Chapter Twelve
The Castleton Ball was, by universal agreement, the event of the season.
Not the largest as that honour belonged to the Devonshire crush, where one could scarcely draw breath for the press of bodies.
Not the most elegant, Lady Melbourne's gatherings held that distinction, with their careful curation of guest lists and conversation.
But the Castleton Ball possessed something rarer than size or elegance: it possessed significance.
An invitation marked one as worthy of notice. An absence marked one as beneath it.
Lord and Lady Castleton had been hosting this ball for three decades, ever since the current earl had inherited his father's title and his mother's talent for social engineering.
The guest list was curated with surgical precision, a careful balance of old money and new, political influence and artistic distinction, ancient titles and rising stars.
To be invited was to be validated. To be excluded was to understand, in no uncertain terms, that one's star had fallen.
The Wayworths had received their invitation three weeks prior, delivered on cream-coloured stock with the Castleton crest embossed in gold. Lady Wayworth had practically wept with relief.
"I knew Lady Castleton would not forget us," she had said, clutching the card to her bosom. "I knew our friendship would endure."
Vanessa had refrained from pointing out that her mother and Lady Castleton had spoken perhaps twice in the past decade, and one of those occasions had involved a dispute over precedence at a dinner party.
But Lady Wayworth's memory was conveniently selective when it came to social matters, and there was no point in disturbing her happiness.
Now, standing at the entrance to the Castleton ballroom, Vanessa understood why her mother had been so eager.
The room was magnificent, boasting a soaring space of white and gold, lit by three enormous chandeliers that dripped with crystal.
Hundreds of candles blazed from every surface, their light reflected in the mirrors that lined the walls, creating the illusion of infinite space.
Hothouse flowers spilled from urns and vases with roses and lilies and exotic blooms she could not name, their fragrance mingling with perfume and pomade and the faint undertone of warm bodies.
The orchestra played from a raised dais at one end of the room, their music floating above the chatter of conversation.
Footmen in the Castleton livery circulated with trays of champagne.
And the guests, which were the cream of Society, the highest of the high, gathered in their silks and jewels like exotic birds preening for one another's admiration.
"Breathe," Helena murmured at her elbow. "You look as though you're about to faint."
"I am not going to faint."
"You've gone rather pale."
"It's the candlelight." Vanessa forced herself to relax her grip on her fan. "I'm perfectly well."
"You're nervous."
"I am not…" She stopped, sighing. There was no point in lying to Helena. "Very well. I am nervous. This is my first proper event since the injury. I feel as though everyone is staring at me."
"They are staring at you. Your gown is exquisite.
" Helena gestured at the confection of pale gold silk that Vanessa's modiste had delivered just yesterday.
The dress had cost more than she wanted to think about, but the effect was undeniable, the gold brought out the warm tones in her hair and made her skin glow in the candlelight.
"You look like a goddess descended from Olympus to grace us mere mortals with your presence. "
"Now you're mocking me."
"Only a little." Helena linked her arm through Vanessa's. "Come. Let us make a circuit and see who is worth speaking to."
They descended the stairs into the ballroom proper, navigating the crush of bodies with practiced ease.
Helena provided a running commentary on the guests they passed, who was wearing paste jewels and pretending they were real, who had recently emerged from a scandalous affair, who was hunting for a wealthy husband with increasing desperation.
"Lady Thornton has worn that gown to three balls this season.
I've counted. And Mrs. Haberton's diamonds are clearly paste, you can tell by the way they catch the light, all wrong.
Oh, and do you see Miss Crawford over there?
They say she's been compromised by Lord Hartley's younger son, but her mother is hushing it up furiously. .."
Vanessa listened with half an ear. Her attention was elsewhere, scanning the crowd for a particular dark head, a particular pair of shoulders and a particular sardonic smile.
She did not see him.
"He's here," Helena said, as though reading her thoughts. "By the far windows, near the orchestra."
Vanessa followed her gaze and felt her breath catch.
Martin was standing in a loose cluster of people, but "standing" seemed too passive a word for what he was doing.
He was holding court. That was the only way to describe it.
The people around him, and they were not insignificant people, Vanessa noted were oriented toward him like flowers toward the sun, their bodies angled in his direction, their faces attentive.
She recognised Lord Ashworth, whose political influence was legendary. Sir Edmund Hale, whose shipping empire spanned three continents. The Dowager Duchess of Carlisle, a terrifying woman of advanced years who was said to have reduced grown men to tears with a single withering glance.
As Vanessa watched, he said something that made Lord Ashworth throw back his head and laugh and Sir Edmund clapped Martin on the shoulder with familiar warmth. And the Dowager Duchess, the terrifying, impossible-to-please Dowager Duchess actually smiled.
Vanessa had never seen her smile before. She had not been entirely certain the woman's face could form that expression.
"He's rather good at that, isn't he?" Helena observed. "The charming-everyone-in-the-room thing."
"He's a duke."
"There are plenty of dukes. Most of them are bores." Helena tilted her head, studying the tableau. "But Montehood... people want to be near him. Have you noticed? Watch how they angle toward him, even when they're pretending to talk to someone else."
She was right. The crowd flowed around Martin like water around a stone, everyone oriented toward him, everyone hoping to catch his eye, his attention, his favour.
Even people who were ostensibly engaged in other conversations kept glancing in his direction, as though checking to ensure he was still there, still within reach.
It was subtle, but once Vanessa saw it, she could not erase it from her memory. The entire room was aware of Martin Hale. The entire room was responding to his presence, whether they acknowledged it or not.
"He has presence," Vanessa said. "It's not just the title."
"No. It's something else entirely." Helena's voice was thoughtful. "Charisma, I suppose. Or perhaps it's simply that he doesn't care whether people like him, which paradoxically makes everyone desperate for his approval."
"He cares."
Helena glanced at her. "Does he?"
"He simply doesn't show it." Vanessa watched as Martin extracted himself from the group with a few graceful words, only to be immediately intercepted by another cluster of admirers. "He's performing. All of this…the charm and the ease…it's a performance."
"How do you know?"
Because I've seen him when he's not performing, Vanessa thought. In a park, on a bench, with his hands on my ankle and his voice rough with emotion. That was real. This is theatre.
"I simply do," she said.
***
Lady Portsmith reached Martin before anyone else could claim him.
She was a widow of perhaps five and thirty, possessed of considerable beauty and even more considerable wealth.
Her late husband had been elderly and obliging enough to die within two years of their matrimony, leaving her with a fortune and no encumbrances.
She had spent the subsequent decade enjoying both with enthusiasm.
Her interest in Martin was well known. She made no secret of it, approaching him at every social occasion with a proprietary air that suggested their relationship was far more intimate than mere acquaintance.
The gossips whispered that she had been his mistress, once.
Others said she wished to be and had not yet succeeded.
Vanessa watched as Lady Portsmith laid a gloved hand on Martin's arm, leaning close to murmur something in his ear. Her body language was unmistakable, the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile, the way she positioned herself to display her décolletage to best advantage.
Something hot and unpleasant coiled in Vanessa's stomach.
Martin smiled at whatever Lady Portsmith had said, but it was his society smile, Vanessa noted. The one that curved his lips without reaching his eyes. The one he deployed when he was bored but too polite to show it.
"She's been trying to catch him for years," Helena said. "Everyone knows it. It's become rather embarrassing, actually."
"Has she... succeeded?"
"In catching him?" Helena shrugged. "There are rumours, but there are always rumours where Montehood is concerned. Half the women in London claim to have shared his bed, and half of those are lying."
"And the other half?"
"Are probably lying too, but more convincingly." Helena shot her a knowing look. "Why? Are you jealous?"
"Don't be absurd."
"You're jealous. Your face has gone all pinched."
"My face has not…" Vanessa stopped, forcing herself to relax the muscles that had, indeed, tightened with something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy. "I simply find her obvious. That's all."
"Mm-hmm."
Before Vanessa could respond, another figure joined the tableau around Martin: Miss Arabella Aldridge, this season's reigning diamond.