Chapter Twelve
I shall not mingle conjectures with certainties.
—Isaac Newton
The large ballroom of Ela’s house in Grosvenor Square was packed to the brim, and still more people were entering at the top of the stairs.
She and Keston had gone all out for this masquerade ball, with the lavish décor of golden columns and wreaths of flowers and ribbons stretching across the tops of the walls in between them.
No expense had been spared. The floors had been polished, the chandeliers sparkled with hundreds of lights, and an orchestra played at one end while dancers in beautiful gowns spun with their intricate masks and costumes.
After three full seasons, I should have been used to the extravagances of the ton, but I was strangely nervous, mostly due to the presence of the gentleman at my side.
I hadn’t been able to take a full breath since Tarik had arrived.
He wasn’t staying with us, of course. That would have been impossible to explain to my parents, not to mention the gossip it would have caused…
and not the good kind. People in the ton loved to speculate.
So, while Ansel wasn’t in town, Tarik would avail himself of my cousin’s pied-à-terre at The Albany in Piccadilly, which was exclusively for bachelors.
Like other gentlemen his age, Ansel kept the set of apartments for prestige and privacy, as well as proximity to the gentlemen’s clubs of St. James’s and Pall Mall.
He was a young man who needed his own space, after all.
Though the place was rented annually and his to command, it was currently vacant, and I was certain my cousin would not mind.
Once more surreptitiously using my father’s stationery and his seal, I was able to write a letter to the management at The Albany to let them know about Ansel’s guest—Mr. Tarik St. Clair, by way of Paris—who would be staying for a fortnight, possibly more, in his apartments.
I was turning into a regular forger, but I promised myself that this would be the last time.
I’d been to The Albany once. Women weren’t allowed and could visit only by strict invitation.
But as far as I could remember, the accommodations were luxurious and included a bedroom, dressing and drawing rooms, and a study.
Tarik would also have shared access to a butler, cook, and valet, and all his new clothes from the Marchands had been delivered there.
“Is it always such a crush like this, Lady Rosalin?” Tarik asked, his voice deep and sonorous in my ear.
I turned to him, breathless at how debonair he looked in a set of raven-black formal wear with a dark silver waistcoat, snowy-white shirt, and cravat.
Beneath his tailored evening coat, fitted black breeches hugged his long legs, and his new dress shoes shone.
A black domino covered the upper half of his face, leaving that square jaw and those lips on display.
With his eyes currently shaded by the mask, I realized I had never noticed how finely shaped and plush his lips were, and now I wished I could go back in time so I wouldn’t fixate on yet another perfect feature of his. Or how they might feel against mine…
Stop it.
“Usually for some of the more popular people in the ton,” I replied in a hoarse voice. “Everyone always hopes to get an invitation, but this is certainly the most crowded it has ever been. Last year, the prince regent attended, and the newssheets went wild. Though I suppose Prinny’s the king now.”
He sucked in a gasp upon hearing the prince regent’s well-known nickname. “Will he be here tonight?”
“One never knows when it comes to him, though it’s a quieter season with the death of his father.
I doubt he will leave the palace.” I let out a small laugh at Tarik’s wondrous expression.
“I’m sorry that Ansel couldn’t be here to greet you, though he said he might show up at some point during the evening. ”
Tarik’s lips pursed. “And I’m sorry that the introductions have fallen to you yet again, my lady. I do not wish to be a burden or to keep you from enjoying the evening as you undoubtedly would be without me like a millstone at your side.”
“I don’t mind,” I said. “Usually, I’m quite bored at these things.”
He shot me a skeptical look. “Truly? I assumed gentlemen would be lined up out the door to write their names on your dance card and you would be whisked away until your toes were aching from so much dancing.”
Another genuine laugh left me. “Believe it or not, Mr. St. Clair, but I have scared away nearly all of the eligible gentlemen here. Most of them do not like girls who are outspoken, you see. And well, usually while I am dancing, I do tend to enjoy a spot of conversation instead of remaining meekly silent. I’m not a mute puppet to be moved around and look pretty. ”
He canted his head, bright eyes sweeping me from behind his mask. “You do look very pretty this evening, Lady Rosalin, though from the little I’ve come to know of you, I could never call you a puppet.”
“Excellent, you’ve passed the first test,” I said, smiling at him.
He reared back. “First test?”
“Shall we see how you fare in a waltz next?” I said with a nod, hearing the soft measures of music. “Or will you end up in the wasteland of London gentlemen who cannot seem to perform two tasks at once? Are you up for the challenge, sir? I am a harsh taskmaster, I’ve been told.”
Tarik bowed and extended a gloved hand, his mouth quirking with amusement. “Challenge accepted. I would be delighted to demonstrate my skills.”
In all honesty, as he led me to the ballroom floor, I wasn’t anywhere near ready to perform a waltz—the most intimate of all dances—with Tarik St. Clair, but the minute he grasped my hand and waist, time seemed to stop.
Everyone else in the ballroom disappeared, and it was only us moving to the ethereal strains of music and the three-count measure that I swore my heartbeat was imitating.
“Where did you learn to waltz?” I asked him.
He smirked, making my pulse trip—that look should be illegal. “Is that question your next test?”
“Are you going to answer it?” I countered.
He spun me effortlessly in the first turn, making my breath catch, the press of his fingers on the indent of my hip providing only the gentlest guidance.
“Paris. My mother loved to dance, and I was her second-favorite partner, whenever my father was working, which was often. She taught me all the steps, all the court dances, all the country dances, even ones from other countries.”
“Oh? Which ones?”
“Dances from India, where my grandparents were from, and from the Americas and the West Indies. She loved music from everywhere—the sounds of the tabla, lute, tambourine, bamboo flutes, and maracas.”
His words had a hypnotic quality. “That sounds incredible,” I murmured. “Did you learn to play any of the instruments?”
“Some.”
He guided me across the floor for a few beats of music. Neither of us spoke, but our silence had a language all its own—the movement between our bodies, our breaths, and the rustle of our clothing. I felt more at home in these moments of quiet in Tarik’s embrace than I ever had in anyone else’s.
What if we had met here during the season, instead of at university?
What if he were a gentleman of good station, and not just in nobility of character?
One could argue that the latter was more important, but in the ton, status and rank mattered.
Titles and wealth mattered. It was infuriating, and yet not something I could easily or effectively change…
not as a duke’s daughter who was expected to make an excellent, society-worthy match.
A part of me would wholeheartedly choose him, with nothing, over a peer with everything.
Idly, I thought back to the tests I’d formulated to determine my perfect match what felt like an eternity ago, and felt a wry smile touch my lips.
Scholarly aptitude and ability to engage in intellectual discourse—multiple questions in mathematics, physics, and philosophy
Progressive stance on women’s status and rights in the aristocracy
Emotional breadth and depth—must be compassionate and kind
Political views in favor of changing antiquated laws
Physical compatibility
Deep down, I already knew that Tarik would meet every marker I’d set.
The evidence of some of them had somehow come to me at various points over our interactions while I had been at Trinity.
Even without a title, he was smarter and more educated than most of the gentlemen our age.
But that was the bitter rub—he wasn’t a nobleman—so the whole test would be moot.
Still…it didn’t hurt to imagine.
“Mr. St. Clair,” I said, catching his gaze. “Answer this question for me, if you please. If a man is forty years of age and his son is ten, in how many years will he be three times as old as his son?”
He let out a chuckle. “Five years.”
“How did you arrive at that number?” I asked, astonished and yet unsurprised at how quickly he’d calculated the correct answer from a recent problem I’d solved in a weekly periodical.
His hand tightened as he drew me a few inches closer, making me inhale sharply as his breath coasted over my ear.
“If x represents the number of years in the future, then the man is forty plus x and the son is ten plus x. Ten plus x equals three times ten plus x. Expand the equation to find the value of x, so forty plus x equals thirty plus three x. Forty minus thirty equals three minus x, and we get ten equals two x, therefore x is five.”
Be still my quivering heart…
“Capital,” I whispered as he widened the gap between us once more. “Next question. Can we trust our senses to provide knowledge of the world?”