Chapter 5
Christina took her mother’s arm as they walked around the ballroom, greeting acquaintances as they went.
Lady Bedford had thought it a good idea for them both to walk all around the room before stopping to talk to anyone in particular, telling Christina that it would be a good way for her to see all who were present – and for them to see her also.
Christina had agreed without hesitation, for it gave her a few minutes to compose herself.
Looking around, Christina took in the vast number of guests, telling herself that she would be easily able to stay away from Lord Coventry, should he be present.
The air was alive with the low hum of conversation and the rustle of silks and satins as the orchestra took up their positions for the next dance.
Her gaze danced across clusters of gentlemen standing together while ladies near to them cast auspicious glances, no doubt in the hope of catching their attention.
Her stomach dipped. Some two years ago, she had been doing the very same thing but had looked for one gentleman and one gentleman alone… and he had returned her attention with warm smiles and genuine interest that had led to love.
A love which had been broken, shattered, and ground to near dust.
“Christina?”
“Mmm?” Looking up at her mother, Christina smiled quickly, hoping that her desolate thoughts had not pervaded her expression.
Lady Bedford guided Christina towards Lord Pennington and Lord Granton, both of whom signed their names to her dance card with evident pleasure. Christina felt nothing from either encounter beyond the obligation of politeness.
“Lord Coventry?”
At first, Christina thought that the name she heard was in her own thoughts. It was only when she lifted her head and saw the gentleman looking back at her, his jaw tight and his eyes cold, that she realized it had been her mother speaking.
“Good evening, Lady Bedford.” His voice was low, his words acknowledging only her mother and not her own presence. “I hope you are enjoying the ball this evening.”
“We are, very much indeed.” Lady Bedford was warm in her tone, but it did nothing to the icy expression on Lord Coventry’s face. “And you, Lord Coventry?”
He sniffed. “It has been pleasant to a point.”
The ache in Christina’s heart grew with such fierceness, she caught her breath and dropped her gaze. Was he trying to suggest that he had been enjoying himself, up until the moment she had arrived?
Perhaps I did not ever really know him at all.
“Lady Bedford, Miss Oldham, good evening!”
A stocky fellow that Christina barely remembered strode towards them, his round face wreathed with obvious delight.
“How pleasant to see you both this evening. I must hope that you are dancing, Miss Oldham?” His gaze slid towards Lord Coventry. “I also hope that Lord Coventry has not taken your last dance of the evening either, for I am quite sure you will be very much in demand.”
“How kind you are, Lord Newfield,” her mother said, reminding Christina of his name as she took her dance card from her wrist. “We have not been very long at the ball, and thus, my daughter’s dance card has only a few names.”
Christina looked down, aware that as yet, she had said nothing to Lord Coventry, and he had not even acknowledged her.
There had not even been a single polite remark or a glance in her direction.
Perhaps his silence was deliberate, marked, and purposeful so that she could have no confusion over his feelings towards her.
The pain of his rejection burned anew.
“And you will want the lady’s dance card also, I am sure.”
Christina closed her eyes, standing very still as each muscle in her body grew taut with tension. Her mother laughed softly and welcomed the notion, but Christina begged silently for Lord Coventry to find an excuse – any excuse – to set aside her dance card.
He did not.
“Propriety demands it, does it not?”
His words lacked fervor, cold and staid. This was not the gentleman she knew, but perhaps it was that she had never really known him at all.
Anger rose with a sudden sharpness, forcing her eyes open.
How could he speak so? How could he ignore her with such calculated silence as if nothing had ever passed between them?
Seeing his hand scribe his name to one of her dances, Christina’s stomach twisted hard.
That very same hand had written the words to end their connection, cruel, cold, and without explanation.
Yet still, my heart will not be free of him.
Christina took in a long, slow breath and then let it out just as carefully.
Her heart set that dark memory aside, replacing it with the warmth of his gaze, the tenderness in his voice when he had spoken her name.
The touch of his hand, the kiss they had shared, the happiness that had filled every part of her – it was there still, fighting against the harshness of his letter.
Part of her longed to reach out for him, to beg him to explain, to find a way to forgive the reprehensible words that had wounded her so deeply.
“Your dance card, Miss Oldham.”
Her breath caught as his hand touched hers, only for him to yank it back as if her touch had seared him.
Christina swallowed and murmured her thanks, despising the way her heart betrayed her yet again.
It whispered excuses for his distance, begged her to think of reasons that might have forced him back from her.
Pain railed back at it, telling her that he could have explained but had chosen silence.
No more, she told herself, as her mother took her arm again, ready to move her on to find another few gentlemen who could fill her dance card. There cannot be a single flicker of love in my heart any longer.
Gathering her strength, Christina lifted her chin and gathered her expression into forced indifference, having not even glanced at her dance card and the dance he had taken.
“Good evening, Lord Newfield.” Her eyes turned to the man who had claimed to love her, looking straight back at him and seeing how his eyebrows lifted just a fraction, perhaps surprised at her determined gaze. “Good evening, Lord Coventry.”
Walking away, Christina had no sense of triumph.
Keeping her shoulders back and her head held high was an effort, tears pricking behind her eyes as the battle raged behind her composed expression.
No matter how much she tried, she could not push him completely out of her heart.
That longing refused to die, refused to let her bury it under layers of sorrow and doubt.
And now I must dance with him.
Anxiety took its place on the throne of her heart as she swallowed tightly, her breathing already quickening. To be back in his arms would bring her even more trouble, Christina was sure, but there was nothing whatsoever she could do about it.
As Christina returned the card to her wrist, her fingers fumbled with the ribbon — the satin loop catching on the clasp of her bracelet. She fought with it for a moment, her cheeks warming, before a pair of steady hands appeared in her field of vision.
“Allow me.”
The voice was Lord Coventry’s. He had materialized beside her — she had not seen him approach, had not heard his steps — and his fingers were already working the ribbon free from the clasp with a deftness that made her breath catch.
His gloves brushed the inside of her wrist, and a fine tremor ran under her skin from wrist to shoulder, one she could not still.
For three heartbeats, his hands were on hers — the closest they had been in two years — and neither of them breathed.
He released her wrist. Stepped back. His expression was perfectly neutral, as if he had performed a minor courtesy for a passing stranger, but Christina could see the rapid pulse at his throat, the faint color climbing his neck above his cravat.
“Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“It was nothing.” His voice was rough. He turned and walked away without another word.
Christina stood perfectly still, her hand pressed to the wrist he had touched.
The heat of his fingers lingered on her skin like a ghost. Beside her, her mother was speaking — something about Lord Newfield, something about the next dance — but the words arrived as if through water, muffled and distant.
Near the far pillar, half turned away from the ballroom floor but watching through the reflection in the tall gilt-framed mirror, Lord Pennington observed the exchange.
His expression did not change — he was too practiced for that — but his hand, resting on the marble ledge beside him, curled slowly into a fist. Lord Granton, standing at his elbow, had noticed it too.
“Coventry seems rather attentive to Miss Oldham,” Granton remarked, his tone carefully light.
Pennington’s jaw flexed. “Merely being polite, I would imagine.” His voice carried a thinness that belied the words. “I understand they are barely acquainted.”
Granton gave him a sidelong look but said nothing more.