Chapter 7 #2
Heavens above, Mr. Hawke had tried to help me. All that prattle about my dress being familiar and going home to change—he was warning me about Sybella. Then I’d repaid this favor by cutting him off and insulting him.
But how had he even known what I was wearing? He had stopped me before I’d even stepped out of the carriage.
I plopped down on the settee, my head swimming. “I need a moment to think.”
“Sybella has already declared she is looking for you, after she saw me in the ballroom,” Mrs. Sweete said.
I barely withheld the string of curses on my tongue.
“Shall I send for another dress from your wardrobe, Miss Weston?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have anything else faintly resembling a flower. It’d be just as humiliating to appear as the only person who didn’t understand the theme.”
I closed my eyes and willed myself to think.
I’d been in situations like this before.
Last season, Lily Wittleby forgot to invite me to her musicale, so I sent a dozen bouquets of lilies to the performer, ensuring my absence was more remarked upon than Lily’s event itself.
Surely I could figure out how to make a new dress with only the supplies I had on hand.
I bolted upright. “Flowers!” I said, sounding very much like Archimedes shouting Eureka! in the streets.
Mrs. Sweete eyed me. “Flowers?”
“On the curtains! There’s an unused one lying in the hall. Go ask Mrs. Lowther if I can have it. She owes me a favor after last year’s whist incident.”
Mrs. Sweete grinned. “I’ll get my sewing kit.”
Twenty feverish minutes later, my skirt was a masterpiece of hyacinths, violets, and hellebores. Mrs. Sweete had even stitched a ring of sweet alyssum around my collar, concealing the embroidery and giving the dress an ethereal look.
Mrs. Sweete wiped her brow. “That’s the last one.”
I posed in front of the mirror, awestruck. The dress looked like it had always meant to be a living display of flowers, and I felt like a fairy from the tales of old.
“Truly a miraculous feat, Mrs. Sweete.”
“Shall we?”
I nodded, and we made our way to the ballroom’s grand entrance.
As soon as I stepped into view, the gentle hum of conversation underscoring the quartet faltered.
There were no grand gasps or theatrics, of course.
This was Mayfair, not Drury Lane. But a noticeable ripple spread through the crowd, and more than one gaze lingered on me. Including Sybella’s.
Sure enough, she was wearing my camellia dress. Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head as she took in my floral drapery, and despite the delicate pink of her dress, everything about her looked a sour shade of green—especially when the ladies surrounding her scurried over to me.
“Miss Weston, your dress is absolutely radiant.”
“You’re a goddess, Helena!”
“I’ve seen nothing so lovely.”
I gave a modest smile, satisfied that I’d recovered ground from Sybella. “It’s just something I threw together last minute.”
I searched the room for Mr. Hawke but was quickly encircled by the Swarm.
“May I have a dance with the most beautiful woman in the room?”
“Not before she dances with me!”
“Would you like a drink, Miss Weston?”
I held my hands up. The Swarm silenced their buzzing.
“Thank you for your offers, gentlemen, but I have just arrived and still need to gather my bearings.” I curtsied in farewell and turned away, only to find none other than Mr. Marceaux, blindingly handsome as always.
He wore an iris in his lapel that matched his purple waistcoat.
Mr. Marceaux bowed and rose with a wicked grin. “Ma chère, leave it to you to not settle for just one flower, but all of them.”
I returned his smile with one of my own. “Perhaps I’m indecisive.”
“You’re making it rather hard to court you, you know.”
I hid my surprise with a tilt of my head. “How so?”
“How is a gentleman supposed to send you flowers when you yourself are the bouquet?”
I laughed. “Mr. Marceaux, you must be exhausted, offering such praise to every lady at this soirée.”
“You wound me!” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “I only praise the ladies who manage to hold my attention, Miss Weston. Which, at present, is solely in your keeping.”
I drew back a touch, not wanting to be caught so easily. Mr. Marceaux enjoyed playing the game, and I would use that to my advantage.
“That may be true for now,” I said. “But you are a bee by nature, Mr. Marceaux.”
His mouth twisted into a sly smile. “Because I sting?”
“Because a breeze will surely carry your attention to the next bloom.”
He chuckled, then took my hand. “Miss Weston, would you honor me with a dan–”
“Hel!”
I winced as Sybella stomped up to us. Her gaze tore up and down my dress, and it was clear she was suppressing a snarl. Mr. Marceaux dropped my hand and nodded to the invader.
“Real flowers,” Sybella ground out. “How… rustic. I hope no one sneezes on you tonight, Hel.” Her eyes flitted toward Mr. Marceaux as she laughed at her own jab.
“It’s Helena,” I said. “And your dress is so uniquely beautiful, Sybella. Truly one of a kind.”
Her eyes narrowed, but Mr. Marceaux seemed oblivious to it. “I agree. Miss Pratt, your dress is très magnifique!”
“Sybella has always had an eye for excellent taste,” I said.
Sybella’s smile looked forced. “Say, Hel, isn’t your family’s annual ball supposed to happen next week? We’re all waiting for the invitation. Is something wrong?”
“There won’t be a ball this year,” I shrugged. “We grew tired of people copying our ideas.”
Sybella sneered as Mrs. Sweete stepped up beside me. “I’m afraid I need to borrow Miss Weston for a moment,” my chaperone said.
“Of course.” I curtsied to Mr. Marceaux. “And yes, you may have a dance.”
He grinned and signed my card. Then, likely having noticed Sybella’s hostility toward me and wishing to help, he offered his arm to Sybella and said, “Shall we join the others out on the patio and take in the cooling air of the evening?”
Sybella’s glare lingered on me for a moment, then she accepted his arm with a hmph. The two of them disappeared through the doors outside.
As soon as they were gone, I spun to Mrs. Sweete. “I had everything under control.”
“You looked like you were about to murder that girl.”
“You say that like it’d be a bad thing.”
Mrs. Sweete gave me that horribly patient look of hers. “Attacking Sybella in public will only harm your own reputation, Miss Weston. You do not yet have proof to back up your accusation.”
I sighed. She was right. As always.
“We need to find out how she stole my design,” I said. “And by we, I mean you. Ask around and get to the bottom of this.”
“What else is a chaperone for?” Mrs. Sweete said, resigned.
I grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “Be extremely subtle, even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious, even t—”
“To the point of soundlessness. I remember.”
I released her hand and watched her make her way over to the huddle of other chaperones to begin her investigation. I steadied myself with a breath, then searched the room for Lord Cranford, hoping to add his name on my dance card too.
It was then I saw Mr. Hawke standing across the room, meeting my gaze.
He gave a slow, deliberate nod, his expression both approving of my makeshift dress and…
something else. A bruising of his pride, perhaps?
No, that wasn’t it. I paused, placing the expression with a sinking heart.
It was hurt. I had hurt Mr. Hawke with my words in the carriage, and he was still wounded.
He broke his gaze and quietly slipped out of the ballroom.
I rolled the small diamond between my fingers, worried I had scratched Mr. Hawke’s opinion of me beyond repair. I had painted him the villain of the night, but, as painful as it was to admit, I’d been wrong about him. He had been trying to help me. And I’d practically spat in his face.
As the quartet started a lively cotillion, a soft voice in my heart whispered a painful truth:
I had to apologize to Mr. Hawke.