gloves, I see a pair tucked into one of his coat pockets. Rather than being perfectly styled, his hair is shifting in the balmy evening air, and I swear I can already smell the scent of his beard oil and the wildflowers in his hand.
The closer he gets, the more I want to cry. The man really should come with a warning label for my heart. Forget Darcy crossing a field—this is Graham only crossing the street in my hometown, and I can’t understand how this is real life.
He looks like a dream. I try my hardest to breathe normally while also feeling very grateful that I chose to make the ball a Regency theme, meaning I don’t have a fake piece of whalebone digging into my ribs right now. It’s hard enough to stay upright. I can still feel his hands in my hair as he braided it weeks ago. The memory sends a wave of heat to my cheeks, climbing up my neck like ivy on a wall.
When he gets within a few feet of me, I notice the infuriatingly attractive grin on his face. He knows how affected I am by him. Honestly, how could I not be? Suddenly, I understand why women carried smelling salts back in the day. If a man who looked like Graham came across my path almost two hundred years ago, I would’ve had trouble functioning too.
Here’s the truth of it: One of the most unrealistic things in all those made-for-television movies (or any movie, really) is not when the main actress has a tool for a boyfriend. It’s when she’s close to the more attractive guy who is clearly into her, and she doesn’t marry him immediately. How is that travesty even a choice? I’m one to talk. I’m already living that nightmare.
A gust of wind sends Graham’s smell closer to me (because of course it does). He does, in fact, smell like clean laundry and the sweet scent of open pastures as he always does. It’s madness.
He holds the flowers in his hand toward me, and I feel my eyes widen.
“For you, my lady.” He takes a slight bow, the top of his hair shifting once again with the movement. My stomach flips. It’s more than butterfly wings—it’s the feeling of something buried in the ground coming back to life.
“They’re wildflowers,” I say. I could smack my forehead for how intelligent that line was. When I’m finally placed in a Regency setting, the first thing I do is state the obvious. Perfect.
He hums in amusement. Hums. “They are indeed.”
“Stop that immediately,” I gasp.
“Stop what, exactly?”
“Speaking like Darcy!”
Graham remains undeterred. His eyes sparkle. “Hm, I see we’re going to act a bit uncivil today, are we? Even after we’ve already had our interlude during the rain. Don’t worry. My feelings won’t be puffed or my wishes unchanged, although I did think you wouldn’t be as taciturn on a day you are meant to be incandescent.”
I lift myself in my satin flats so I stand a little taller. “I think you’re just adding a bunch of words together to make it sound like you’re auditioning for an Austen TV movie. And I am not uncivil, and . . . thank you?” I drag my eyes away so I can stop staring at his handsome face, focusing instead on the people walking down the street. I have to distract myself from the way my fingers are begging to touch Graham.
As I observe the costumes many townspeople are wearing, I’m thrilled to see so much enthusiasm, but the sight of them makes me want to stop them and ask what they were reading or thinking of when the notice of tonight’s Regency Ball landed on our town website. I’m pretty sure Andrew, our town pharmacist, is dressed as a pirate. But with Graham beside me, I suddenly don’t care if tonight doesn’t ring as historically accurate as I hoped.
Standing a short distance away, Graham clears his throat, the flowers still extended.
“Why did you even get these for me? And don’t you still need to find a plus-one for the wedding?” I cringe immediately at the sharpness of my tone. I don’t mean it, but I don’t know what to do with the surge of emotions this man stirs in me.
“There’s time,” he replies. There really isn’t with Rafe and Sparrow’s wedding almost upon us. My heart leaps, but I push the feeling away. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, then I gladly won’t. “And I may have spoken too soon,” Graham continues.
His words make my heart race and hope at the same time. “You didn’t get lilies,” I state the obvious again.
“You’re allergic.”
I can’t help but grin. “Yes, but people still buy them because of my name. They don’t usually remember—”
“I remember.” That’s all he says before turning toward the event hall and holding out his arm for me to wrap my hand through.
“George, I . . .” I can’t seem to finish the sentence, but I slide my hand into the crook of his arm. It’s warm and strong beneath my palm.
“For Sparrow and Rafe,” he says. Graham’s gaze is distant, his eyes squinting. “Can’t have it look like the wedding party is at odds now, can we?”
Rather than reply, I pretend to be riveted by a little boy who is struggling to keep his socks pulled up across the way. My thoughts dance to a dangerous rhythm. He’s right, of course. And what I know Graham senses, that few others realize, is that I don’t bristle because I’m angry or trying to be a grump. I just don’t know how to fit into what society terms as normal. And it’s exhausting trying to be what everyone wants me to be.
Hence, why I tend to give too much of my time and free pastries to locals who may have read Austen in grade school and agree that a Regency-themed party is a chance to test out a British accent.
Graham and I step forward together. As we cross the street and count down the shops along the way, Town Hall looms closer and closer. Its open double doors allow warm, golden light to spill onto the green. In a deviation from the authenticity of the night, Cricket (not her real name . . . I think) snaps photos of all the guests as they enter. No doubt the mayor will use them for the next fundraising campaign as evidence of how cultured we all are. I stumble over my vintage shoes, thinking of having to see Graham next to me in photos other than the ones I’ve been preparing myself to endure after the wedding.
“You guys look great!” Cricket yells, waving her hand in our direction.
My face flushes with the compliment. It’s strange when people who know me see me with Graham, especially when his memories feel like a hidden treasure chest in the ocean of my heart. I wonder what they think of us together. While I used to think it would be a disaster for anyone to think I’m tied down—given the comments and speculations that would ensue when Lily Anne Thomas settles down—their glances tonight only make me pull back my shoulders with pride. Even if I’m only on his arm for tonight, I’m proud to be seen with Graham. If anything, the strange feelings I’m experiencing have very little to do with anyone’s reaction . . . except my own.
We pause in front of Town Hall, waiting for a group of ball attendees to pose for a photo before proceeding inside. The exuberant notes of the string quartet drift out to us, carried on the soft spring night air.
“I dare you to take a photo with me,” Graham murmurs, his voice husky in my ear. I whip my head to face him. He arches his eyebrows in a silent challenge.
Despite my determination to maintain my cool around this man, I can’t help but let a grin break out across my face. If he thinks he can out-dare me in my own game, he’s got another thing coming. “Oh, you’ve got yourself a challenge, good sir. The question is, tonight, are you a gentleman or a rake?” I reply in a low tone.
He laughs, the sound a warm rumble that echoes all the way to my toes. I nod resolutely and try not to collapse with happiness when his warm hand passes gently across my lower back. Graham’s other hand wraps around my own in a take on a modern-day prom pose. I imagine it looks more like those vintage-style, sketched photos where we appear far more important than we are, but I’ll take it.
“Smiling or not smiling?” I grind out between my teeth as we move forward to take our places in front of the photo backdrop of a majestic English manor and gardens that could easily grace the cover of Pride and Prejudice . As Cricket readies the camera, my face moves from grimacing to resting Regency face—whatever that is (confused . . . confused is what it is).
“Smiling,” Graham replies without hesitation. “When I’m this close to you, how could it be otherwise?”
Internally, I blackout. The camera clicks in my ear, and I hear people milling about in the background, but my body is frozen until Graham gently nudges me forward. A low chuckle escapes him again, the sound sending the wild impulse to rip off my gloves and toss them in the nearest trash can coursing through me. This man’s forearms (and his laugh) could cause a woman’s gloves to spontaneously disintegrate. I’m not sure if I can force myself to go the whole night without touching him for real. Lifting my chin higher, I take a deep breath, trying to ignore the tingling sensation that still lingers where his hand just rested on my lower back.
The next couple moves into place behind us. As we pass Cricket, I lean over and whisper in her ear, “Send me a rough cut of that, will you?”
She winks. I applaud myself for snapping out of it enough to secure evidence of the moment that just unfolded between us. No one will ever know what sweet words Graham whispered in my ear except for me.
When we reach the wide steps leading up to the entrance, I take in the fabric banner signs hanging above the door. Hand-painted calligraphy welcomes us to a festive spring dance and Regency Ball celebration. We hear the party first. The music from the string quartet carries beyond the ballroom. When Graham and I enter the hall, my spirits are already in the mood to dance. We step through the large, wooden doors, and my breath catches. It’s too much to take in. What was once a boring judicial room has been completely transformed, and goodness if I don’t tear up at how perfectly it all came together. It’s like a scene right out of my dreams.
Everyone has embraced the spirit of it. Ladies and gents from a bygone era mill about the room, drinking punch and laughing while they converse together. Gosh, if I don’t love this town even more for showing up today and giving it their all because I care about it. Everyone knew the Regency Ball was my passion project when I proposed it last year. But as soon as Sparrow’s wedding was announced, and I stepped away to give her my full attention, the Music and Arts Committee promised they’d take care of all the details. And take care of them, they did.
Candles and some magic of dim and romantic lighting cast a golden glow throughout the room. Cream linen-covered tables piled high with scrumptious desserts are tucked into the corners. Wooden chairs and benches line the perimeter of the dance floor for the people who don’t feel like dancing but want to be part of the festivities. Front and center on the stage of the hall, which also serves as a theater sometimes, is a band. Liam is playing the cello as a group of his friends, all in costume, play classical-era minuets and concertos that make my heart very happy.
I catch sight of Gladys lingering near the punch table. She seems to have gladly taken on the look of what I imagine must be Mrs. Bennet. I let out a delighted laugh that carries across the room. When she spots me, her eyes widen. She gives us a nod of approval before whirling in a spinning dance move that causes her dress to float about her legs, a few drops of punch spilling onto the wooden floor.
“Is she going to be okay over there?” Graham remarks, catching sight of her with a hint of amusement in his voice.
“Oh, yes. She’ll be right as torrential rain.”
“I don’t think that’s the saying . . .” Graham trails off.
“Trust me. It is now.”
When Gladys winks and moves her eyebrows while simultaneously looking Graham up and down, I flash her what I hope is an affectionate grin mixed with a bit of horror.
“There you are!”
I hear Sparrow before I see her. Turning to greet her, the smile that overtakes my face is genuine. Despite her dark hair, she’s the picture of what I imagine Jane Bennet to be—namely, the most gorgeous person in the room with the amiable and handsome Rafe right behind her. When he’s comfortable and carefree—as he is around Sparrow—he makes the most perfect Bingley. I don’t know how I missed such a resemblance before.
“You two look positively brilliant!” I exclaim in a British accent I’ve been quietly perfecting my whole life.
“First rate,” Graham interjects next to me in a posh accent.
“What’s that you say?” I raise my eyebrows in mock confusion. “Quite the Cockney accent this one.” He could audition to play British royalty tomorrow. But the furrow in his brow is satisfying.
“Is this where we start to say words like ‘dashing’ and ‘incandescent’?” Rafe asks with a smile. He doesn’t need to playact a character as his charming, native French accent slips through more and more each day.
“Oh, I already tried that,” Graham replies with a laugh.
Lightly, I pat his arm. He hasn’t let me go yet. “He’s finally ready to audition for a Hallmark movie.”
Graham’s exasperated sigh is delightful.
“You can use words like that if you’d like. Or you could just speak French. It was just as romantic back then,” Sparrow murmurs to Rafe, a serene smile on her lips that almost makes me want to stick my head in the punch bowl just to get a break from the continuous love fest for a minute.
“Oh, and those flowers, Lils,” Sparrow begins. I clench the stems of the bouquet a little tighter. “You love wildflowers.”
Graham’s arm stiffens briefly as I blush. Instead of pulling away as I expect him to, his free hand comes to rest on my own. It feels like home.
“Will you two be dancing?” Rafe asks.
My reply gets stuck in my throat. For all appearances, it looks as though Graham and I are planning to give each other the first dance of the night .
Searching for a distraction, my gaze wanders. I feel an unspoken pressure and tension hovering in the air as I decide what to do. At this point, dancing with Graham feels as if it will stitch something between us that will never be undone.
“Lily, I feel like this should qualify as one of your challenges,” Rafe continues after a pause. I’d yell about the fact that he knows about my little bet with Graham, but of course he would. “I mean, unless you’re scared,” Rafe teases.
Lifting my chin in the air as high as it will go, I level Rafe with a glare. Graham chuckles but has the decency to hide it behind a very fake cough. Sparrow does the best-friend thing so well. Immediately, she changes course by stating how much she loves the costumes, and isn’t the music great, and something about Rafe asking Liam to play the cello at their wedding.
Saved by her distraction, I glance around the room and lock eyes with Edgar. Though I’m still taking my weekly boxing lesson, I’ve been avoiding the hours I know for sure he’s in the gym. Things ended between us long ago, and we’re still friends, but things have felt different lately. I must admit, though, that Edgar looks great in his suit and tailored coat. There is a cravat around his neck, but something about it doesn’t hold the same thrill as it does when I see it tucked against Graham’s costume.
Edgar looks between Graham and me. He takes a step toward us when I swear he’s pushed three feet off course as Gladys crashes into him. It’s an intentional collision. I nearly gasp as I see her loop him smoothly onto the dance floor. His eyes catch mine again as she pulls him away. With a slight limp, he twirls her around. She’s shameless, and I love her for it .
The crowd gathers and begins to clap. I tune everything out when I hear the opening notes of one of my favorite pieces of music begin to play. I know this dance. I’ve memorized it. And while I know the committee sent dance instructions and Georgian-era music examples in the town’s spring newsletter in preparation for tonight’s ball, I can say with certainty that I’ll be the only person nerdy enough to have practiced this dance on my own since 2005.
I so badly want to dance it and can think of only one partner who could possibly keep up. The very man who—if I’m calculating correctly since he revealed it when we met—has read the book sixteen (now, eighteen) times and has watched the movie just as much. But asking him feels like an impossible task.
As if he senses my distress, Graham stands a bit taller and relaxes his shoulders. Sparrow and Rafe are already on the dance floor, moving in what is more like a slow dance than a true, lively Regency dance (which is not surprising with those two).
“George, I’d like to challenge you to perform a proper English country dance. If you dare . . .” Tilting my head, I flash my gaze upward, hoping he can’t read how badly I’m longing to jump into the crowd of moving couples on the floor.
“And how do you expect me to stick to your ‘no touching’ rule while we dance, Lily?” he questions me gravely, his downward glance reminding me of the absence of my gloves, which are well on their way to being gone and buried forever by now.
I flush. “I’ll allow it for dancing purposes only. After all, the townspeople of Birch Borough have come here to experience a night of culture, beauty, and charm. They clearly need us.” I wave my hand and nod as if I’m a royal gracing the ball with my presence and not as if this moment means everything to me.
I realize how much I want to see Graham dance, but though I know he’s seen the movies and read the books, I can’t imagine he will know the period dances as I do. I feel a buzz of excitement while he visibly considers my proposal. This moment might be the chance I’ve been looking for to leave him in the dust of our mutual battle for Birch Borough. So far, Graham has met and exceeded my expectations as I’ve challenged him to tasks that I thought his reserved and dignified nature would hesitate to do. If I have any hope of winning and convincing him to move, it’s clear I need to up the ante, even though crushing him in the competition sounds less and less satisfying.
He turns to me. “Challenge accepted. And Lily”—he hesitates for a fraction of a second—“it would truly be a pleasure.”
The rasp of his voice as he says my name shoots a thrill down my spine. I suck in a breath. As much as I may regret it later, I don’t want to miss this moment. The books and films I love finally feel within reach. With Graham beside me, tonight will live in my memory as more of a fairy tale of old than a reminder that, though he is standing within my reach, our future isn’t what it could have been. And I already miss him.