Chapter 12

"Ah! Your Grace. A delight to see you again," Lady Kepford gushed. "My dear Priscilla was quite hopeful that you might be here."

Sidney stood in the corner of his sister's ballroom at Barrydale House. The chandeliers poured bright golden light down on the polished marble floor of the ballroom. The sound of delicate conversation filled his ears, and a soft breeze wafted through the door that led to the terrace. He gazed across at her daughter, Priscilla, who was known—as she was the daughter of a baron—as The Honorable Miss Highbury.

Her lovely dark-colored hair was arranged in a mass of curls decorated with small, white flowers. She wore a white gown with a low square neckline showing pale skin. The overskirt was lace and she would have looked beautiful, except that her mouth was set in a curl of distaste, her hazel eyes flint-hard and aloof.

"I expect that Priscilla's card will fill up fast," Lady Kepford continued, her own hazel eyes piercing and expectant.

Sidney drew a breath. He did not wish to dance with Miss Highbury, but her mother was clearly, and not indirectly, trying to make him ask her. He cleared his throat.

"May I dance the quadrille with you, Miss Highbury?" He managed to ask. His throat was tight and he cleared it. He did not wish to dance with her, but when he thought to refuse, he imagined Willowick in ruins, his father's legacy a barren wasteland and their tenants evicted because the cottages were falling down.

Miss Highbury shot her mother a hard look, then inclined her head to him in a gesture that was the limit of politeness. "I will reserve you the quadrille," she said, her tone so frosty that Sidney was amazed he had not caught a chill from it.

"There! You may rest assured," Lady Kepford said with a delight that sounded feigned even to his ears. "My daughter will save you the quadrille."

Sidney looked away. The mix of desperation and distaste in Lady Kepford's tone hurt him. She was clearly desperate to find a duke for her daughter, or she would not have cast an eye on him. She found him repellent, he could tell, and he felt a sting of pain and anger.

If you think I am so unbearably ugly, then let me have my peace, he wanted to shout.

He gazed out across the ballroom.

Guests stood about, drinking from delicate wineglasses. Across the room, Amy was talking to Henry and some of her guests, her lovely dark hair arranged in an elaborate bun. She caught his eye and beamed. She had not discussed the guest-list with him despite his protestation that she did so. His stomach clenched with excitement at the thought that, just perhaps, Lady Anastasia might be included.

***

He heard the quartet begin to tune up and he tensed. He had no idea when the quadrille would be on the list, but he suspected it would be soon. His stomach twisted nervously and when the introduction played, he groaned. It was a quadrille.

He went to find Miss Highbury.

She was standing with another lady and a gentleman he did not know. He guessed they would partner them for the quadrille, and he bowed low. The gentleman looked frostily at him, and Sidney bridled at the judgmental stare. He was spared having to say anything, as the dance was beginning, and he took Miss Highbury's hand and stepped onto the dance floor.

"Ouch," he murmured as, after two or three steps, she stood on his toe. She had seemed a graceful dancer before, if a little stilted, so he raised his brow in surprise at the unexpected misstep.

When it happened again, and then a third time, and she seemed reluctant to apologize, his back stiffened and he knew she was doing it on purpose. She clearly disliked him immensely, her gloved hand stiff in his. He would almost have been amused at her attempts to put him off if her attitude had not been so hurtful.

You don't know me, he thought, miserably. How can you judge me so cruelly?

The music stopped playing and he bowed low. Miss Highbury gave the barest curtsey. He stared out across the ballroom, his gaze searching for Amy.

She was standing by the wall with Henry, and she spotted him. She wove her way through the crowd so that, by the time he was standing in the midst of a group of people, she was beside him.

"Are you having a pleasant evening?" she asked him, her blue eyes sparkling as she gazed up at him.

"Um...somewhat," Sidney replied unsteadily. "You have organised a splendid ball, dear sister," he added hastily, not wishing to upset her.

She beamed. "I am glad to hear it. Perhaps even more splendid now that a certain person has arrived?"

"A person?" Sidney felt his brow furrow. He gazed around the room, confusedly. "What person would that be?" he asked.

Amy grinned. "She is there, over by the window, brother. The one by the garden door."

Sidney gazed across to where the breeze wafted in, and he gaped. The tall young lady in a pale blue gown, her lovely hair in ringlets about her face, her elbow-length gloves shimmering satin, was clearly nobody other than Lady Anastasia.

"You...you..." Sidney stammered. He had told nobody of his affection for Lady Anastasia—in fact, he had tried to conceal it from Mama, thinking it a hopeless dream. He had not known that Amy knew; nor did he know how.

"Go and dance with her, brother," Amy said, looking up at him with a fond stare. "She doesn't want to have to wait around either, I expect."

Sidney just stared at his sister. He swallowed hard. "I...I couldn't," he murmured. "The scandal..." He tried to explain to his sister that he did not want to cause any harm to Lady Anastasia's good name. His sister laughed.

"This is a private ball," she said swiftly. "I would not permit any of those horrors who pen those scandals to enter this room. We are safe here."

Sidney stared at her. She was right. They were mostly among friends—Henry and Amy's friends, not necessarily his own—but there would almost certainly be nobody witnessing this ball who wished them, or their family, harm.

He inclined his head.

"Mayhap I shall."

His sister beamed. "As you should, brother. I had best hurry. Henry's talking to a footman and perhaps there's some matter of organization that needs discussion." She beamed at her brother and hurried off before he could get a word out.

He swallowed hard. He gazed over at Lady Anastasia. She was standing talking to someone—he could not see whom, but it was another woman. He cleared his throat, heart thumping in terror. It was foolishness, he knew, to feel so afraid—the worst thing that could happen was that she refused. But that would have wounded him terribly. He approached cautiously. A thousand different words flew round his head as he tried to decide what to say.

"My lady." He bowed low.

"Your Grace." Lady Anastasia curtseyed. Her eyes were shining. "Good evening."

"I would be greatly honoured if you would grant me the pleasure of this dance," he stammered. He was too shy to exchange pleasantries. The soft floral scent of her was wafting into his nose and making his heartbeat race wildly, blotting out all thoughts. "The next dance?" he added swiftly, lest he find his courage deserting him.

"Of course." She smiled at him.

"Of course ?" he repeated, staring at her. He had been so sure that she would refuse, or that she would come up with some excuse or other, that her affirmative reply rooted him to the ground. She grinned.

"We'd best hurry," she said, gesturing to the dance floor. "I believe the quartet is already playing the introduction. It's a waltz."

"Good," Sidney murmured. He blushed, feeling foolish. He followed her to the dance floor and took her hand in his. His other hand moved to her shoulder-blade, and he felt hot, crimson blood flush his cheeks as she stepped close.

The music began and he stepped lightly, her steps gliding and smooth as they whirled around the dance floor. It was lively, rather than stately, and they whirled and stepped and whirled.

He shut his eyes for a moment. She was extremely graceful and dancing with her felt like flying, like gliding; as swift and smooth as skating on ice and yet as lively as a song.

She is so beautiful , he thought, his heart twisting. So beautiful and lovely and graceful. I am a beast, a clumsy oaf.

His heart ached as he opened his eyes again. She had her head tipped back; eyes shut.

Perhaps she is dreaming that she is elsewhere, he thought painfully.

He gazed at her longingly and wished that he knew what she was thinking.