Chapter 21 - William #2
It was new, that his stomach clenched within him as if with nerves. He usually fell into sleep like a boulder tossed in a pond—under the surface within moments of his head hitting the pillow. So why had he struggled to fall asleep every night this past week?
He certainly hoped it wasn't a natural effect of aging, as some of his older friends had joked. At least he wasn't yet rolling from bed to use the privy every hour. Yet.
He'd never experienced the ennui that some successful men did—as if the chase of success was what drove them, not the achieving.
He'd always been the opposite. He had an exceedingly clear vision of what he wanted his future to hold, and he worked until he held it in his hands.
The achievement was what drove him, not the eternal chase of it.
Perhaps that's what this feeling was—he needed another goal, a larger goal.
For the moment, however, the stairs had fallen silent, his glass was empty, and he was fairly certain he'd just heard the rap of the knocker on the front door. His guests were arriving, and he'd be a poor host indeed if he wasn't there to greet them.
William cut through the side door of the parlor a moment before Dahlia and Rachel entered. He smiled even as Claire levied a censorious look in his direction. Thankfully, her attention was quickly diverted.
"What on earth are you wearing?" Margaret's eyes widened as she stared at the glittering mask that covered half of Rachel’s face.
"A masquerade mask. And I brought one for each of you.” She rummaged in her satchel.
William was glad there was such a furor over the masks, as the sight of Dahlia momentarily struck him dumb. He wasn't sure what expression he wore; he just was exceedingly grateful Abeer wasn't in the room to see it.
There was no doubting it—Miss Dahlia Warrington was a very beautiful woman. William suddenly felt great sympathy for all the gentlemen who'd proposed to her and been politely declined.
In fact, seeing her tonight, in her off-the-shoulder dinner gown that modestly hid but salaciously hinted at all her best physical assets, William thought it rather a wonder that she’d turned down only a dozen men, and not every unmarried gentleman in the ton.
"Good evening, Dahlia." He sidled over next to her, avoiding the chattering grouping of his curious sisters clustered around Rachel.
"Good evening."
Perhaps it was a mistake to have walked over.
He'd rather thought that it might be better not to have a full view of her person, but now he smelled the subtle notes of her—lavender and just a hint of lemon.
She smelled much like his favorite kind of tea.
This close, he could see the individual strands of her lashes.
Dahlia was like a painting by Jan van Eyck, he decided—the closer one got, the more one realized there was to see.
A dangerous thought indeed. He would not be lured in and unintentionally trapped by her guiles, as so many other men had before. He'd be on guard, remember his purpose here. Business and friendship, nothing more.
"I find it interesting that as her elder sister, you'd allow her to go out in costume.
" Dahlia blinked up at him, as if waiting for him to explain himself, so he continued, "I only mean that most siblings might be worried—on her behalf—at the censure of society.
Despite her reticence to engage in the Season, do you not have secret hopes that she might find a happy match and marry? "
"Of course I want that for her, as do my elder sisters. Were she here, our eldest sister might try to change Rachel's behavior, but that's because she lacks imagination."
Despite William's determination to focus more on the grouping before them than on the lady at his side, his attention was now wholly captured by her person and words. "How so?"
"Adelaide only imagines happiness that matches her own. But a happy match for Adelaide looks very different than a happy match for Rachel. And hers looks very different than a happy match for me. Any man who'd seek Rachel's hand mustn't care a whit for what society thinks."
"You aren't concerned how her actions will reflect on you?"
Dahlia laughed—a bright tinkling that cut across the other conversations in the room.
"My happy match would be one who didn't seek to change my sisters, one who would be strong enough to bear the weight of societal scrutiny and wave it away like it was no more than an offending fly.
After all, is Rachel less deserving of happiness because hers would be less conventional than society deems appropriate? "
She was waiting for an answer, so he gave her honesty. "Certainly not."
"Just so. And while we're on the subject, I might point out that conforming to society's definition of happiness has made many people miserable, indeed."
"Too true. Society would see me give up trade, the endeavor that provides for my sisters and furnished this house."
"Society would have seen the new Duchess Canterbury married to that wastrel, Shelbourne."
"He is married now, is he not?" He scanned his sisters; one hand clenched into a fist at his side.
"Fear not. He married some American heiress. They moved half a world away, and rumor has it that his father and brother-by-law have set high fences around him."
"High fences are what a hound like him needs."
Dahlia exhaled—the closest to a snort as he’d ever heard from her. "Indeed, but back to my point—surely you agree that Margaret's happy match will look much different than Claire's."
"My only point was that you're very indulgent to allow her to follow whatever whim enters her mind."
"Is it indulgent to allow her to be who she is? How is she to find happiness if she pretends to be something other than her true self? Besides, she’s not hurting anyone with her amusements."
He chuckled, delighted by her intensity on the topic. "I agree with you; my only point was that most in society would take a different tactic."
"That's what such advice would be—a tactic.
Far be it from me to encourage my sister to dupe someone into marriage, to the detriment of them both.
So many in society act as if it is the married state itself that is the goal, and not happiness within the marriage.
Marriage isn't the finish line of some race—it is the starting point of a lifelong endeavor, a commitment.
Why on earth would you try to find a spouse under pretense?
It boggles the mind. Society can go hang for all I care.
At least when it comes to that subject."
"What a refreshing statement from one such as yourself."
Her eyebrow rose. "One such as myself?"
"You are the pinnacle of all society wants a young lady to be—beautiful, wealthy, invited to every ball.
Not a door in London is closed to you if you wish to walk through it.
I believe there would be many surprised to hear you say that society may go hang, when there are so many in society clamoring for your approval. "
"They don't want my approval—not really. They want whatever social clout they think I have to offer."
"Would I have it, then?"
"Have what?"
"Your true approval."
He was curious—what did Dahlia actually think of him? Were they friends, as he suspected, or at the end of this arrangement—an end that was rapidly approaching—would she fade into the background of his life, never to be seen again?
Dahlia tilted her pointed chin as if seriously considering his question.
It was another thing he appreciated about her.
He could ask a hundred other ladies of similar social standing the same question, and their reaction would be categorized strictly by whether they wished to marry him.
Those who didn't would dress him down for his impertinence; those who did would giggle and offer a coy reply.
"In some ways, yes. My opinion of you has only improved since our first meeting."
A hint of a blush dusted her features; he was gratified to see it. He wasn't the only one who was affected by the memory of their kiss in that garden.
"I behaved scandalously our first meeting, so it's no wonder there was room for improvement."
"We’ve already established that you were not the only one at fault."
"On the contrary, I never blamed you for it at all. I could plainly see that you were innocent; I should have marched you back to the ballroom and seen you safely under the care of your chaperone."
"We've both apologized. I feel the matter is quite settled. So there's no need to mention it again, as we’ve previously decided."
He grinned. "I believe you were the one to bring it up."
"I doubt that. Regardless, let's move to a happier topic. Are you looking forward to the Season, William?"
"I’m looking forward to seeing what it brings my sisters, though I admit it holds little interest to me personally."
"Is that so? Most men enjoy the possibilities the Season has to offer, if nothing else."
"On the contrary, I believe I'm quite fixed regarding the course of my future. I’m not open to any other possibilities."
He was resolute—upon the continued success of his business, upon the happiness of his sisters, upon doing his duty toward his family.
He was so lost in his thoughts on the subject, on the various items on his to-do list that he would tackle first thing in the morning, that it took him several moments to realize Dahlia was studying him closely.
"No fresh young lady will tempt you to change your mind?" she asked lightly.
"Indeed not. I know what I want; I'm quite set upon it."
Her lips curled upward. "What a refreshing sentiment."
A glance at the clock told him that their cook would be waiting. "Shall we go through?"
He offered her his elbow—by strict decorum, Claire should have had it, perhaps—she was the eldest. But Claire was across the room, standing just back from the gaggle of other ladies. Dahlia gave a small private smile that William couldn't quite read and took his elbow.