Chapter One #2
Mr. Pilkey stands awkwardly. He’s nearing thirty, at least. There’s a cowlick at the back of his hair and his shirt is unevenly
buttoned beneath his waistcoat.
She’s sure he’s lovely, but he’s so far below what her mother would ever consider—never mind that Rosalie feels not an ounce
of attraction to him at all—it would be cruel to even entertain the introduction.
“Mr. Pilkey, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Rosalie says, dipping in a light curtsy to both of them. “And Mrs. Thornson,
so kind of you to make the introduction. I’ve promised my dances for the evening, but Mr. Pilkey, I’m sure my father would
be pleased to meet you, if perhaps Mr. Thornson might like to introduce you?”
Mrs. Thornson’s smile turns hard, but Mr. Pilkey looks frankly relieved.
“That would be most pleasing, Lady Rosalie, I thank you,” he says, his voice halting.
Mrs. Thornson nods and ushers him away, sending Rosalie a cutting look.
She has a new cousin to introduce to Rosalie at every single ball.
If she hasn’t gotten the hint by now, she never will.
At some point Rosalie is sure Father will revoke her allotted two brush-offs; it can’t be pleasant for his card games to be interrupted with inane introductions either.
But for tonight, she’s grateful for his largesse.
It only takes dodging five further introductions until Rosalie . . . not scurries, for ladies never scurry . . . but hurries over to Amalie and Henrietta, slipping into their alcove with true relief.
But it’s hardly a warm greeting. They’re both staring across the room, and Henrietta’s biting at her nails through her gloves.
Rosalie reaches out and swats her hand down. Only then does Henrietta look over, her round face wilting, blue eyes wide.
“Oh, thank God,” she says, gripping at Rosalie’s hand with her slightly damp one. “It’s absolutely dreadful.”
Amalie nods, her auburn curls bouncing rapidly around her high cheekbones. “I’ve been telling her it’s not, but it is, Rose.”
“What, exactly, is the cause for such histrionics?” Rosalie asks.
She follows Amalie’s pointed finger and looks across the dance floor. There, surrounded by a cluster of gentlemen, stand two
dark-haired women she’s certain she’s never seen before. And the gentlemen are acting like they’ve never seen anything like
them in their lives. It’s a veritable swarm. The group includes Henrietta’s latest suitor, the broad-cheeked Mr. Rile, and
his two friends, Mr. Plory and Mr. Cason. She’s been planning to keep Plory and Cason on reserve for Amalie and Henrietta.
“Mrs. and Miss Pine, new to town,” Amalie mutters.
The mother is certainly striking, but it’s the daughter who catches Rosalie’s attention, her breath stalling in her chest. Dressed in a white muslin gown embellished with gold trim and blue ribbon, Miss Pine almost glows.
Her tall, lithe frame suits the current popular silhouette in a way almost no one manages, making her look like she’s floating in her dress.
Her light brown hair is shiny and studded with little gemstones.
The capped sleeves show off her delicate arms, and the shelf on her bodice . . .
What man wouldn’t be enraptured? Rosalie’s having trouble tearing her eyes away. And then Miss Pine glances over, catching
Rosalie’s gaze. Miss Pine’s deep brown eyes sparkle even at this distance, curious, and inquisitive, and far too keen. Rosalie
actually has to look away.
Well. This won’t do at all.
“She’s so beautiful,” Henrietta says mournfully. “How can I compete with that?”
“You’re equally beautiful,” Amalie insists.
Petite, with charming curves and a round, open face, Henrietta is perfectly handsome and lovely in her own right. But Henrietta
doesn’t have the captivating effect Miss Pine does simply by standing there.
“Isn’t she?” Amalie prompts, nudging Rosalie.
“And smart, and funny, and winsome,” Rosalie says, smiling brightly at Henrietta. “We’ll take care of this, don’t you worry.”
She squeezes Henrietta’s hand and exchanges a look with Amalie before leaving the protective cover of their alcove.
Oh, excellent, there’s Mr. Ebert. He’ll do nicely. Rosalie’s personally responsible for his marriage. He owes her this favor,
and at least five more. Not to mention his wife, Laura, is stuck up north heavy with child.
Better yet, he’s talking with the haberdashery owner, Mr. Higgs, who can hardly rebuff her interruption, not when she and
Mother practically keep his shop in business.
“Pardon me, Mr. Higgs, may I steal Mr. Ebert away? My friends and I are desperate for news of his dear wife,” she says, slipping in beside Mr. Ebert.
Mr. Higgs nearly jumps out of his skin. He’s easily six inches taller than Rosalie, and Mr. Ebert an inch taller than that.
She can be very surprising at five feet, sneaking up on people. It helps keep them off-kilter.
“Oh, of course, of course, Lady Rosalie. Please do give your parents my regards,” Mr. Higgs says quickly.
“I will,” Rosalie says sweetly, looping her arm through Mr. Ebert’s to pull him away. She steers him back toward Amalie and
Henrietta. “I need you to go grab Mr. Rile and bring him to me,” she says.
“Hello to you too, Lady Rosalie. You look very well,” Mr. Ebert says.
“And you look like you’re having an awful lot of fun while Laura suffers bringing your heir into the world,” Rosalie says,
looking up to meet his light brown eyes.
He shakes his head, but can’t help the grin that crosses his stupidly square jaw. She picked a handsome one for Laura. Their
children should be beautiful.
“What would you like me to say to Mr. Rile to remove him from . . . whatever situation he needs to be removed from?”
“You’ve business in town. Make something up,” Rosalie says, turning them so he can see Miss Pine’s little gathering. “Now
go.”
“Yes, captain,” Mr. Ebert mutters, releasing Rosalie’s arm to march around the perimeter and retrieve Mr. Rile.
Rosalie heads back to Henrietta and Amalie. “He’ll be with us presently.”
“What did you have to tell Mr. Ebert?” Amalie asks.
“Only that Laura’s nearly bursting with child and he’s here drinking and carrying on.”
Amalie snorts. “You didn’t want to go with him still owing you nearly five pounds off that game of whist?”
“I much prefer my bets paid in favors,” Rosalie says with a shrug. Money she has. Social capital—now that’s much more important.
“If he ever coughs it up, I’d take the money,” Amalie says archly.
“I’ll keep it in mind. But Laura will have your hide. I gave up that debt as a wedding present.”
Amalie laughs loudly. A few gentlemen turn around to look at them and Henrietta nudges them both. Amalie shrugs, still giggling,
while Rosalie lets Henrietta force her back on task.
It only takes Mr. Ebert a minute to extricate Mr. Rile. Mrs. Pine looks bemused, but Miss Pine is busy talking to Mr. Finch,
the account manager at the high street bank. Father mentioned Mr. Finch had cousins coming to town. The Pines must be his
relations.
Mr. Finch is too old to truly tempt any of the girls, but maybe she ought to convince him into a dance with Amalie or Henrietta—make
it clear that she’s calling the shots here.
Mr. Ebert and Mr. Rile approach their group, and Henrietta glances at Rosalie, gratitude bright in her large blue eyes. Rosalie
squeezes her hand and then gently pushes her toward Mr. Rile.
“You promised Miss Raught your first dance, did you not, Mr. Rile? How fortuitous Mr. Ebert has brought you by.”
Mr. Rile’s brown eyes go wide and he snaps to attention, ignoring whatever Mr. Ebert was just saying. He quickly steps forward,
offering Henrietta his sturdy arm.
“Of course. You look lovely tonight, Miss Raught,” he says.
Henrietta blushes and lets him lead her out onto the dance floor for the next set. Rosalie watches them go, pleased. They look good together. Tall and burly, Mr. Rile towers over Henrietta, but he always touches her delicately, which only accents her bright, cheerful smile.
Amalie sighs quietly beside her, swishing her green dress and watching Henrietta out on the floor.
Rosalie withholds a laugh. “Mr. Ebert, we can’t waste your dancing prowess. You ought to invite Miss Linet to dance, in Mrs. Ebert’s
honor.”
Mr. Ebert quirks a brow, but gallantly offers Amalie his arm. Amalie grins at Rosalie, and Rosalie all but pushes her into
him. They stride onto the floor, a graceful couple of friends, and Rosalie looks around for a drink.
She notes the drinks station has been moved to the far side of the room tonight and girds herself, preparing to take the entire
four-dance set to make her way there and back. Perhaps she can even find her suitor along the way. Mr. Dean is certainly taking
“fashionably late” to an extreme.
She smiles and nods as she’s approached and introduced, and makes her polite excuses. She notices her mother standing amongst
a cluster of her society friends across the floor, all of them glancing down the room to where Mrs. Pine and Miss Pine are
still holding court. They’re fresh meat, she supposes—a natural source of interest.
But in a few weeks’ time they’ll be old news, and some newer, possibly younger, woman will take Miss Pine’s place as the curiosity
of the week. Rosalie, Amalie, and Henrietta will just soldier through until then.
Though Rosalie does note Mr. Sholle and Mr. Jenkins glancing down toward Miss Pine as well. She’d earmarked them as backups for Amalie and Henrietta too, should Mr. Rile and Mr. Fortes, Amalie’s current suitor, prove disappointing.
Rosalie may not be at all eager to see her relationship—such as it is—with Mr. Dean progress any further just yet, but Henrietta
is getting antsy for a match. And Amalie deserves someone who will make her happy, someone who will protect and support her
like she’s protected and supported Henrietta all this time.
“She’s a pretty young thing,” Rosalie hears as she finally reaches the drinks station. She takes a waiting glass of champagne
and turns, noting a group of older women loitering at the edge of the dance floor.
“The mother’s a jewel as well,” another woman says.
Rosalie follows their gazes across the length of the room to where Miss Pine is now chatting with Mr. Jenkins.
“I feel as if I’ve seen her before,” one of the women says. “The daughter looks so familiar.”
“Likely the spitting image of Mrs. Pine when she was young. But I can’t remember her maiden name.”
“We should make our way over,” the oldest woman says.
The group scoffs and Rosalie hides a laugh. Getting four matrons around the dance floor could take the rest of the evening.
Rosalie battles her way back toward Amalie and Henrietta’s alcove. She glances at the Pines as she gratefully slips back into
her spot, most of her drink already gone. Mrs. Pine is laughing at something Mr. Finch has said. Mr. Jenkins is still speaking
with Miss Pine, but she’s clearly not listening. Instead, Miss Pine is watching the dancers, like she’s studying the steps.
And then her eyes flick upward and find Rosalie’s.
They stare at each other for a moment. Miss Pine glances at the dancers, and Rosalie can see her spot Henrietta and Mr. Rile.
She looks back at Rosalie, those large brown eyes narrowed, and then she turns to Mr. Jenkins, like nothing at all has happened.
This one might really be more than just a pretty face. Rosalie’s going to have to keep a close eye on her. Make sure she doesn’t
cause her friends any problems.
And if she should keep shooting Rosalie those frustrated, heated looks, well, that will just be a side benefit, won’t it?