Chapter Four #3
“Today is not the day,” she reminded herself, as she remembered her focus ought to be on her cousin. She had let a pair of cool, bottle-green eyes disturb her peace for far too long that evening.
“Not the day for what, my lady?” a familiar baritone asked from behind her.
“Oh!” Petra whirled around quickly, her fan still in her hand as she whacked Lord Wolfridge across the chest.
Directing his gaze to his chest before meeting her eyes once more, a slow, predatory smile unfurled across the gentleman’s lips.
“You wound me, Lady Petra. Twice in one evening.”
“What are you doing here, my lord?” She had not even entered the retiring room, as she had been thrown by those two peahens who were gossiping about her cousin. How silly she must have appeared to him leaning against the wall and brandishing her fan.
“I—” For a moment the smirk left his face, as if no charming response came immediately to mind.
“You appeared unnerved before, my lady. I sought to make sure you are quite well.” Petra glanced up at him to again try to discern his motive.
Avoiding her gaze, he added, “As your pretend courtship partner, it seemed my duty.”
Petra sighed and leaned further into the wall, or as far as her crinolines would allow.
That made sense. Lord Wolfridge needed to appear to be attuned to her well-being and good cheer if he was in any kind of a courtship with her.
“I am quite well, my lord. Though I should like to check on my cousin. This is her first ball.”
“Then let me escort you, my lady.” Lord Wolfridge offered his arm and another small zip of energy coursed through her, even through the fabric of her gloved hand and the multiple layers of his sleeves.
Pushing that fanciful thought aside, she concentrated on locating Jillian.
Petra knew a waltz was about to begin. She had purposefully denied others the waltz, as it would not have been appropriate to dance with anyone besides Lord John.
Her eyes widened as she realized she had barely thought of the man all evening. Where could he be?
As she and Lord Wolfridge began their descent down the grand staircase, the answer to both of her questions appeared on the ballroom floor before them.
In the dim candlelight, Petra witnessed Jillian executing a graceful curtsy before Lord John, who returned the gesture with a bow of formal elegance.
Yet, the very instant their gazes locked, Petra felt the air leave her lungs.
The look shared between the two was one she could only describe as pure longing.
The man Petra had been certain she would marry pulled her cousin close, beginning a dance of the most intimate nature.
For the third and worst time that evening, Petra was frozen as a statue.
Only her eyes moved while she drank in the scene before her.
As they twirled, Lord John gazed down at her cousin as if she were a precious commodity and he needed to ration the time he spent in her presence.
Jillian snuck glances at Lord John with a frequency that betrayed a profound wistfulness, as if she were recalling fragments of a cherished memory.
Despite their distance, Petra remained acutely attuned to the subtle softening of her cousin’s posture, perceiving with a jarring clarity that Jillian had found a sanctuary within his embrace.
The word safe filled Petra’s mind with startling resonance as tears began to prick the back of her eyes.
And then another word, a bigger word, rose out of the abyss of her mind.
A word so large and powerful, she had almost never used it.
The only people she had ever used such a word about were her dear late mama, and Jillian.
If she cared about Lord John the way she thought she did, the word ought to strike her dead.
But instead, while she grieved the future she was just learning they would never have, Petra was overwhelmed by the beauty of what she saw before her as memories assuaged her.
Jillian mentioning going off with her old friend, Jack.
Jack, a nickname for John, which Petra had never realized could belong to the man she had hoped to marry.
Their neighboring estates near Kent that Petra had never visited.
While he was unfailingly polite, not once had Lord John ever truly asked for her hand, she recalled with a pang of shame.
Despite her father’s constant reminders of a union over the years, no formal betrothal had ever existed.
“There was no understanding between us.” Swallowing hard, she became painfully aware that she had remained motionless upon the staircase, a target for the scrutinizing eyes of Polite Society for quite some time.
In a swift, protective maneuver, Lord Wolfridge reached the first landing and turned her toward him, effectively shielding Petra, her cousin, and his best friend from the gathering crowd’s prying gazes.
Looking up at him, she glimpsed an expression entirely beyond his usual cynicism, making him appear far younger than she had ever known him to be.
“What can I do?” he asked in a low voice.