Chapter 8 - Dahlia
CHAPTER EIGHT- DAHLIA
FOUR YEARS AGO, THE MARQUESS OF WHITTAKER’S BALL
Dahlia Warrington slipped out the glass doors into the moonlight.
The air was cleaner out here, cooler. She could see the appeal, though she had not left the Marquess of Whittaker’s ballroom because she felt stifled.
Well, perhaps that was not true, but it was not the air that made her feel confined. It was something else altogether.
London was a veritable playground, it was true.
She had gowns, servants. She barely had to lift a finger.
She knew what the married ladies said, of her and her sisters.
Dahlia, with her high cheekbones, soft lips, and big blue eyes—she was considered the ideal.
She was exactly what a young lady should look like. A classic beauty.
It certainly didn't hurt that she loved fashion as much as Candace Salisbury. Except Candace loved to dominate what was solidly “in” in fashion, whereas Dahlia preferred to walk the razor's edge of the new. She loved exploring the front crest of the coming wave, as it were.
With the combination of her fortune of a dowry, her beauty, and the impressive connections she brought to the table—she and her sisters were under the guardianship of the Marquess of Salisbury and hosted by the wealthiest woman in society—Dahlia was a catch. Perhaps, the catch.
Suitors lined up fourteen deep during calling hours.
Her hostess, the Duchess of Devonshire, had joked about coming up with some sort of system—numbers and a time limit was the current idea.
The men were wealthy, handsome, charming, from excellent families and ancient pedigrees.
They brought gifts, compliments, winning smiles, and interesting anecdotes.
And Dahlia felt…nothing.
Nothing she was supposed to feel, judging by her sisters' moon-struck expressions whenever their favorite gentlemen were near. No nerves. No fluttering anticipation. Nothing but a clinical observance of what should be, but was absent.
After weeks of this nonsense, Dahlia began to suspect that it wasn't her that was the problem. She began to wonder if her lack of interest was because the wrong sort of men were the ones courting her. After all, only the crème de la crème of society was allowed past the Duke of Devonshire’s threshold.
Dahlia thought that perhaps she should go in search of a different kind of man—the ones that the chaperones warned their wards about.
Dahlia was in search of a rake.
She just wanted to see one.
Moonlight gilded the leaves of the garden, casting a silvery glow along the gravel footpaths. Dahlia pushed further into the greenery, past the statuary of Demeter holding up a basket of fruit, past the iron benches. She glanced around with wide eyes. Where were all the rakes?
Everyone spoke about the gardens at a ball as if there were a rake hiding behind every bush, lying in wait for an innocent lady to come walking through.
Dahlia hadn't seen any of that, disappointingly. The other young ladies’ whispers made it seem that if a single lady set foot out of a ballroom without the heavy eyes of her chaperone, a rake would jump from behind the nearest tree and tackle her to the ground.
Dahlia frowned. It wasn't true. She'd been out here for nearly five minutes now, and nothing untoward had happened, much to her disappointment.
Perhaps she had wanted more than a simple look. Perhaps, in her daydreams, she'd wondered what it would feel like to be kissed.
She'd wondered what it would feel like to feel.
They must be here somewhere, she decided.
Perhaps they were further in the back, towards the greenhouse.
Dahlia aimed toward the great glass building and followed the winding gravel path.
Several times she thought she heard murmurs just out of sight, but when she paused and looked around, the sounds disappeared and she couldn't hear a thing.
A bunch of liars, she thought.
What a waste of time this was, wandering around in the shrubbery, looking for a man. But if she were being honest, she'd thought that the ballroom was so crowded that there had to have been at least one rake in attendance. Perhaps they were all inside dancing.
Then, just as she was about to turn back, she glanced to her right. Another path snaked off into the undergrowth. A lucky thing, seeing as though she was almost at the greenhouse and still hadn't seen another soul.
Dahlia took the corner and followed the path. That's when she saw him. He was sitting upon the wide marble base of a fountain, staring at his hands. It was as if he had been waiting for her.
She stepped forward tentatively, her satin and leather dancing slipper crunching against the pea gravel.
He glanced up. At this angle, she could barely see his face.
All she could see was that he was tall, broad in the shoulder, with wavy hair somewhere between blond and brown.
The moonlight lent it an ethereal glow, and she half fancied he wasn't from this world at all.
That momentary spell was broken as soon as he spoke.
"What are you doing?" he asked, almost sharply—as if he were known to her and disappointed that she'd snuck out without a chaperone.
But the moonlight made her feel bold in a way she had never been before. She lifted her chin. She’d come here looking for a rake, and it appeared she'd found one. She wasn't going to back down now. Not when her plan finally seemed to have merit.
"Looking for you, perhaps.”
The man scoffed and shook his head, staring back down at his hands. "Looking for trouble, you mean."
She shrugged. She supposed she was, in some ways. Not that it was any of his business. Weren't rakes supposed to be a bit more willing? She stepped forward, determined to try again.
He sighed. "This truly isn’t my night."
She frowned. That wasn't what any lady wanted to hear. Certainly not one who was on the cusp of her very first kiss.
"Where are your parents?" He peered behind her.
Dahlia frowned. She didn’t want to think of them here.
"Dead," she answered.
She hoped her blunt answer would turn him from the subject altogether. Instead, he chuffed a laugh without much humor in it.
"Mine too. But surely you have a chaperone."
Dahlia shrugged. She did have chaperones. But the duke and duchess were otherwise engaged. She’d made certain of that before she left. That was the entire point of this exercise, after all.
"You didn't come here looking for me, girl."
Dahlia bristled. She was no girl. She’d been presented. She was as eligible for marriage as every other single young lady in the ballroom she'd just escaped.
"Why are you really here?"
"I…" She suddenly didn't know how to put it into words.
Her plan, so sound in her own mind when she was staring up at the canopy of her bed last night, now seemed foolish.
The man sitting before her on the marble fountain was not some make-believe hero from one of her novels.
He was as real as she was, and he seemed irritated at her for interrupting him.
"I suppose it's stupid.”
"You might as well tell me."
"I came…I came in search of a rake," she blurted.
Heat flushed her cheeks. She was grateful that the light was dim. His low chuckle did something strange to her stomach.
"Why on earth would you be in search of that?"
The way he asked it made her think that it was her specifically that was the problem. That perhaps he was a rake, but he found her wanting. How strange, considering that every other gentleman of her acquaintance seemed to think that she was exactly what a young lady should be.
"I wanted…" she began, then stalled.
"I bet I know what you wanted. The problem is, girl, that while most men would be keen on fulfilling your request, they wouldn't be nearly as eager to stop when you asked them to."
Dahlia frowned. She thought perhaps she knew what he was speaking of, but she certainly didn't have the courage to ask for clarification. Besides, that was a subject only broached with her sisters, and much giggling always ensued.
Dahlia scuffed her satin slipper into the gravel. Suddenly, this entire thing felt foolish indeed. What had she been expecting? That some stranger she didn't know was going to…what? Take her in his arms? Kiss her?
She’d just decided to turn back for the ballroom when he said, "Very well."
"Pardon?"
"You might as well get what you came for. Though I warn you, if you're trying to trap someone into marriage, I’m the last one you’d want."
Dahlia frowned and shook her head. No, it wasn't marriage she wanted. She wasn't ready for that in the least.
She stepped forward hesitantly. Was this some sort of trick? Was he going to make a mockery of her?
"Come on, then. I haven't got all night. I have a ship to catch."
She raised her eyebrows. This was better than she'd hoped—not only had she found a rake, but one who was about to leave the city altogether. It was perfect.
She stood in front of him.
"Closer," he said.
Dahlia's breath hitched. She stepped forward and stood directly before him. A little gasp escaped when he reached out slowly, as if to give her time to react, and placed his hands on the back of her knees. He was still sitting.
She looked down at him. At this proximity, she could see him more clearly. Oh, but he was handsome. Handsome and sad-looking. A sharp jaw. A divot of some emotion between his eyebrows that she wanted to reach up and smooth away with her thumb.
The heat from his hands seeped through the silk of her dress and proved just how cold the night air had made her. For surely that was why she shivered.
"Are you sure?" he said.
Dahlia nodded mutely, hoping he would think her resolute, when in fact her heart pounded within her chest. She felt nearly paralyzed with anticipation or fear—she couldn't tell which.