Chapter Two #2
Harriet hadn’t even realized how much she’d been hoping for the interaction to go differently until it went precisely as it always did.
Suddenly the low-cut bodice felt foolish.
What was a wallflower doing in this gown?
Why was she trying to look like Philippa at all?
The more they looked alike the clearer it was that what set Harriet and Philippa apart was not their appearance, but something more ephemeral than that, an unnamable something within Philippa that drew people to her, made people want to talk to her, know her, choose her.
Harriet preferred when she’d thought she was simply lacking Philippa’s good looks. She felt rather disheartened to discover that she lacked something much more fundamental.
Philippa returned then, as if summoned by Harriet’s maudlin thoughts.
Next to her, one of the men she’d left with was juggling oranges and being ignored by everyone else in the group.
Harriet felt badly for him, although what would give someone the notion that Philippa would be impressed with orange juggling?
To her credit as a sister, despite the gaggle around her, Philippa focused most of her attention on Harriet. The rest would pair up or dissipate soon enough without Philippa’s special attentions.
“Is there someone you’d like to dance with?”
“I’m not sure that’s the order of things, Philippa—picking men like bonnet ribbons. Although I appreciate the compliment of you believing it to be within my power.”
“Oh, of course it is! I’ll introduce you to any man of your choosing, just point him out.”
“I prefer watching to dancing.”
Philippa leaned in close. “Any gentleman would count himself blessed indeed to be in such proximity to your … abundant assets … tonight. I hardly think he’d notice if you tread on a toe or two.”
Before Harriet could admonish her sister, Philippa abruptly straightened and focused her gaze across the dance floor.
“Is Father here?” Harriet asked, searching the ballroom, trying to find the source of Philippa’s regard.
“No, no. I’m sorry. It’s just, well. He’s here.
He’s been trying to get an audience with me for ages.
It’s become almost tiresome.” Harriet did not believe that Philippa had any idea how often she spoke about men wanting her or throwing themselves at her feet, or if she did, how these blasé announcements felt like pinpricks to Harriet.
Philippa complaining about a man wanting her was as common as using a handkerchief.
Except that when Harriet’s eyes followed Philippa’s across the ballroom, she found herself staring at the least common man she’d ever beheld: Lord Alexander Stirling.
“He wants you?” Harriet choked, quite rudely.
“Desperately,” Philippa groaned, as if it were an inconvenience to be desired by Lord Alexander. Harriet suspected this was at least partly for show. Her sister enjoyed toying with men, and if rumors were to be believed, Lord Alexander was a formidable playfellow.
Philippa languidly turned her body away from the man. Harriet surmised this to be a calculated move, one that made men even more interested in approaching her.
The attention of Lord Alexander was a boon, even if Philippa acted otherwise.
To be sure, he was a duke’s second son. But a duke’s son is a duke’s son, even without the rumors of his brother’s ill-health.
Even if he was known to be an obdurate bachelor—with rumors that he debased himself by dealing in matters of commerce—Lord Alexander Stirling was one of the most striking men to grace a London ballroom since at least before the war.
He was, undeniably, the most beautiful man Harriet had ever seen.
It was embarrassing, for some peculiar reason.
Philippa turned her eyes up to Harriet over the rim of her champagne glass. “Is he coming this way?”
Harriet dreaded having to look over her sister’s shoulder again, dreaded having to watch him with any level of attention, or being in his path at all.
But sisterly duty snapped her head back up to see Lord Alexander striding elegantly and leisurely toward them.
Out of nowhere, her mind formed a distinct image of him walking just as calmly out of a house on fire, and for some reason the scene made her shiver.
“Well? Is he coming?”
Oh, right. Philippa.
“Quite” was all Harriet could manage, for Lord Alexander was only a few yards away at this point.
Philippa adjusted her posture, dabbed carefully at her lips, and glanced down at her bodice to make sure it was sufficiently in danger of exposing her nipples. Then she turned to him, thankfully blocking Harriet from view.
“Lady Ellerton.”
“Lord Alexander, may I in—”
“I have a request of my own first.” Harriet swallowed a laugh. No one interrupted Philippa, least of all a man. Harriet couldn’t wait to hear Philippa’s retort.
“Yes, my lord?”
Yes, my lord? Philippa did not “Yes, my lord” any man!
“This dance. Then you may ask of me whatever you wish.” Harriet rolled her eyes behind her sister’s back. Surely Philippa was not persuaded by this flummery.
“Gladly, my lord.” Harriet took a sharp breath. She’d heard stories of Lord Alexander’s charm before, and certainly the man was handsome, but his ploy struck her as unimpressive. Perhaps his words held more sway when he was actually looking at you.
“Harriet, do you mind?” Philippa turned and held out her half-full champagne glass reluctantly. It was the apology in her eyes that removed the sting of her action. Harriet simply reached for the glass and forced the smile up to her eyes as Philippa was led to the dance floor.
Harriet supposed she ought to take advantage of her solitude to seek out Mr. Dawkins.
No one was even keeping up the pretense that she required a chaperone, and so Harriet wove her way through the ball with ease.
She tried to search the room methodically, but people kept moving, as they were wont to do at balls, she supposed.
She decided to stake out a spot with a good view of the stairway, in case he hadn’t yet arrived.
Seeking out a man so desperately made her feel more than a little doltish.
But she pushed the self-recrimination away.
He was, after all, the raison d’être for her attendance.
Harriet was giddy at the idea of finally getting to speak with him in person, and not having to wait days or even weeks for his correspondence.
Never had she felt so connected, so understood by someone as she did by Mr. Dawkins.
And so, she returned to her almost pathetic search.
All she had to go off of was a likeness of him she’d seen drawn in a periodical a few years back, her only image of the man she’d been corresponding with for so long.
Of course, she had no idea how accurate the depiction was.
And though she’d hinted she’d be in attendance this evening, he still presumed her to be a man.