Chapter Seven #3
Then she spotted a welcome sight. George Percy was there, looking very smart and dapper in a dark evening suit, and he was talking with a young woman. Maybe he felt her gaze on him, for he looked up and locked eyes with her.
Sibyl smiled, and he brightened and said something to his companion, heading toward her.
In a few moments, he stood before her. “Miss Clifton.”
“Mr. Percy, how good to see you.” She offered her hand, which he accepted.
“So you’re invited to this crush as well? I’m glad to see it. Finally, one familiar face among the hundred I see here,” he said, as cheerful as ever. “Are you thirsty? Shall I get you a drink?”
“No, I’m fine.” She glanced around.
“Looking for someone?” he asked.
“I…”
“George, there you are. I was looking for you. Oh. Miss Clifton.” Mr. Heyter bowed formally.
Sibyl recognized the thrill that ran through her for what it was: attraction.
She swallowed. That evening, Mr. Heyter looked more dashing than ever.
His dark hair was combed back but still had unruly waves at the sides of his head and ears that looked becoming.
His white cravat looked crisply tied, his evening coat and trousers were of an elegant cut, but the way he looked at her… It made her shiver.
“Would you like to dance?” Mr. Heyter asked, holding out a hand.
“All right,” Sibyl uttered.
She took his hand without realizing it, and in no time at all, they were on the floor, awaiting their turn in the next set with a few other couples. She stood next to him, and as the music changed for a new song, they entered a row.
This was a calm, stately dance with flowing movements.
It was an English country dance that was popular, with steps she’d learned when she’d been a child.
And yet she had trouble concentrating. She felt Mr. Heyter’s eyes on her constantly, and when she looked up to meet his gaze, a blush warmed her cheeks.
“You look especially lovely tonight, Miss Clifton,” he said.
“Thank you.” His words sent a warm feeling through her.
“And did you receive my parcel? Have you started The Sorrows of Young Werther yet?”
She’d finished it within a few hours and had stayed up late reading, much to the detriment of a good night’s sleep. But she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d chosen so well for her. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry, I should have thanked you already. I have started it.”
He raised her gloved hand in his, sending a warm feeling through her. “And what do you think?”
“Werther is a romantic soul. I find him charming.”
He grunted.
“And what do you think of my book choice?”
“The Mysteries of Udolpho? So far, it is terrifying. I had to read it with the light on next to me. Even then, not a book to read after dark.” He winked at her.
She grinned.
A woman in the next couple said to her companion, “I do believe she is here tonight. The Countess d’Arbley.”
Did Mr. Heyter’s smile freeze?
Sibyl looked at him. His movements were mechanical, wooden, as if his mind lay elsewhere.
“Mr. Heyter?” she started.
“Yes?”
The woman in the other couple said, “My word, what if she is here? Would she consent to sign my dance card, do you think? Or my glove?”
Mr. Heyter rolled his eyes. “Not another one,” he muttered.
“Mr. Heyter, what is it?” Sibyl asked.
He glanced at her, as if surprised she’d heard him. “Nothing. Just amused at another person being impressed by nothing at all.”
The woman in the set next to them frowned at him, which he ignored.
“What do you mean?” Sibyl asked, in between dance movements.
“I mean, just because a person is a count, or a countess, makes no difference as to who they really are. They could be a kind person or mistreat their servants. They might dine well but be a total prig. A title means nothing, and a bit of fame, even less.”
“Speak for yourself,” the woman near them said disgustedly, tossing her head.
“My apologies, madam. I was speaking generally.” He glanced at Sibyl.
The dance ended, and Mr. Heyter escorted her from the floor. But as they exited the dance, murmurs and whispers flew through the crowd. “The Countess d’Arbley is here.”
“Oh, Lord,” Mr. Heyter said. “Let’s move out of the paths of these people. The countess loves an audience. We’ll only get in the way.”
Sibyl cocked her head at him. He spoke as if he knew the woman. “Why are you so against the idea of a countess and fame?”
“Because of what it does, and who it affects. A bit of fame can make a person, or more often, destroy them. It can ruin a good name, and a person might overlook many of their own personal morals, ethics, and good sense, in order to see their name in the papers or be talked about at parties.” He gave his head a little shake.
“You’ll see. Just like this artist and his muse nonsense people keep talking about. ”
She looked at him questioningly.
“These people make such a big fuss over a simple artist and whatever woman he chooses to paint at that moment. Trust me, she will be nothing but an ordinary beauty, with no sense to speak of. Or she’ll be completely plain and normal, with freckles, warts, and crooked teeth, and her sense will have deserted her, along with her pocketbook, in the hope that by paying the man enough to paint her, she’ll gain a few interested suitors. ”
Sibyl blinked. That was exactly what her mother hoped would happen from Phillippe’s painting her. She put a hand to her cheeks, hoping her blush did not give her away.
“What do you think?” Mr. Heyter asked.
“To hear you speak of it so bluntly, it sounds very mercenary.”
“Love and courtship often are. What matters is how the people involved deal with it, and whether they decide if the face on the canvas is worth the trouble.”
“But surely, if the man’s paintings help a young woman find love, that is to be applauded,” she said.
“Is it? I wonder. So what if a man paints a picture? Who cares? I myself do not.” He looked at her keenly.
She turned her head. So he would not be there at the grand opening of the exhibit. Considering his opinions, maybe that was a good thing.
“Why do you care, Miss Clifton?” he asked.
“Well, the poor insensible woman the artist is painting, his muse. What if she were a woman of your acquaintance? A cousin, or friend, perhaps?”
“Why? Do you know who it is? Who has the artist chosen?”
She shrugged.
He frowned. “It’s Miss Harvey, isn’t it?”
She gave a little shake of her head.
“If Phillippe’s model is someone I know, and know well,” he said firmly, “then I would hope that the woman would have the inner strength of character and presence of mind to keep a level head and not allow herself to be swept up in the furor that will follow her introduction to London’s art world.
I imagine that some ladies, particularly the vain, attention-seeking ones, would love it.
I would not, and nor would I want that for my sister.
” He smiled at her. “But let us talk of happier topics. Books, perhaps. You are too smart and sensible to be drawn into a silly plan like asking an artist to paint your portrait. And you need hardly worry about suitors.”
She looked away, a blush creeping along her cheeks.
He took her hand. “Miss Clifton, I…”
The whispers grew louder and the talk grew noisier as people stepped back and a loud, husky, melodious voice grew near.
“Oh, no,” Mr. Heyter said.
“What is it?” Sibyl asked, looking past him. “Oh, is that the woman they’re talking about? The opera singer?”
There walking straight ahead moved an elegant woman in a stunning, white-creamy gown.
Her rich, brunette hair was swept up in a bun and she had not one, but two ostrich feathers in her hair, one white, one black.
The dress she wore was high cut for modesty but so form-fitting, it hugged her ample curves in such a way as to look almost indecent.
But it was her beauty that made men and women stop and stare.
The lady was stunning. Her face looked youthful, her skin was clear like alabaster, and her eyes wide.
Her gaze flitted at once to Mr. Heyter, and she curtsied.
“Do you know her?” Sibyl asked.
He dropped her hand. “Yes.” Mr. Heyter grunted.
Sibyl stared at him.
“Neville! I never thought to see you here.” The woman earned some shocked looks as she swooped in, utterly ignoring Sibyl and everyone else who was watching, and threw her arms around him.