Chapter 7
Ernestine had never been in the company of many men. Really, only her cousin Roland had been her friend. In general, young ladies did not have the opportunity to mingle with men who were not family.
And from what little Ernestine could tell, they were so often only interested in hunting and chasing a fox to ground.
Few had good conversation. Almost none were really interested in history, though they had been forced to learn epic poems by Homer.
Most of them had gone on great tours of Europe, but most of them had no actual interest in what they saw.
No, they merely went and collected things, even the sons of merchants, who she spent more time with than the sons of lords.
But now?
By God, now she had a much different opinion of men.
Perhaps she had simply been with the wrong ones, because now she had been in the arms of several rather excellent gentlemen, she was quite surprised to find that she did not mind it at all.
First, under the soaring ceiling painted with exploits of the duke’s ancestors dressed as Roman gods, the Duke of Rivers had asked her to dance. And, heavens, that had caused a stir!
The entire ballroom had almost gone completely silent when that giant of a man, who seemed to be slightly abrupt in speech but quite kind, had taken her in his arms and danced an allemande.
For why would a duke ever pay attention to someone as lowly and unimportant as she, someone who clearly had no interest in being noticed?
In general, she loved the whirling, twirling allemande, but she preferred to dance it with her cousin, Delia, in the privacy of their home. They often giggled as they became breathless, racing up and down, skipping and spinning.
Besides, no one really ever asked her to dance because she put out an attitude that told one that if they dared approach her, she was going to give them a good talking to, possibly about Socrates, possibly about Seneca, possibly about the fall of the Roman Empire.
And so most gentlemen never bothered trying, for men loathed being lectured to, though they adored lecturing!
However, it seemed there was a certain kind of gentleman who did not find her looks upsetting or even her chatter difficult.
Rivers had seemed to delight in talking about Emperor Marcus Aurelius, as if that gentleman had been a guiding light in his life for most of his years.
She quite liked Aurelius too, because his writings, and all his arguments, had gotten her through some of the worst years after her parents’ death, along with the kindness of her aunt and her cousins.
Even now, when she faced the dark, yawning maw of despair, which came to her at this time of year, when the anniversary of her parents’ death was near, she clung to the teachings of Marcus Aurelius to get her through the difficult hours, minutes, days, until, at last, the time passed.
She could get through most of the year in a manageable amount of sorrow, clinging to the idea that soon, when she was away from this country, that she would at last find peace with her friends in her villa, no longer surrounded by the ghosts of her youth.
Then, of course, another gentleman had asked her to dance.
Viscount Skyburn. And, goodness, what a fellow he was!
The man had taken her about the room in a reel with a sort of bouncing energy one expected of a greyhound racing across the fields.
He was beautiful, strong, witty, and she found him to be quite funny.
He loved making her laugh, commenting on the rather nefarious natures of certain Roman emperors and, of course, some of their company.
He was never cruel about anyone, but he certainly seemed to have quite an eye for who was a fool and who was not.
Then, right after that, the Duke of Westfort, a recently married man, had asked her to dance. One after another, powerful gentlemen asked her to dance, and the entire ballroom was tittering about it.
Even Lord Philip, the Duke of Westfort’s brother, had asked her to dance, and she now felt as if she had been surrounded by a bastion of men so powerful, so handsome, and so strong that she was in an entirely different world.
There was a part of her that did feel quite nervous though. Because no matter what the Earl of Seaborough said, she did feel like Icarus, flying too close to the sun with borrowed wings made of wax and feathers because these gentlemen were the sun.
They were gods, and surely such a mortal as she should never make such an attempt.
And if they were gods, surely, like the statue she had been attached to, Seaborough was Cupid and she was a mere mortal named Psyche.
Though she would never be as beautiful as that particular lady, she feared suffering a similar fate, even if it had worked out for Cupid and Psyche in the end.
Surely, she was mistaken.
The Earl of Seaborough had no interest in her, but when he at last strolled across the ballroom after she had danced with Lord Philip, bowed to her, and offered her his hand, her heart had begun to pound in her chest.
How could it not?
And when she trustingly put her hand into his big, strong hand, he had whisked her away into a world she’d never dared to be interested in before.
Surely, she wasn’t interested in it now!
Why would she be? But as she spun about in her simple gown, surrounded by glittering candelabras, winking jewels, shining silks of every hue, with feathers of every color and size bobbing about her, there was a moment in which all her sorrow, all her frustrations, and all her grief from over the years disappeared.
They disappeared when she gazed up into his eyes and saw a man who really wished to rescue her. To help her. To see her. To understand her.
“Have you been having fun?” he asked in that captivating, rough voice of his.
“Indeed, sir. I have danced more dances this night than I have in my entire Season.”
“Four,” he blurted, his eyes widening with surprise.
She laughed. “Yes, four. And certainly the caliber of dancing is far better than any I have known before, except Delia. She beats you all.”
The earl smiled, and his hand flexed ever so slightly under her shoulder blade. “Then I shall have to ask her to dance. So she can teach me.”
That touch, that light but undeniable touch, nearly stole all her thoughts away.
She swallowed and managed, “Oh, please do. It will thrill her mama to no end, and it’ll open a swath of matches that Delia never dared hope for. She really deserves the best. She’s the most wonderful cousin. You should consider her.”
The earl started to laugh, then choked. “You can’t be serious.”
She scowled. “Is there something wrong with her—”
“Madam,” he cut in. “How can you say such a thing when it is clear I am interested in you?”
“Are you?” she asked. Her insides tightened…with something akin to nerves. But it was warm and soft, and filled her with a most annoying longing. “I thought it was mere gossip.”
“Miss Foxley,” he began, as their feet traversed the waxed floor, “in a lot of gossip, there’s usually a kernel or a seed of truth.
I do find you interesting. And yes, Miss Delia is quite lovely, and I’m sure she is an excellent dancer, but she will never inspire the kind of feelings that I have for you. ”
She swallowed. Again, her dratted heart beginning to flutter. “And what sort of feelings are those?”
“Curiosity and fascination are first,” he returned, his eyes half hooded as if these were the most desirable things in the world. “What makes a young lady like you ram a parasol into the son of a duke when you know they’re the son of a duke?”
“Because I refuse to be treated ill,” she said.
“So you have standards for yourself, and you don’t care about the consequences.”
She snorted. “Of course I care about the consequences. Only fools don’t care about consequences, but you have to be willing to take them,” she said. “There’s a moment you have to decide if you’re willing to pay the cost to stand up for yourself.”
“And you are?” he asked softly.
She considered, then nodded. “Yes, I am. We have but a little time on this earth. One never knows when it’s going to be taken away, and I’m not going to betray myself for a gentleman.”
“Well said,” he replied.
“Thank you,” she said. “Just fair warning. I feel the same in regard to you. I won’t take any bad treatment. Do you understand?”
“I would never treat you badly,” he said. “I wish to do the opposite. I wish to lift you up and to lighten you—”
“What?” she blurted, confused, as he turned her under his arm.
“I see it in you. The sadness there? Surely I can…”
“No,” she cut in swiftly, her palms turning clammy. “You cannot. It is ingrained. That sadness is ingrained in me, sir. Stamped, carved, if you will. Please make no attempts to change it, just as I will not make any attempts to change you.”
“Do you think I should change?” he rushed, surprised.
“I don’t know. Do you?” she asked.
He let out a long sigh. “No, and I have no intention of doing so. Like yourself, I suppose. I like the way I live, and…”
“Good for you,” she cut in, pursing her lips. “If you like the way you live, you should continue doing so.”
“But what if I wanted you to be a part of my life?” he asked softly.
“Why would you want that?” she asked, the panicked note in her voice surprising her.
He paused, met her gaze, angled her so that her face was tilted upward and their bodies nearly touched, and declared, “Because I am a believer in certain marks of fate, and I think we met for a reason.”
“We met so that you could untie my bonnet from that statue and I would get unstuck,” she said.
“Come now,” he tsked. “Don’t you believe in a life a little bit more exciting than that?”
“Sir, are you a Neoplatonist?” she asked.
He guffawed with laughter. “A Neoplatonist?” he asked.
“Yes. Do you believe that we are all so much more than just our individual selves?”
He blinked. “I suppose I haven’t really considered it.”
“Well, it sounds to me as if you believe in some sort of magic or some sort of idea that things are not random.”
“Things aren’t random,” he said.
“Then my parents’ death,” she said softly, “was for a reason?”
He winced. “I’m sorry. Those particular moments are much more difficult to negotiate.”
“But why?” she protested, feeling agitated. “Why should a positive moment, such as me being caught by a statue, have more meaning and reason than the death of my parents? Can you argue for both, sir?”
He winced. “I don’t think that I should try.”
She was surprised, but she was also pleased. “Good, I’m glad, because I wouldn’t wish to hear it. Life is a series of events and one must simply respond to them,” she said.
“Then what will you do after this night?” he queried. “Now that the entire ton realizes how magnificent you are.”
“But I am not magnificent, sir,” she corrected. “I am simple, and I have no wish for the grand glittering life as you do. All I want is—”
“Yes, yes.” He sighed. “To go to Italy. I could take you there,” he said.
“But why would you want to?” she replied.
“Because I hunger for someone like you.”
“You hunger for something that you do not know because it is exciting and a rarity, but I will not be a novelty for you. I am not some treat to be had.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You think you know me well, don’t you?”
“I don’t know you at all,” she replied.
But she did not know how to tell him that no matter how she might wish to know him, she could not.
She’d made up her mind a long time ago. The only love she had in her heart was for a place because people were always taken away.
Something had happened to her heart many years ago.
It had frozen. And she did not know how to make it thaw.