Chapter 6 #3
This, as a cotillion was called, and the first two couples took their place at the center. Fanny had practically taunted D’Evercy into asking her to dance, when clearly he didn’t want to, and she didn’t either. Annabel rushed into the void to save them both.
“I do very well, thank you, Mr. D’Evercy. That is, just as things are, I am perfectly content and lack for nothing at all.”
D’Evercy looked at her, vaguely amused. Annabel knew she’d fumbled, but surely her clumsy response was enough to deter him.
Warnaby broke the uncomfortable moment. “What about you, Fanny? May I tempt you with a dance?”
“I cannot abandon Miss Blake.” She turned to D’Evercy. “Unless, that is, Henry will deign to offer her some refreshment at least. Perhaps a glass of syllabub?”
“Syllabub.” D’Evercy frowned. “That unfortunate marriage of cream and sweet liquor?”
“No more unfortunate than most marriages,” said Fanny.
“With the added bitterness of lemon peel!” Annabel chimed in.
When the three of them looked at her, somewhat surprised, Annabel blushed.
“I confess, my knowledge is only from books, but I have always wondered what it would actually taste like.”
D’Evercy huffed. “Then you do force me, Miss Blake, to save you from yourself.” He offered his arm, with no smile whatsoever. “If I might have this dance.”
It was an unexpected turn, judging by the shocked looks from his cousin and friend. No one was more surprised than she.
If Annabel hesitated too long, they didn’t seem to notice, because something took over, all the years of novels and daydreams; cotillion class well past her mother’s protestations over the way she kept outgrowing her dresses, even after the boys had stopped coming; the countless videos watched and practice steps in front of the mirror, even a few times with Cassie herself.
For fun, she’d once memorized the names of dances by year, with a particular fondness for the Baron Crackenburg, Deborah in a Wig, Fitz Ugly, and Bored Goose with Snuff Sauce.
She had at least six country dances in her repertoire, four cotillions, a smattering of minuets.
She knew the steps well enough to fake whatever came her way. It was a matter of pride.
“Why, it would be my pleasure, Mr. D’Evercy,” she lied.
As if watching herself in slow motion—all eyes in the room pivoting in their direction—she straightened her already near-perfect posture and put her hand delicately atop his as D’Evercy escorted her to the center of the floor to complete the circle of dancers.
Through eight bars of intro and honors, the allemande left and right, her turn under his arm and his under hers, she was keenly aware of the gentle sweep of her collarbone, the curve of her waist, the camber of her twirl.
He was a wonderful dancer, but Annabel was flawless.
Once, in the ladies’ chain, she found Fanny looking at her with surprised admiration.
For the push-me-pull-you, Annabel was careful not to look D’Evercy directly in the eye, but she felt him studying her.
At last came the promenade home, and the dance was done.
After the requisite bow and curtsy, D’Evercy escorted her off the floor, looking somewhat relieved the ordeal was over.
Annabel caught his furtive glance at Fanny and Warnaby, as if looking for a way out, but they were detained in conversation with another couple.
So there the two of them stood, all the grace of their dance evaporated, an awkward clearing of their throats.
Annabel took umbrage. He might be playing the reclusive, inscrutable, even tetchy Regency gentleman, but this was downright rude and the very rejection she’d wanted to avoid.
“Do not feel obligated, Mr. D’Evercy.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“To stand here with me, when clearly you don’t want to.”
“Oh, do you know my wants, having met me only moments ago?”
“Well, you make it somewhat obvious.”
“Do I?”
“Fanny practically forced you to ask me to dance.”
The more Annabel said, the more his jaw tensed.
“No one, including Fanny, ‘forces’ me to do anything, Miss Blake. Only propriety, and my conscience, which ought to go without saying.”
“I’m just saying you’ve discharged your ‘duty.’ I am freeing you from any further obligation. You may walk away.”
His left eye twitched; he spoke in a forced whisper. “A gentleman does not walk away and leave a lady standing alone.”
“I came alone. I can stand alone.”
D’Evercy drew back. “You came alone to a ball? Unchaperoned?”
“Oh, is that against your ‘rules’?”
“They are not my rules, Miss Blake. It’s for the safety of the woman.”
Annabel rolled her eyes dramatically. She’d seen Cassie do it all their lives, but it wasn’t really in her repertoire, and certainly not an acceptable “Regency” gesture. Still, he’d touched a sensitive place. She gestured toward the ball goers.
“I see people laughing, garrulous, convivial. Honestly, I feel quite safe here.”
D’Evercy looked too. It was impossible not to see what she saw. “I take your point, Miss Blake, but . . . Have you no family here with you, no friends?”
Annabel couldn’t help feeling defensive, remembering Stella’s remark about her not having a life, then Stephen’s pity to punctuate it. This guy—whoever he was—seemed intent on using his place in the Regency Society to add insult to injury.
“Well, I do have family. And I’m sure I have friends. Just not here. I’m more or less on my own. Which is fine with me; in fact, it’s how I like it!”
It was his turn to take offense. “I like it that way too. To a fault.”
Annabel now glanced at Fanny and Warnaby, who’d been commandeered by Lady Gidding-Wedmore, with no escape imminent for either of them.
“Well, I’m sorry you got stuck with me,” she said, with just enough sarcasm to irritate him further.
D’Evercy started to redden. He stuttered and hemmed and hawed. She almost enjoyed watching him struggle to stay in character. Talk about “committed to the bit.”
“Under the circumstances,” he said, “I am simply doing what a gentleman must.”
“Really? Must you?” said Annabel.
His jaw pulled tight. “I think it best we make some puny attempt at conversation, that is, until Fanny returns. Which she will, eventually.” He tugged at his neckerchief. “You may go first.”
“Fine,” she said, her pride preventing her from walking away. She racked her brain for a plausible topic, picked one, and set her chin, feigning interest.
“Mr. D’Evercy, am I given to understand you’ve just returned from your Grand Tour?”
“Yes,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“France?”
“And Italy.”
“How long were you away?”
“One year.”
The clipped answers were challenging, but she was determined not to let him throw her off. If he was committed to his part, she would be, too, however excruciating.
“Was it long enough, one year?”
“Not by half,” said D’Evercy.
He glanced over her shoulder again, looking like a trapped animal. It only made her more determined not to let him ruin her evening. Annabel doubled down.
“I trust you found your journey . . . enlightening?”
D’Evercy surprised her. For the first time, he looked at her squarely. Some turn of feeling crossed his face. Annabel couldn’t read it, but it looked real.
“My mother is not well. It was her idea that I should do the tour, though I hesitated to be away for so long. I do have certain responsibilities.”
Annabel believed him, strangely, and the emotion behind it. Maybe a society member took true things from their own life and spun them into their character’s backstory.
“Of course. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m grateful to her now.”
“I’m sure she’s grateful too. To have you home again.”
“I don’t know about that. It seems she hoped it would make of me a more proper English gentleman, but I fear her plot has failed and was doomed from the beginning.”
“Whyever so?” said Annabel, her anger starting to melt.
“For my part, I had no intention of becoming more English, nor more a gentleman, but only a modern one. I suppose the tour afforded me a view of how large and marvelous the world is, and how small my part is in it.” A genuine melancholy swept across his features, his gray eyes tending toward blue.
“Honestly, I do not know how it is anyone could imagine that while lingering in Venice one should long for England.”
Annabel was dumbstruck by the deep current of his sentiment, this sudden change of tone and affect.
It was a dizzying feeling. He was conversing with her, willingly, it seemed, convincingly, and had asked her to dance, after all.
No one could have anticipated her being there, unless Bunty had spread the word, having faith she’d agree to come when James knocked on the door.
But here was D’Evercy—the obvious Darcy of the ball—for whatever reason choosing to bare his soul to her.
She mustered her own brave attempt to respond like to like.
“Oh, then we are ill met, I fear, for I am one who longs only for England.”
He half smiled. “Ill met and ill paired. For I would rather be anywhere else.”
Even a half smile dimpled his cheek, smoothed the cleft of his chin, crinkled his eyes at the corners.
Annabel’s eyes darted across his features like she was reading a map of his interior life—it was all there on his face.
Maybe she’d gotten him wrong from the start.
His eyes were soulful, his lips full and inviting.
She’d wanted to be kissed before, and quite recently at that, but she’d never wanted to be the kisser, the one who took the chance, who risked it all.
Talk about rules. If she did, she’d never be welcome in any Regency Society, anywhere, ever again. Instead, she looked away.
Always leave the party while you’re still having a good time.
Her mother’s voice sounded in her head. It was really for Cassie more than Annabel, who never much went to parties, and wasn’t asked.
But suddenly, it seemed like good advice.
She would make a graceful exit, and maybe tomorrow or the next day, if they ran into each other in town, not in character, but as who they really were, they’d remember this feeling—he seemed to feel it too—and at least say hello.
Because Annabel wanted it to be real, more than she’d ever wanted anything, except being a writer. She blinked and recalibrated.
“Well, I really have enjoyed meeting you, that is . . . your character—I like very much.”
He looked at her as if she’d broken some unspoken rule. “My character?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. D’Evercy. Should I not have said that?”
“On the contrary, I admire your directness. And confess being curious as to what part of my character you like.”
Okay, Annabel thought. It’s an opening. She could let her guard down a little, be her true self.
“You know, the good-looking, worldly gentleman, known by all, well-known by few, integrity impeccable, shyness mistaken for arrogance, cautious with his affections . . .”
She paused to see how it was landing, but his face was unreadable. She wasn’t sure whether to go on.
“You seem to know a good deal about me,” he said.
“I only mean that if I were English, and a man, it’s the role I’d most want to play.”
“How terribly modern of you.”
“In this world, maybe. But in my world, I’m considered quite old-fashioned.”
“I should like to visit such a world.”
They gazed into each other’s eyes. The room around them fell away—the twirling couples, the swirl of color and candlelight, the chatter, the violins. But it couldn’t last. Mrs. Lackington sashayed up, insinuating herself between them.
“Mr. D’Evercy!” She had a screeching, slightly superior tone, just suited to the woman Fanny had described. “We are so delighted to have you back among us.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Lackington.” He bowed his head.
The woman looked daggers at Annabel. “And do tell, who is your sweet friend?”
D’Evercy straightened up. “Mrs. Lackington, this is Miss Blake, of America.”
Mrs. Lackington curtsied only as much as she could be bothered. “America! Why, just the other day, I was telling my daughter that I had yet to meet an American I did not find . . . common. No offense intended, of course, Miss Blake. I’m sure you will prove the exception.”
“Pleasure,” said Annabel, returning the slight dip of a curtsy, more amused than insulted. The woman was playing it to the hilt, as Fanny said she would.
Mrs. Lackington turned her back to Annabel. “Mr. D’Evercy, I do hope you’ve saved yourself for tomorrow’s ball to honor the officers of the regiment. It promises to be exquisite, though we all know you must be terribly exhausted from your journey.”
D’Evercy looked past her to Annabel, with something that resembled a smile, though more with the eyes than the mouth.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Lackington,” he said. “I may have found the very thing to restore me.”