26 #2
There was a crystalline moment of silence as the man pulled back and stared at her.
But in the next it was broken as he burst into laughter.
“You’re right in that, Glenny. Though I can hardly countenance that this event is the thing to lure you away from Cornwall.
Didn’t think you liked Durand. Of course, most of us here don’t care for the man, the pompous blowhard.
” He let loose another bark of laughter before his expression suddenly shifted, turning heavy lidded as he looked her up and down.
“But what say you to saving a dance for me, for old times’ sake?
We have much history after all, you and I. ”
Iris’s burst of confidence sputtered out almost as quickly as it had come.
Dancing? No, that she could not do. The loud music and the twirling and forced gaiety and laughter?.
.? .? Even just recalling such scenes from her disastrous season had her stomach pitching.
Before she could think of how to reply to the man—someone that Mrs. Shaw had had a much closer relationship with than Iris could have guessed—a commotion started up at the musicians’ balcony.
And then a booming voice sounded, announcing Lord Durand.
As the entirety of the guests, including Mr. Chartreuse, turned to listen to the earl’s pompous speech, Iris took the opportunity to slip off.
In a moment she had located an isolated corner, the lavish flora used to decorate the space blessedly providing a much-needed source of concealment.
She would remain here, tucked behind this Camellia japonica —truly, a beautiful specimen; the forced blooms were the most lovely shade of red—until the ball was well under way.
Surely the easiest part of the evening was about to begin.
Or so Iris had believed. But as the crowd in the ballroom grew, as the music swelled, as the grating sounds of conversation and laughter bounced off the wall behind her and became trapped in the small space she had believed would provide her with nothing but security, Iris found it was not easy. Not easy at all.
Her nails dug mercilessly into the scarred skin of her wrist, but she didn’t have the ability to stop herself or even care. How she wished for Oliver’s cuff. Having it about her wrist had been like the man himself hugging her.
She pressed against the silk-papered wall at her back as a group of men drew next to the potted plant and began to converse in animated tones about the recently discovered Coelogyne cristata that one of the men had hopes of gaining for his collection.
No, she could not draw comfort from her memories of Oliver.
To think of him in such a manner, after fully realizing the insurmountable wedge that was between them, would only slice her heart into ribbons.
And right now, in this moment, she needed her wits about her.
Something that was becoming increasingly difficult as the minutes ticked by.
Her head pounded and she pressed her palms to her temples, fighting the increasingly frantic urge to rip the wig from her head.
She could not lose control. Not now. She merely had to wait a half an hour, until the ball was in full swing.
The Widows had all deemed, after having discerned the schedule of the evening’s entertainments, that particular window would be the best time to put their plans in motion, when the collective attention of everyone was on merriment, when spirits were high and alcohol was flowing freely.
When the focus of not only the guests, but Lord Durand and most of the servants as well, was confined to this space.
Only then could she exit to the hall, create the necessary distraction to draw the attention of anyone who might be in the vicinity, and give the Widows their chance to enter the place.
But that half hour was one of the most excruciating of her life, the small gold watch suspended on a delicate chain about her neck fairly worn out for how often she checked it.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, it was time to move from her hiding place and make her way out into the hall.
Shaking her head to clear it as best she could, she peered out from behind the potted plant.
Blessedly there was no one about her small corner, everyone’s attention on the dancers.
Taking a steadying breath, trying to see past the sudden bursts of light turning her vision hazy, she stepped from behind the camellia, inched her way along the wall to the entrance—
And found her path immediately blocked by that same chartreuse waistcoat as before.
“Glenny, I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” the man said. “You never did promise me that dance, you know.”
But Iris could not deal with that person, or anyone really.
She could hardly see straight, much less think how to best deflect the attentions of someone who knew Mrs. Shaw so well.
“I need to use the retiring room,” she mumbled thickly, trying not to sway where she stood.
Goodness, at this rate she would have no trouble at all feigning her fainting fit in the hall.
The only problem now was, of course, waiting to faint in the proper spot.
Feeling as if needles were being jammed into her skull, it took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to crumple to the ground and curl herself into a ball.
“Why don’t I walk you there, and we can talk on the way?
” Without waiting for her permission, the man wrapped one meaty hand about her arm and began tugging her toward the door.
The panic that had been fighting to be heard broke free and screamed in her skull, fed by the crowd surrounding them, the music, the jarring voices in her ear.
Those needles in her head turned to hot nails, driving deep.
She gasped, closing her eyes tight, and felt herself sway off balance as Mr. Chartreuse yanked her along.
Suddenly a strong arm wound about her waist, a solid figure pressing into her side and holding her up. And then a familiar, dear voice sounded through a long, muffled tunnel.
“It seems the lady is in need of air. Please return to your party while I assist her.”
Oliver? No, surely it couldn’t be. She fought through the suffocating haze in her mind but could not pull herself free to check.
“I say, I have the lady in hand— Gah!”
There was the faint sound of a scuffle, Iris tilting ever so slightly before she was quickly righted again.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. I must have tripped. You’d better get that seen to.”
And then Iris was being propelled along, stumbling in her heels, the only thing holding her upright the arm about her waist. After what seemed an eternity, while she suffocated in a miasma of fear and excruciating pain, that beloved voice again, close to her ear.
“Iris! Iris, come back to me, sweetheart.”
God, it truly was Oliver. She reached out blindly, fingers convulsing around something solid and warm. “Hold me,” she gasped.
There was not even a beat of a pause, strong arms wrapping around her.
“Tighter,” she managed, hot tears burning her eyes.
He did as she bid, pulling her in close, his chest an unmovable expanse against her front, arms like steel bands against her back.
The pain in her head began to subside, releasing her from its cruel grip, the breath drawing into her lungs for what felt the first time in an eternity, and she sagged in relief.
He sensed the moment she was free of her paralyzing panic. His arms eased ever so slightly, his hands kneading into the aching muscles of her back. “Are you all right?” he murmured in her ear.
She nodded. But when he would have released her, she leaned in closer, balling her hands in the front of his jacket. “Just a bit longer,” she whispered. “Please.”
He did not hesitate, pulling her close again. They stood that way for a time, not speaking, wrapped in the darkness of whatever room or closet he had guided her to. The sounds of the ball were loud through the walls, but not so loud that her panic would return.
But time was not on her side. She had already delayed long enough; she could not waste a minute more—no matter how much she wished she could remain here in his arms.
First, however, there was something she needed to know. Pulling back, she peered up at him in the shadows. His features were stark with worry, but his eyes were soft as he gazed down at her.
“How did you find me?” she managed.
His lips quirked. “I would know you anywhere, Iris.”
Her heart gave a heavy thump in her chest in longing.
“However, it is a brilliant disguise,” he continued. He touched her wig gingerly. “I daresay I wouldn’t have seen you beneath it all had I not known you better.”
She searched his eyes. Even in the deep shadows, even with her total lack of understanding of nuances in human manners, she could see the tenderness there. “Do you know me so well then?” she asked quietly.
“I believe I do.” He took a deep breath, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry, Iris. I’m sorry for trying to dissuade you from doing the right thing.”
She frowned, confusion and a vague, ephemeral hope taking shape in her chest. “What are you trying to say, Oliver?”
He opened his eyes again, and the fierce determination there nearly took her breath away. “I’m saying I’m done being a coward.” And then, with a determined smile that held not an ounce of doubt, “I’m going to help you tonight. I’ll make certain, no matter what, you find your mother’s papers.”