Chapter 21 - Claire
“Another night, another ballroom,” Michael said, sidling up to Claire.
Claire suddenly found it difficult to manage the size of her smile. She hadn’t seen Sylvia or Michael when she and her sisters first entered, and she’d been worried that some last-minute foible had kept them from the ball altogether.
But there he was, wearing a suit that was so deep of a navy it appeared black at first glance. Claire couldn’t help but admire the way it brought out his blue eyes.
“Good evening, Michael,” she said.
“I hope it’s not too forward to say that you look ravishing this evening,” he murmured.
“Not at all. Thank you. You look quite well yourself.”
“You are a shameless flatterer. However, since I quite enjoy your compliments, I’ll allow you to continue.”
Claire pressed her lips together and shook her head as she studied the dancers before them. “Is this the aforementioned coat your mother warned me about?”
He grinned. “This one is new, though I’ll be sure to wear the other one when I visit you next.”
“I cannot wait to pass judgement upon it, though if it’s anything like this one, I’ll have to rescind my disapproval.”
Michael smiled down at her. Claire met his gaze long enough for it to feel as if her stomach was filled with champagne bubbles—warm and lovely and bright. She quickly averted her eyes and watched the dancers once again.
“Sylvia looks as if she’s having a wonderful time,” Claire added, mostly to steer the conversation away from the moment they’d just shared.
They were happening with increasing frequency, those moments.
And though Claire could have written off one or two such exchanges without a second thought, she was beginning to believe that something was changing between her and Michael.
Something fundamental and important. It felt much like standing at the top of a steep cliff, with her toes just over the edge.
Yet no matter how often she told herself to back away from the edge, she was frozen.
Then there was the way she’d started to think of him as of late.
He wasn’t a means to an end at all anymore.
He was simply Michael. And though that was all well and good—they were old family friends, after all—lately, her thoughts toward him were so proprietary that it was difficult for her to ignore. Even when she was trying her hardest.
Michael chuffed and nodded toward his sister. “If she’s looking quite well, you might thank your brother.”
“William?” A small dimple appeared between her eyebrows. “What does he have to do with anything?”
“He sent her the diadem she’s wearing.”
“Did he really?”
Claire had never known her brother to make a gift of jewelry to anyone but his sisters.
As Sylvia’s dance partner led her past, Claire was able to get a good look at Sylvia.
She wore a stunning lavender silk-satin dress that shimmered in the candlelight.
The bauble twinkling in her hair wasn’t a diadem, as Michael had claimed, but a tiara—a very pretty amethyst and diamond tiara.
“At first I thought he’d sent it as some sort of a jest,” Michael said. “It’s the same color as her hair, you see. But Mother took out her magnifying glass and inspected it. It’s not paste at all.”
Claire scoffed. “Have you met William? I don’t think the man knows what faux means.”
“I confess I thought of sending it back. It’s highly irregular, a single young man sending an expensive gift like that. But then I read the note, which assured both Mother and me that your brother has no romantic designs on Sylvia whatsoever.”
“What did he say?”
Claire was curious, for it was highly irregular. Such an expensive gift could have easily been misconstrued as some sort of romantic declaration.
“He stated that it was a token of the long-standing friendship between our families, that he sees Sylvia as another of his sisters, and that he admires her courage.”
“Her courage?”
“He put it very delicately, but essentially, he admires her courage in going out in public with purple hair. After much consideration, I decided she could keep the thing. I think it helped her.”
“I did notice she was embracing the color scheme,” she admitted.
“She was smiling when she tried it on. I don’t think I could have taken it away from her after I saw that, but I’m happy your brother’s letter left no doubt that his romantic intentions lie elsewhere.”
“Oh?”
“He encouraged Sylvia to wear it to his wedding to Miss Warrington in a few weeks.”
Claire spluttered her indignation. To her knowledge, there was no understanding between her brother and Dahlia Warrington.
Michael grinned. “Only he said she must keep it a secret, as no one—not even the bride—was aware of the occasion yet.”
“The sheer nerve of the fellow.” She shook her head.
“I’m starting to think that I might learn a few things from him.”
“Such as?”
“Stating what you want, with confidence.”
Michael stared down at her with those piercing blue eyes. She couldn’t quite read the expression he wore. For some reason, the champagne bubbles in her stomach had returned.
“And what is it that you want?” If her voice was a little breathy, she hoped he didn’t hear it.
“A dance, for starters.”
She laughed as she placed her hand in his and allowed him to whirl her onto the dance floor.
After several dances with other gentlemen—the last of which was with a young lord who described the contents of the library of his large estate in excruciating detail, Claire begged a respite.
Instead of heading all the way down the hall towards the lady’s retiring room, she ducked through a side door into the gardens.
Claire leaned back against the glass door and gulped the fresh air.
A low stone balustrade flanked by two stone pillars separated the alcove she stood in from the rest of the garden.
It was quiet except for the low whispering of leaves and the muted strains of music from within the house.
Silvery moonlight dappled the shrubbery before her.
The scene reminded Claire of another night, years ago, when she’d gone looking for her brother. Though she tried her best never to think of that night, she supposed it couldn’t be helped—this garden was much the same as that one, divided as it was into different rooms by trimmed shrubbery.
Voices ahead. Claire froze behind the stone pillar instinctively.
It would be disastrous if she were caught without a chaperone in the gardens.
Claire had simply been looking for a break from the bustle of the party, but the truth of things didn’t matter to the gossips.
There were those who would view Claire’s innocent desire through the lens of suspicion and censure.
Many members of the ton wouldn’t let the truth get in the way of a good rumor.
“Don’t you think we should go back inside?” a young lady said.
For some reason, Claire thought lady’s voice familiar, but she was too far away to discern who it was.
“Not at all,” the man said before his murmuring grew too low for Claire to make out his words.
If Claire hadn’t thought she recognized the lady’s voice, she wouldn’t have done what she did.
She took a hurried glance around before seating herself on the balustrade.
She wrinkled her nose at what the stone might do to the silk-satin she wore, but in one smooth motion, she transferred her feet from one side of the balustrade to the other.
Then she set off toward the next garden room.
“My brother will be dreadfully upset if he finds me missing,” the lady murmured.
“He never needs to know, my darling.”
Claire frowned. She was close enough to recognize the male’s voice, at least. It was Lord Nelson, who, only perhaps an hour prior, had again asked Claire for a dance. She’d said no, of course, and he’d gone away with a sour look on his smarmy face.
“I really think I should be going.”
“Not at all, my dove. I have waited a long time to tell you how beautiful you are. Your skin is like alabaster. Your hair is…radiant.”
Claire held back a snicker, thinking that perhaps Lord Nelson and Beatrice had studied at the same school of poetry.
“No, I don’t think so,” the young lady said more stoutly. “I should like to go back inside now.”
With the slight increase of volume, Claire was able to discern who the young lady was—Sylvia.
Claire hurried around the corner, her heart pounding, just in time to see Lord Nelson take hold of Sylvia’s waist and try and kiss her.
Sylvia craned her neck and lifted her hands to push his face from hers, but Lord Nelson was much stronger.
Claire hardly knew what she was doing as she stooped and picked up a palm-sized stone from the garden floor.
“No,” Sylvia cried, struggling. “Stop.”
Perhaps if Lord Nelson had stopped, Claire would have let the stone slip from her fingers and simply escorted Sylvia back inside. But Lord Nelson didn’t heed Sylvia’s protests; he didn’t stop his attempts to kiss the girl.
Claire strode forward, her skirts whispering about her ankles. When she was right behind Lord Nelson, she demanded, “Stop.”
He whirled, snarling, one hand still cruelly gripping Sylvia’s waist. Claire had already wound back.
Lord Nelson only had enough time for his eyes to go wide before Claire struck him in the face with all her might.
There was a crunch and a spurt of blood, and Lord Nelson toppled backwards into a large shrub, which neatly swallowed him whole.
“Are you all right?” Claire asked, laying a hand on Sylvia’s trembling shoulder.
Sylvia’s hand was at her throat. Her chest heaved. It took her several moments to recover enough to speak. “I hardly know. I suppose I am now. Thank you for…er, that.”
Claire peered at the bush, trying to get a view of Lord Nelson, but the shrubbery concealed all but one of his booted feet.