Chapter 4
Clara danced very prettily. There was no denying it. Her steps were light and though she had all the freshness of a girl new to society, she possessed enough natural grace to make her eagerness appear charming rather than clumsy.
Captain Harrow, too, acquitted himself well. He danced with ease, smiled with moderation, and seemed to possess that most useful quality in a gentleman: an ability to attend to a young lady without appearing either absurdly devoted or insufferably pleased with himself.
Aurelia had not intended to approve of anybody so soon. It seemed careless. Yet Captain Harrow had so far shown none of the alarming symptoms common to men in ballrooms.
“They do seem determined to enjoy themselves, do they not?”
The voice came from beside her, low and touched with dry amusement.
Aurelia started, though only inwardly, and turned her head just enough to see that she was no longer alone. A gentleman stood a little to one side, far enough away to preserve politeness, near enough to make it plain that the remark had been intended for her and no one else.
She became suddenly aware of the breadth of him, and of the quiet certainty with which he occupied the small space beside her. The knowledge made her tighten the hold on her fan.
“For the youth of today,” he added, following her gaze toward the dancers, “happiness appears to come with remarkable ease.”
Aurelia stiffened at once. There was something in the tone that offended her before she had fully considered why. She drew herself up and kept her eyes on the dancers.
“The youth of today, sir?” she repeated. “You speak as if you had long since retired from all youthful feeling.”
“Have I betrayed myself as ancient?”
She turned then, prepared to find someone severe, perhaps gray, and certainly old enough to justify the observation. Instead, she found herself looking at a man so far removed from old and decrepit that for one absurd moment she forgot what she had intended to say.
He was handsome. Very handsome, in fact, though not in the soft or ornamental style that invited immediate confidence.
His dark blonde hair was perfectly combed to the side, and his strikingly blue eyes bore the appearance of two shards of ice.
His features were strong rather than delicate, and there was something in his countenance that made him more striking than a handsome man had any right to be.
He was perhaps a little above thirty, broad-shouldered, and very well formed.
Aurelia recovered herself with as much dignity as she could.
“I had thought that such language had to belong to someone who was at least fifty years old.”
His mouth altered very slightly. It was not quite a smile, but something near it. “Then I am relieved to have escaped with less damage than I deserved.”
“I cannot say yet whether you have escaped at all.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It was intended to.”
His eyes rested on her with greater attention now, and Aurelia was suddenly conscious that she had answered more quickly than was perhaps prudent. Yet she did not regret it. If he chose to speak as though the room were full of children, he might bear a little correction.
He glanced again toward the dancers. “I only meant that they seem extraordinarily happy.”
“They do,” she echoed.
“Do you disapprove?”
“Oh, no. I only disapprove of broad declarations that suggest the rest of us are already pensioned off from youth.”
This time he smiled properly, and the effect of it was surprisingly disarming. Something deep and at the same time, absurd, rumbled beneath her ribs.
“Then I must apologize. I had not intended to include you among the pensioners.”
“Very civil of you,” she returned, endeavoring not to focus on how handsome he was when he was smiling.
“I can be civil on occasion.”
“Something tells me that must astonish everyone acquainted with you.”
He bowed his head slightly, as if accepting a challenge. “And yet I persist in trying.”
For the first time since he had spoken, Aurelia allowed herself to meet his eyes directly. They gave her the uncomfortable sense that he saw more than most people did, which in London was not always an advantage.
Still, his manner was easy, and there was none of the oily familiarity she had learned to distrust. He looked again at Clara and Captain Harrow.
“They appear well matched for one dance at least.”
“Yes,” said Aurelia, following his gaze. “Though my cousin has known him scarcely fifteen minutes, so I reserve the right to remain cautious.”
“Ah. You are the guardian of her happiness.”
“I am only her chaperone.”
“That is much the same thing in a ballroom.”
She could not disagree. Clara was laughing at something Captain Harrow had just said, and the sound carried even above the music. Aurelia’s lips softened in spite of herself.
“She is very young,” Aurelia spoke softly. “And inclined to think well of everyone.”
“A happy tendency,” he pointed out.
“A dangerous one,” she corrected him.
“Surely not always.”
She turned slightly toward him. “You speak like a man who still believes such innocence goes unpunished.”
Something in his expression shifted. Not enough for most people to notice, perhaps, but Aurelia did. The ease remained, yet there was a shadow beneath it now.
“On the contrary,” he replied. “I daresay most people come to regret it sooner or later.”
The answer surprised her. It was not what she had expected from a stranger making dry remarks in a ballroom. Before she could decide whether to respond, he rescued the conversation himself.
“You have been away from London some time, I think.”
She looked at him quickly. “Why do you suppose that?”
“You watch the room as if you know how it works and dislike that knowledge. Those who have never been here are merely dazzled. Those who belong to it comfortably seldom stand in corners.”
“And what of those who stand in corners and make observations on the young?”
“Those are the worst sort entirely.”
The reply was so immediate that Aurelia laughed despite herself.
She had not intended to laugh. It escaped her before caution could catch it.
He looked faintly pleased, though he did not appear vain enough to dwell upon his success.
For one foolish instant, she was too aware of him standing there beside her, and of how easily this conversation had begun to feel set apart from the rest of the room.
“You did not answer me,” he pointed out, though there was no urgency in his voice.
“No.”
“Then perhaps I ought to be offended.”
She raised an amused eyebrow. “I had not thought you delicate.”
“I am delicate in all matters of curiosity.”
She hesitated only a moment. There was something about him that invited honesty, though in moderation.
“I have been in France,” she found herself revealing.
“Do you prefer it?”
Aurelia considered. “In some respects.”
He seemed to hear the reserve in that answer, for he did not press her as a more foolish man might have done.
“I cannot blame you,” he told her. “London is not always improved by acquaintance.”
“You say that as one who knows it too well.”
“I have lately renewed the acquaintance against my better judgment.”
“Then you also have been away,” she concluded.
“I have,” he confirmed.
She glanced at him. “In France, too?”
“No.” He paused. “Elsewhere.”
The word was mild, but his tone was not.
It was enough to make her look at him more carefully.
There was something about him that did not belong wholly to ballrooms and polished floors.
He stood too straight, perhaps. Or perhaps it was merely that he looked as if he knew how to be still in a way other gentlemen did not.
“Abroad, then,” she mused.
“In a manner of speaking,” she watched him nod.
“That is an answer contrived only to reveal nothing.”
“And yours about France was better?” he retorted playfully.
“Much better. Mine at least contained a country.”
That earned another brief smile.
“You are severe, Miss …” He stopped.
The unfinished form of address seemed to hang strangely between them, and she felt the smallest, most treacherous flutter at her throat.
He did not know her name.
It was an absurd thing to feel relieved by and yet she was relieved.
There had been no flicker of recognition and no small but fatal pause.
He did not know who she was. He did not know of her family.
He spoke to her as if she were merely a woman standing near him in a ballroom and not the daughter of a house once ruined in public.
For that reason alone, she was unwilling to enlighten him.
“Names are dangerous things,” she said lightly. “I would rather do without mine.”
“Would you now?” he appeared surprised by her comment. “I had always thought them convenient in conversation.”
“Only when one intends the acquaintance to progress,” she told him.
“And do you not?”
The question ought to have been forward, yet in his mouth it sounded only curious.
“I have not yet determined,” she said.
“Then I must endeavor to recommend myself before the matter is settled.”
“You may begin by answering properly,” she suggested, drawn into this conversation far more than she was willing to admit. “Where have you been?”
This time his pause was different. It was less playful and more considered.
“With the army,” he divulged.
Aurelia looked at him with renewed interest. “You are a military man?”
“I … have been one, yes.”
“And now?” Her curiosity about him seemed to grow with each passing moment.
“And now I am suffering the consequences in London.”
She smiled faintly. “You make it sound worse than war.”
“Not worse,” he shrugged. “Only stranger.”
His gaze moved once more over the dancers, the mothers, the clusters of determined young ladies, and the gentlemen circulating with either eagerness or fatigue.
“When one has been long away, all this can feel rather … contrived.”
“Then we are agreed,” she replied, feeling as if he were able to read her mind.
“You dislike it too?”