Chapter 6 #2
Hetty waited at the top of the staircase long after her parents had swept down into the throng, resting her gloved hand upon the balustrade.
It was a calculated act, for to delay even a moment was to command the full attention of the room, and she was rewarded almost at once: a silence rippled through the ballroom below.
Conversations faltered, fans stilled mid-flutter, and half a dozen quizzing glasses rose in eager alignment, like so many owls catching sight of a mouse.
One young gentleman misjudged his footing and toppled against a pedestal, scattering a fountain of hothouse lilies across the floor.
She smiled as descended, her pale blue gown trailing behind her.
She was not, she reflected, quite the same girl she had been last Season – nor, indeed, even the ball before.
She was now the Diamond of the Season, a most horrifying development.
Very well, then – if she must be likened to a jewel, she would dazzle them all with her brilliance, and then when her fall came, the scandal would shatter twice as loudly for the height from which she had dropped.
If only she could have heard the whispers that raced like sparks across the ballroom, she would have known her performance was succeeding perfectly.
“That is Miss Tolliver. The one who ruined Lord Crimplethorpe’s waistcoat!”
“Intentionally?”
“So it is said.”
A wistful sigh followed. “She does have the look of mischief about her. I only wish it had been my idea.”
“Lord Langley danced with her four times.”
“There is always scandal where Lord Langley is concerned.”
Hetty reached the final step where Theo was waiting, leaning against the newel post. He straightened at once and bowed with just enough theatricality to draw attention.
“Miss Tolliver,” he said smoothly, offering his gloved hand.
Hetty placed her fingers into his palm and he brought her hand to his lips, not with haste, but with a deliberation that hovered on the edge of propriety.
When his eyes lifted to meet hers, they were full of mischief.
“If your entrance lasted a moment longer, the company may have begun applauding. You do make a sport of torturing the ton . I daresay we are off to an excellent start.”
She fluttered her lashes, aware of her mother’s hawk-like attention from across the room.
Lady Tolliver was already seated just within view, flanked by a trio of matrons, all of whom had turned their heads at Hetty’s entrance with varying degrees of envy and appraisal.
Her mother gave a single nod and resumed her furious fanning.
“How very devoted you are this evening, Lord Langley,” Hetty said dryly. “One might almost mistake you for a gentleman with honourable intentions.”
“Only to those who warrant it,” he replied, tucking her hand into the crook of his arm. “And you, my dear Miss Tolliver, are owed nothing but my undivided attention. Devotion feels a touch premature, don’t you think?”
Hetty allowed Theo to guide her through the crush, past a knot of girls whispering behind their fans and onward to the long table groaning with syllabub, orgeat, and champagne. He handed her a glass with exaggerated ceremony, as though they were already engaged in some private comedy.
“To your triumph,” he murmured, raising his own.
“Triumphs are terribly dull things. I had thought we were conspiring towards calamity.”
“Yes, but calamity is best served with bubbles,” he said, tapping his glass against hers. “When shall we begin our scandalous tête-à-tête in the library? ”
“We shall dance the waltz first,” Hetty said, glancing at her dance card. “There is one in the seventh set.”
“Ah yes. We must pace ourselves. Half the fun of a performance is prolonging the anticipation.”
It was at that moment Hetty noticed a distinguished semi-circle of the most formidable matrons in London: the Lady Patronesses of Almack’s, those rarefied arbiters of consequence, enthroned amidst a rustle of feathers and fans. They formed, as it were, a tribunal of taste and reputation.
Lady Jersey herself perched among them, a fan suspended from one gloved hand and a glass of orgeat in the other.
She spoke without lowering her voice, as though conscious the room was eager to catch every syllable.
“That Tolliver girl… Mark me, she shall sow more mischief this Season than a regiment of rakes, and every young man in London will follow her straight into it.”
A titter of laughter followed, quickly subdued behind the sweep of ostrich plumes.
“You deem her dangerous, then?” came an arch enquiry from the lady at her left.
“No, my dear,” said Lady Jersey with a languid flick of her fan. “I deem her compelling. And, as we all know, there is no quality more perilous in a young lady than that.”
Hetty’s pulse leapt, though not in delight.
To be named thus by Lady Jersey, whose nod could crown or destroy a reputation, was a triumph most young ladies might only dream of – the Incomparable not of the scandal sheets, nor even of the Queen, but the head of Almack’s herself.
Still, Hetty could not help but feel the title bore rather too close a resemblance to being awarded Best Heifer at the fair.
One might be polished and prized, but the outcome was much the same: to be sold off to the highest bidder and expected to breed handsomely.
Better to rattle the pen with horns and hooves before the gate was locked so that Society might see she was not a placid creature to be led by the halter.
At her side, Theo bent his head close enough that the curl of his breath tickled her ear.
“Diamond of the First Water, indeed,” he murmured, with a smile that made the words sound less like a coronation and more like a jest. “Congratulations, my dear. Shall we see how many gentlemen we can blind with the reflection?”
“Blind them?” she whispered back. “I was rather hoping we might trample a few.”
From the alcove of matrons came another voice: “Such a girl will be married off before Michaelmas. See if she is not.”
Hetty’s smile stiffened as the first chord of the set struck up. Oh yes – time to trample, indeed.