Chapter Eight
Jillian was gone from her life again. And now, so was Lord John, though they had parted in deep friendship, with the promise that he would do everything in his power to bring back the light in her cousin’s eyes.
And yet, Petra did not feel quite as alone as she had before.
The odd friendship, for lack of a better word, she had developed with Lord Wolfridge had kindled a previously unknown warmth in her.
Though he still harbored designs that she could not yet entirely divine, Lord Wolfridge, nay, Wolf, saw her.
He attempted to protect her at the Bromley Ball.
Even Lord John, in all his goodness and chivalry, had never done such a thing for her.
Petra stood in front of the beveled mirror in her bedchamber as Cecile put the finishing touches on her flower crown.
Petra was so pleased that flower crowns had grown in popularity of late as Cecile also secured several fresh flowers to Petra’s cream gown, that was otherwise plain but for its lace.
The flowers brought a much-needed natural aura to gowns that were growing frillier and puffier by the Season.
Petra generally disliked the frippery of ballgowns, aiming for simpler styles with elegant draping. But flowers were a lovely accessory.
In that moment, she was overcome by a bout of itchy anticipation at the thought of seeing Wolf that evening.
Now that Lord John was gone, what was the point of their faux courtship?
Should they dance together for appearances, then part for good?
In the throes of allowing herself to indulge in a fondness for Wolf, Petra had no answers how their odd friendship might shift or change.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Cecile breathed in her faint accent.
“Thank you, Cecile, it is all by your hand.” Truly it was remarkable that Cecile had no experience as a lady’s maid before their meeting. Despite the fact that Petra knew Cecile had been forced to fight, she had a gentleness and an eye for artistry that even the highest society dame would envy.
That evening Cecile had worked her magic on Petra for the annual Stillwell Ball.
Petra recalled attending the previous years, watching and waiting for Lord John to appear.
She saw now how na?ve and immature she had been in her approach.
Lord John had never formally asked for her hand.
And she had never told him what she wanted or expected.
How was he to know he was hurting her feelings every time he failed to appear in town when she had never communicated such a desire to him?
Since Jillian’s return and the development of her sham courtship with Wolf, Petra felt the need more than ever to finally state what she wanted.
She had told her father unequivocally that she would not be persuaded to marry Lord John under any circumstances the night of the Bromley Ball.
He is meant for Jillian, she thought as she walked down the grand staircase at Kemberley House.
Her father gave a perfunctory nod then turned away.
Petra held in a sigh. While she had made him hear her that night, she doubted that he really listened.
As they rode together in silence, Petra considered the likely reason she found herself so ill-equipped to articulate her own desires.
When she had been a girl, any request was met by empty promises from her father.
And now that she knew what he was, she was not foolish enough to tell him her desires and not expect him to turn those truths against her in some future game of chess.
Once they arrived and made it through the receiving line, Petra fielded several requests for her dance card, much to her surprise after the events of the Bromley Ball.
For once, her father did not absent himself to the cardroom, electing instead to remain within the ballroom.
Petra eyed him as she took Lord Voxwell’s arm, the young lord leading her to the opening of the quadrille.
Aside from the man she was currently dancing with, Petra recognized that the myriad gentlemen so eager to secure a position upon her dance card were motivated far less by her company than by a calculating desire to curry favor with her father.
Whilst the House of Commons was ascending in its influence, the House of Lords remained a formidable bastion, retaining the authority to block new legislation from both reformers and industrialists.
And in the navigation of that recalcitrant machinery of Parliament, none possessed a more practiced hand than Randolph Newkirk, the Earl of Kemberley.
After a quick turn of the dance away from Voxwell, she spied two of the young men nodding with obsequious fervor at something her father said.
Her sire looked away, aware of the power he held over the two men but seeking larger prey.
The words waiting and watching swam to the forefront of Petra’s mind, yet she had no earthly idea what he was waiting and watching for.
After another turn, Petra found her gaze returning to the entrance, just as she had before, only this time…
She started as the truth struck her in the chest: she was waiting for the arrival of one darkly handsome lord with an intense green gaze.
As her dance with Voxwell ended, Petra again became achingly aware of someone’s eyes on her.
She glanced to the corner of the room and realized that for once that evening, it was not her father’s cold stare.
As her gaze moved toward the entrance, she landed on the man with the bottle-green eyes, who was staring at her with a singular intensity.
Well, initially he stared daggers at the baron, but then his eyes returned to her and Petra had to remind herself to breathe.
Since the Bromley Ball, a glance from him caused every part of her being to freeze in place, as if her body was an engine that stopped and started, reconfiguring and remaking itself in the process.
The gentleman advanced with a predatory grace as he wordlessly extended his hand.
Upon meeting that unwavering gaze once more, Petra intuited his silent demand for her dance card and offered the object to him.
Without a word, he subjected the card to a brief perusal before scrawling his name upon its surface.
Upon return of her card, Petra gazed down the list of dances and located “Lord Wolfridge” next to the waltz.
The most intimate of dances.
When she looked back up at him, those bottle green eyes were watching her carefully.
The realization that she would shortly dance a waltz with this strange man sent a shiver down her spine.
Try though she might to hide that shiver, his eyes darted first to her pulse, then to the slight shaking of her hand.
Striving to steady herself, she gave the man a stiff nod with as much dignity as she could muster.
“Until the waltz, Lord Wolfridge.”
“Until the waltz, Lady Petra.”
And with that he was gone. As she pondered their interaction, Petra danced a reel, then declined to dance the following.
She was grateful that she was not some fresh debutante new to Polite Society, in which case she might need permission from a chaperone or her father to engage in what was regarded as such a scandalously close dance as the waltz.
Thinking back only a week or so earlier, Petra recalled what she had thought was heartbreak as John and Jillian waltzed so closely together.
Their dance had revealed a deep and abiding love, even if Jillian could not see such a thing. What would this dance reveal for Petra?
She bit her lip as the truth began to swim through her veins, like a dark red wine staining a pure white tablecloth.
She was coming to care for Lord Wolfridge.
Though he remained a man shrouded in mystery, his attempts to safeguard her reputation kindled an unexpected warmth within her chest. The sheer intensity of his gaze, moreover, exerted a most unsettling influence upon her equilibrium, rendering her quite breathless.
Will this waltz be the end of our fake courtship or the beginning of something new? Petra pondered as she wended her way through the crush to join Lord Wolfridge, the first melodic strains of the waltz already weaving through the ballroom air.
Tall and lean, the man blocked out the others around her, much as an eclipse might blot out the meridian sun.
She had shamefully noticed the way his muscular arms filled out his day coat when he had taken her driving in his phaeton, but at the time, her mind had willed that appreciation away out of loyalty to Lord John.
Suddenly, she found herself enveloped within those very arms, and Petra discovered that her mind possessed no such fortitude to dismiss the sensation this time.
While they had shared the fleeting movements of the quadrille at the Bromley Ball, the tempo had been far too spirited to permit any manner of sustained touch Now, every point of contact burned, and Petra imagined their skin glowing orange and red at each point, like an ember of a fire.
“Petra,” Wolf rasped, the intensity in his voice forcing her gaze upward. He almost never called her by her name alone, and the intimacy of it caused a tightness in her chest that she found she could not will away.
Wolf very purposefully held her gaze. “Will you meet me after this dance?”
Petra almost stumbled on the spot as the implications of what he was asking almost caused her to lock her step.
“Meet you?” she whispered, forcing her voice not to squeak. She searched his eyes to discern if he understood the implications of what he asked but his gaze remained steady and focused.