Chapter Thirty
ALEXANDER HAD DRESSED FOR SCORES OF BALLS IN HIS LIFETIME.
Some with indifference, most with at least a patina of excitement.
Tonight, the emotion rioting through his body felt more like terror.
He’d jumped off a cliff once into freezing sea waters on a dare from other boys at school.
As he’d hit the icy water, he’d felt all the air leave his body in a single, deep whoosh.
Now, as his valet adjusted his cravat, a similar sensation occurred, only over and over and over again.
And what if she didn’t come? She had only said that she’d perhaps attend. A megrim might come on or she might have found a particularly good book; she might simply wish to avoid his company.
His valet cleared his throat, suggesting he was finished dressing him, and Alexander gathered himself and headed downstairs to his waiting carriage. He tried to regulate his breathing on the ride to the Courtenays’ house, so that he might not sprint like a madman to Harriet’s side upon seeing her.
By the time he arrived, he’d calmed himself to some degree.
This wasn’t the last time he’d ever see her again.
At least, he hoped not. He also hoped he had arrived before she had.
He didn’t want to miss a moment of her. Alexander wasn’t one for arriving early at a ball; he’d always found the practice gauche and overeager.
Besides, the most interesting people arrived later.
The prospect of his wife’s company was making him gauche and overeager.
The ballroom was sparse when he entered and was subsequently announced.
He scanned the room quickly, compulsively for Harriet.
When he didn’t see any sign of her, he headed to the refreshment table.
A stronger drink was tempting, but he had sherry instead.
He needed his wits about him for the evening.
The ballroom slowly filled, and Alexander circled gingerly, doing his best to avoid conversation.
He felt too tightly wound for either pleasantries or business.
Despite choosing sherry, his brain felt muddled with nerves.
Normally, he’d be halfway through a dance with a woman or trying to extricate himself from talk of land with a stodgy marquess.
Unfortunately, being on his own made him an easy target for the person he wanted to see least: his father.
“Where is your wife?” the duke asked, disposing with anything that might resemble the beginning of a conversation.
“Trouble already?” The satisfaction writ on his father’s face turned Alexander’s nerves quickly into ire.
He tried to force himself to take a breath before responding.
Not that his father deserved cordiality, but simply to make certain he didn’t give the man more ammunition.
“She’s arriving later.” Alexander dearly hoped this was true.
“Oh, so the rumors aren’t true, then? I heard she was no longer in residence with you.” Alexander stiffened and tried to bite back the urge to curse or punch the man.
“I didn’t know you followed gossip,” Alexander bit out.
“I do when it might embarrass my name.”
The man was truly insufferable. Did he want Harriet gone so he could gloat about another man’s wife leaving him or did he want her there to keep the reputation of their family intact?
Was she an unfit wallflower beneath his notice or the future of the ducal line?
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask his father some version of that question when the duke looked up at the staircase where guests were arriving and smirked. “Ahh. She is here, then.”
Alexander remained frozen in place. He could not turn and look in case his face betrayed the emotions he felt for Harriet. “I said as much, did I not?” he offered, affecting an air of composure he did not possess.
Suddenly, his father’s face changed; his eyebrows snapped together and his cheeks became redder, a feat Alexander wouldn’t have thought possible. “Why is she with him?”
Alexander desperately wanted to turn around now. Good God, had she brought Mr. Dawkins with her? But his father didn’t know the man and he’d hurt Harriet gravely; she wouldn’t have brought him to a ball. What man would she have brought? Why would she bring a man at all?
He turned slowly, his ears ringing as the majordomo announced Harriet and …
John? His eyes confirmed the announcement, but his mind was adrift in a sea of confusion.
His heart, however, was not confused at all.
As soon as he saw her—in a dress so clearly meant to kill him—his heart stopped.
Which was so obviously the aim of the modiste.
He was surprised that the entire ballroom didn’t grind to a halt.
Until, looking around, he found that it sort of … had.
Every pair of eyes was either trained on Harriet and John or pretending not to be.
They were staring at John, of course. Harriet allowed herself a private moment of enjoyment at the attention, before the stares quickly turned stifling.
Perhaps being a nonpareil would be more uncomfortable than she’d imagined.
She found herself blushing madly, unsure where to look or go.
John, thankfully, offered her his arm and escorted her down the stairs.
He leaned over to whisper in her ear, “Excellent dress choice, if I may be so bold.” Harriet blushed even deeper, but somehow the nicety, the reminder that she wasn’t alone in this, bolstered her enough for her to whisper back.
“On the contrary, it’s what’s on my arm that’s making people envious.”
“I may be the source of their attention, but it’s not envy. It is curiosity. Half the room likely assumed I had done the polite thing and died a couple years back.”
Harriet tried her best not to laugh at the jest, instead letting out a snort as they made their way down the stairs. The warmth she felt for him overwhelmed her, making her suddenly feel quite overcome with sincerity.
“John, I have to tell you—” She stopped herself, struck at his earnest attention to her words.
“I’m so glad we’re family. Even if—” She almost sullied the sentiment with a mention of his brother and decided not to say anything further.
She shook her head and continued walking.
John simply squeezed her hand. To recover, she changed topics. “Shall we get a lemonade?”
“Certainly, and make mine a champagne,” he teased.
As they made their way to the refreshment table, Harriet tried her best to keep her heart and steps steady, not to search the room for Alexander.
She found it odd not to know if he was present.
Odd that her body wasn’t somehow aware of him.
Indeed, she had no earthly idea what her uneven breathing said about his whereabouts.
Shouldn’t she be able to sense him? Or was that just the fluff of romantic novels?
She drank her lemonade down quickly, glad she hadn’t switched to champagne in tandem with John.
After setting her glass down on an errant footman’s tray, she finally turned back toward the ballroom and its occupants.
She watched the dance floor intensely, hoping both to see Alexander and not to see him there.
Watching him dance with another woman might no longer shock her, but it would hurt.
She didn’t see him. Longing and relief in equal measure rushed to fill the emptiness inside her. The music died down and dance partners left, returning to their mothers or their card games as new pairs filled the floor.
“Shall we show them how it’s done?” came John’s voice from behind her. She nodded and let him lead her to the floor at the start of the next song.
The dance began and Harriet did her best to hide the amount of effort she was putting in to merely keep up.
Despite his insistence otherwise, John had been a quick study.
He and their dance instructor seemed to speak a language Harriet barely understood.
John led with a grace and ease that Harriet could never hope to achieve.
“If only Mr. Monroe could see you now,” Harriet said, surprised to see John blush at the mention of him. “You do him great credit.”
“You think so?” John asked. Harriet had the impression that it took effort to make the question sound offhanded, that John was keeping his desperation on a tight leash. An idea occurred to her, and she opened her mouth to ask a question, then shut it again, unsure.
“I know so. I’m positive he was elated to have you as a student, especially after the effort it took with me.”
“Nonsense. You were a wonderful pupil. He said no other students of his had done so much reading beforehand.” The admission confirmed Harriet’s suspicion that the two of them had been talking privately.
Harriet laughed lightly and let herself be spun away from John.
When they rejoined one another, she saw an unfamiliar look on his face.
As the dance ended, John leaned over to her and, looking almost guilty of something, began, “Harriet, you know I—I’m—I don’t like …” She’d never seen him anything other than fully confident in himself, in his words.
Harriet rested a hand on his arm. “I think I might be a lost cause, but you—you should continue your lessons with Mr. Monroe.”
They both knew John had no more need for dance lessons than Harriet did reading instruction. His eyes shone with emotion.
They made their way off the dance floor, only to be halted by the imposing figure of the Duke of Belhaven. On his arm was the willowy and silent woman from the Hendersons’ ball.
“Who is she?” Harriet whispered quickly to John, hoping to sound casual in her interest.
“Miss Cressida Holmes. Father’s mistress. I imagine the poor dear thinks he’ll marry her now.”