19. Chapter 19- Lily
“What is this, our twentieth ball?” Lily said, holding a benign smile upon her face with great effort.
“The twenty-third,” Beatrice supplied.
“It’s twenty-four,” Margaret said confidently. “And you may trust my number—I’ve been keeping a tally in my journal.”
They stood on the sidelines of the dancers.
Laughter rang out, muted candlelight flickered, silk swirled.
Even so, Lily felt very little enchantment.
Though each hostess tried valiantly to outdo the others, every ball was starting to look and feel similar.
There were small differences, she supposed—a larger musical group, better lighting, more flowers.
But the essence of every ball was the same: ladies stood until a man asked them to dance.
Somewhere, there were trays of bite-sized sandwiches, cakes, biscuits, and the like, as well as punch and champagne.
And each one had at least a hundred different people Lily would rather not have been required to brush against.
Claire was currently being swept around the floor by Lord Rutheridge as her sisters watched.
Lily had just begged off from dancing another with a gentleman; her memory of him was already starting to bleed at the edges like a painting left out in the rain.
It wasn’t because he was unmemorable that she’d turned him down—she was beginning to sweat and didn’t want her silk gown to darken beneath the arms. Now, her ash-brown curls flung back with every aggressive wave of her feather-tipped fan.
Beatrice looked toward the ceiling. “You and that infernal book of yours.”
“You’re only jealous that you lack the consistency to journal every day,” Margaret said primly.
Beatrice shrugged. “I simply don’t understand the practice. I know what happened to me. I hardly see the point of writing it down.”
“It’s for posterity.”
“Good heavens! I never thought you arrogant in the least until this precise moment.”
“Arrogant?” Margaret’s eyes went wide. “Why arrogant?”
“It’s remarkably conceited to think that your descendants would find interest in what kind of waffle you had any given morning.”
Margaret frowned. “I write more of note than just breakfast.”
“Aha!” Beatrice exclaimed. “So you do write about breakfast.”
“Only if it’s interesting,” Margaret spluttered defensively.
Lily was only half paying attention to her sisters’ squabble.
She was distracted by Lord Rigsby, who kept edging sideways closer to their grouping.
He’d been staring from a closer vantage point each and every ball.
His cagey mannerisms made Lily nervous—he moved like one might approach a chicken one intended to leap upon in the next moment.
Beatrice followed Lily’s momentary glance. “Ah, look at that. He’s gotten within five feet this time. I know it’s dreadfully awkward for you, but I do feel inclined to feed him a biscuit, pat him on the head, and tell him well done.”
Lily sighed and murmured, “Please don’t do anything to encourage him.”
Apparently, Margaret was reluctant to relinquish the argument until she felt she’d gained more ground, for she said stoutly, “Very well. Perhaps my journals aren’t for posterity. Perhaps they’re just for my own personal edification.”
“To what end?” Beatrice shook her head. “Not only is it a waste of time at the outset, but doubly so if you actually sit down to reread it.”
“It helps me organize my thoughts.”
“Thoughts about waffles?”
Several heads turned their direction, and Lily shushed her sisters from behind her fan.
Margaret lowered her voice and said stiffly, “I don’t expect you to understand all of my interests. I certainly don’t understand all of yours. Should we discuss your recent preoccupation with sailing ships?”
Beatrice narrowed her eyes. Her expression was more alarming to Lily than the fact that Lord Rigsby was now close enough to overhear them—Beatrice had once made precisely that face before she’d slipped a frog into Claire’s bathwater.
“Stop it, both of you,” Lily said quietly, her false smile still in place.
“If you want to bicker, do so at home. Even now you risk making a spectacle of yourselves and our family. And if you don’t care for your own prospects, remember that our four younger sisters are waiting their turn to be presented next year.
How we conduct ourselves will undoubtedly reflect on them. ”
“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured.
“As am I.” Beatrice sighed even though she mimicked Lily’s fake smile. “I wish someone had warned me how tedious a Season could be. Three balls are fun; more than a dozen chafes like an ill-fitting shoe.”
“Goodness, how quickly we become ungrateful for what we once prayed for,” Margaret murmured. “I was journaling about such just the other day.”
Lily fought the urge to narrow her eyes on Margaret, who appeared wholly unaware that her comment might be considered invitation to renew the argument.
Thankfully, Beatrice didn’t take the bait.
“It’s true,” she said. “Of all the things I worried about before the Season started, I never once thought that boredom would be a problem.”
“Who knew that things meant to entertain could become dull through sheer repetition?” Margaret puffed a laugh through her nose.
A rasping sort of cough had Lily frowning and looking around. There, just behind and to her side, was Lord Rigsby. She couldn’t help it, she jerked in surprise, stepping squarely on Margaret’s jeweled slipper.
“Ow,” Margaret hissed.
“Very sorry.”
“Miss Preston,” Lord Rigsby said, his voice high and nasally. “How do you do this evening? You look quite well. Very well, indeed.”
Lily realized she hadn’t heard the man speak but two words when someone had introduced them weeks earlier. What she hadn’t recognized then was that his voice sounded precisely like an underinflated set of bagpipes wheezing to a rest. Now she could do little but stare at him, wide-eyed.
Beatrice stepped smoothly in front of Lily and made a little shooing wave behind her back. “Why, I’m very well indeed. How kind of you to inquire about my health. I was feeling rather peaked a few days ago, but now I’m fully mended.”
Lord Rigsby’s wide eyes flitted over Beatrice’s shoulder to Lily briefly; his mouth opened.
“Don’t be daft, Beatrice,” Margaret said, bustling forward and shunting Lily completely from the group.
“Lord Rigsby was speaking to me, were you not? After all, it’s widely known that I’m the most literary of our sisters, and Lord Rigsby strikes me as a literary man.
Lord Rigsby, did you know that I’ve read most of the Encyclopaedia Britannica?
Well, that’s to say I’ve read most of three of the twenty volumes, but I do have plans to finish the rest eventually. ”
“I enjoy sailing, Lord Rigsby,” Beatrice butted in, smiling widely. “Would you like to know the difference between a frigate and a sloop?”
Lily was edging backward toward the nearest pillar. If she could get out of his line of sight…
“What are you ladies up to now?” Bradford murmured to Lily.
She turned to him with a little gasp, equal parts surprised and relieved at his presence. “I’m trying to escape at the moment, actually.”
He deftly slid her arm into his and hustled her in the opposite direction. “To the punch table, then.”
Lily smiled and kept pace with him. “I wasn’t sure you’d be attending tonight.”
“It’s true—all those years away from London society have come with the rather unforeseen consequence of society forgetting my very existence. Thankfully, there’s a rumor going around that has increased my invitations four-fold overnight.”
“What’s the rumor?”
“That I’m a single gentleman of comfortable fortune.”
Lily laughed. “Who’s been passing about such scurrilous stories?”
“Whoever they are, you should thank them, or I wouldn’t have been in place to escort you away from Lord Rigsby.”
“My sisters had already thrown themselves on that particular sword.”
“There’s no greater show of love than true sacrifice.” His nose wrinkled as he glanced behind them. “Your sister Beatrice must love you very much indeed.”
“Why do you say that?”
“She’s now dancing with the fellow.”
“Is she really?” Lily looked over her shoulder.
Sure enough, Beatrice and Lord Rigsby were dancing—a waltz, no less. By the expressions on their faces, it was hard to ascertain who was more displeased with the arrangement. Though perhaps it was Beatrice, as Lord Rigsby’s upper lip always had that slight curl of disgust.
“Don’t let her sacrifice be in vain,” Bradford murmured, prodding Lily into motion again. “Let’s get you that punch at the very least.”
She smiled at him. “I suppose I must have done something right if my sisters are willing to come to my defense at such great personal cost.”
“They’re protective of you, that’s for certain.”
“I wouldn’t say protective.”
“You didn’t witness the inquisition I was treated to en route to the theater a few weeks ago,” he grumbled.
“Pardon?” she said, tilting her head in curiosity.
“Nevermind. Here we are—the punch table, as requested.”
“I believe it was you who mentioned the punch,” she teased.
“Right.” He frowned down at the table for a moment. “If you’re not thirsty, then perhaps you’d agree to a dance?”
Approximately an hour later, Lily had somehow lost track of Bradford and all of her sisters in the merry fray of the ball.
She blamed the layout of the house—instead of one large ballroom, the marquess’s house was laid out in the French style, where numerous smaller rooms opened up to one another.
It didn’t help that at least fifty more people than could comfortably fit had been invited.
Lily was desperate for some space and air, and she wanted to avoid Lord Rigsby, besides. Though he was twice as bearable now that his attentions seemed to be split between her and Beatrice, Lily vastly preferred when the man had been too intimidated to approach her at all.