Chapter 8
“One may know how to conquer without being able to do it.”
How does one even go about apologizing? I wondered as I paced the hallway.
Mr. Hawke had retreated into a parlor, and I wasn’t so brazen as to enter uninvited.
After all, he might be in there alone, and I wouldn’t compromise my reputation for something as paltry as an apology.
Besides, I still had no idea what I’d say to him.
I picked at a hyacinth on my gown, trying to recall the last time I gave an apology. It wasn’t exactly in my nature to admit defeat. In fact, if I remembered correctly, the last time I offered one…
Good heavens, it had been ten years since I muttered the words I’m sorry.
Unwanted images invaded my mind—green hedge mazes, white cotton, and blood-red stains.
I tried to take a deep breath, but I couldn’t draw enough air. I placed a hand over my heaving chest, my heartbeat quickening. The muffled sounds of the soirée became distant, drowned out by the memory that had been clawing its way to the surface for ten years.
The sickly sweet odor of roses consumed me, and my thoughts were no longer at the ball, but in the Pratts’ rose garden.
I was ten years old. It was Sybella’s eleventh birthday, and we’d gathered outside for celebratory tea.
Mother had dressed me in white to match her own outfit, and I was at the drink table, selecting my tea, while Sybella was mid-tantrum.
“I’m the birthday girl,” she screeched at a maid. “You have to do what I say, or I’ll tell Father to dismiss you!”
“I’m so sorry, miss,” the maid said gently, “but there is no blueberry punch. We do have strawberry—”
“I don’t want strawberry! I. Want. Blueberry!”
Sybella shoved the drink table with both hands. One moment, the punch bowl was midair, the strawberries floating inches above the liquid. The next, the glass bowl had shattered on the stone patio. Both the maid and I froze, dripping head to toe in bright-red punch.
I looked down at my white dress and gasped, stunned at how the punch looked startlingly like blood.
Sybella’s mother slithered over with a scowl. “What on earth is going on here?”
“She did it!” Sybella pointed to the maid. “She wasn’t paying attention.”
Mrs. Pratt’s reptilian eyes widened on the maid. “What were you thinking? This is a respectable house, not some rowdy pub, and I expect my staff to behave as such.” The maid lowered her gaze and muttered an apology, but Mrs. Pratt interrupted her. “You are dismissed!”
“W-what?” The maid stumbled backward. “But—”
“But nothing. Clumsiness will not be tolerated. You leave this afternoon.”
Sybella ducked behind her mother’s back and gave me a villainous grin. My hands balled into fists. Sybella had often played tricks on me, but this was the first time she had used her antics on someone else.
I stepped forward. “Sybella lied. She pushed the table, not the maid.”
The maid placed a hand on my shoulder. “It’s fine, miss, really.”
“It is not fine.” Mrs. Pratt leveled her glare at me. “My daughter would never lie.” She turned to the maid. “Get out. Now.”
The maid hesitated, her eyes shining with a deep sadness that I could never forget. She gave me a nod, then hurried away just as my parents appeared.
“What is this?” Father demanded, taking in the messy scene.
“Is anyone hurt?” Mother asked.
“Your daughter tried to sully Sybella’s good name,” Mrs. Pratt said, “and I won’t stand for it, especially on her birthday.”
Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes, but I lifted my chin. “Sybella pushed the table and blamed the maid. I swear it!”
My mother placed an arm around my shoulder. “Mrs. Pratt, with all due respect, I think you should hear my daughter out.”
Mrs. Pratt held up her hand, silencing my mother. “Must I bring my husband into this?”
Father grabbed Mother’s arm and whispered something in her ear. Mother stiffened and stepped backward, releasing my shoulder.
“Apologize at once, Helena,” Father said.
“But—”
“Now, Helena.”
I looked to Mother, but all she managed was a small shake of her head. Hot tears blurred my vision, and I forced the words “I’m sorry” out of my strained throat.
“Say it again,” Father ordered. “Louder.”
But I didn’t want to, not after looking at Sybella’s widening smile as she hid behind her mother. Instead, I ran away.
Father called after me, demanding that I return and apologize properly. But I disobeyed. I ran as fast as I could until I was lost in the hedge maze. I then sat on a stone bench and buried my face in my hands to hide my tears.
I could hear Mother calling for me, but I didn’t want to show my face.
I stayed hidden until a servant stumbled across me and sat with me, giving me a flower to cheer me up.
It must have worked, for I eventually emerged from the hedge maze with swollen eyes, only to find Father in hysterics and Mother’s leg covered in dark, sticky blood.
She had fallen while looking for me and cut herself on an old iron fence.
Father was furious with me for disobeying him, and he locked me in my room for the next two weeks. I didn’t even know that a fever had overtaken my mother until it was too late. Father kept me imprisoned until after Mother’s death, releasing me only to deliver the news of her passing.
I hadn’t apologized to anyone since.
But this time is different, I realized, my thoughts returning to the present. This time, no one was forcing me to say I was sorry. I was apologizing because… well, because I wanted to.
What a peculiar feeling.
The door to the parlor swung open, and Mr. Hawke stepped out. I straightened as our gazes met. He clearly was not expecting me to be just outside the door, and a horrible heat crawled onto my cheeks at being caught waiting for him.
“Miss Weston,” he said at the same time I croaked, “Mr. Hawke.”
We both paused, not wishing to step on each other’s words. But I couldn’t hold the awkward silence any longer, so I quickly said, “I really must say—” just as he sputtered, “Are you feeling quite—”
We both laughed nervously.
“Please, Miss Weston. You first.”
I hesitated as two ladies passed us on their way to the powder room. It was difficult enough to form an apology, but to do so somewhat publicly made it even harder.
“Very well.” I sucked in a breath. “I wanted to—I mean, I need to—well, you see…”
His eyebrows lifted in expectation.
I swallowed. “I may have—that is to say, perhaps I was a touch…” I cleared my throat and tried again.
“I was a bit sharp earlier.” My neck warmed, and I glanced down and picked a flower from my skirt, twisting the petals off one by one.
“I—well—what I’m trying to say is that, maybe, I acted in a way that could be perceived as… impolite.”
“Impolite?”
I looked up only to find a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, impolite,” I said, more firmly this time, though I immediately regretted the anger in my tone. “You tried to warn me about Sybella, and if I happened to offend you in any way—which, mind you, is not to say that I did—but if I did… then, well…”
His grin widened, and I clenched the flower in my hand even tighter.
“Then what?”
“Then I might be inclined to—oh, for heaven’s sake.” I took a deep breath. “I apologize, Mr. Hawke! There. I said it.”
He motioned for my hand. My fingers unfolded before I could question why, and he gently plucked the crumpled flower from my hand.
“I forgive you,” he said, smoothing the petals and handing it back to me.
I blinked at him, a strange flutter rising in my chest. “Are you mocking me again?”
“Never.”
I sniffed. “If you ever tell anyone about this, I shall deny it with every ounce of my being.”
He stepped forward, his eyes not leaving mine as he said, “I must apologize too. I should have been clearer with my warning. I’m afraid I have little experience with the politics of women’s fashion.” He gave that lopsided smile of his. “But I’m a fast learner.”
A small huff of laughter escaped my lips. “Apology accepted. But… I must ask. How did you know that Sybella was wearing my dress?”
Mr. Hawke rubbed the back of his neck. “Well—I saw the design for it that day in the modiste, when I picked up your folder.”
I gawked at him. He was right; I did have the design for the camellia dress in my folder, along with the other designs to alter my dresses.
“But that was weeks ago. You saw it for only a brief moment before I asked you to return it to me.”
He gave me a dubious look. “I recall you ripping it from my hands.”
“Stay focused, Mr. Hawke. You really remembered the design?”
He shrugged. “I told you, I have a decent memory.”
I eyed him with suspicion.
“Why is it that our every encounter ends the same way?” he asked with a sigh.
“What way?”
“Like you wish to duel me.”
“It takes two to duel, Mr. Hawke.”
He thought for a moment, then said, “How about a truce?”
“A truce? Really?”
He nodded. “We start fresh. No more mention of recoiling or worn boots.”
“Or ribbons, or battledore, or Prinny.”
“We cannot discuss our prince regent?”
“Not while he’s giving you poetry, no.”
“Very well.” He smiled. “I shan’t speak even a verse.”
I narrowed my eyes. The rational part of me was convinced this was just another game to him. But what if it wasn’t? What if he were simply a man flirting with a woman? And what if that woman was—dare I say—actually enjoying it to some degree?
“All right,” I said. “But if you break your word, then I’ll have no choice but to meet you at dawn, pistols loaded.” I cocked an eyebrow. “And I never miss.”
He stepped back and held out his hand.
“What are you doing?” I asked with a frown.
“Let’s shake on it.”
“Ladies don’t shake hands with gentlemen.”
But Mr. Hawke kept his hand out. “Who ever said I was a gentleman?”
He clearly wasn’t going to drop this, so I quickly accepted his hand, hoping no one of note would see. That same rush of warmth flooded over my skin, causing the hairs on the back of my neck to rise.
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, Miss Weston,” he said.
I quickly pulled my hand from his. “See that you don’t.”
He glanced down the hall toward the soirée. The musicians had ended their song and were now beginning a waltz. Mr. Hawke held out his hand to me, his gaze softening. “Will you dance with me, Miss Weston? To seal our truce?”
“I thought you didn’t like to waltz.”
“I do now.”
I lifted my hand but paused. Mrs. Sweete had suspected Mr. Hawke didn’t know how to waltz, and her suspicions were practically fact. Perhaps she had been wrong after all.
“Fine.” I accepted Mr. Hawke’s hand. “But don’t step on my skirt. The flowers are delicate.”
“Believe me, I know my way around flowers.” His fingers closed around mine, and my skin tingled. His hands were warm and surprisingly rough. I smiled to myself as he led us to the center of the dance floor.
Mr. Hawke kept his gaze on mine as he guided my arm to his broad shoulder and slipped his hand around my waist. His touch sent a ripple of awareness through me, and I hoped the lively waltz would disguise the growing blush on my cheeks.
The quartet sprang to life. Mr. Hawke did indeed know how to waltz. He expertly guided me backward through the circle in perfect rhythm, pulling gently on my waist for the first spin. Each step he made was smooth and assured.
Which only led me to wonder—why had he refused the waltz with me before?
As I spun back toward him, the significant weight of the flower skirt threw off my balance, and I tottered forward.
But Mr. Hawke caught me before I could so much as stumble, his arms holding me so steady no one would have even known I almost tripped.
I glanced up at him with a grateful smile, surprised to find him already studying me.
“You’re an excellent dancer,” he said.
“I had an excellent tutor.”
“Did you have a tutor for painting as well?”
I nodded. “And one for archery. Another for horse riding. Countless for literature, languages, history, and on and on. I was kept busy as a child.”
“And which of all these pursuits is your favorite?”
I blinked. “I—I haven’t ever thought about that before.”
“Surely there is one you love most.”
I frowned at his persistence. The truth was that none of my talents were particularly enjoyable. I simply perfected them because Father expected me to. The only activity that truly brought me joy was the pianoforte, but I couldn’t possibly mention that to Mr. Hawke.
“I enjoy them all equally,” I lied.
“Do you?”
“Of course.” My gaze dropped to my skirt.
Some of the flowers were starting to come loose from their stitching.
They were made for decoration, not wear.
At least they had served their purpose. I would likely have to go home before I had the chance to dance with my other two candidates.
Oddly enough, that didn’t bother me as much as it should have.
The quartet swelled into the last strains of the waltz, and Mr. Hawke led me in front of him, face to face, for the finale. After we had completed the last step, Mr. Hawke did not release my hand.
“Thank you for the dance, Miss Weston,” he said.
“You are quite skilled at the waltz, Mr. Hawke.”
He grinned. “It’s just something I picked up recently.”
I studied him, wondering if he was teasing or not. But I realized the next dance had already begun, and we were still standing in the middle of the floor. I quickly removed my hand from Mr. Hawke’s.
My lips parted to speak, but he bowed and said, “I look forward to our next dance.” Then he moved off the dance floor without another word.
As soon as he left, the Swarm approached, asking for dances of their own. I politely declined, claiming I was feeling lightheaded. It wasn’t far from the truth. For as Mrs. Sweete and I rode home early in the carriage, all I could think about was the lingering warmth of Mr. Hawke’s hand on mine.