Chapter 2

"Camilla, dear...what is it?" Anastasia asked in a low voice, turning a wide-eyed blue gaze at her friend. She tucked a strand of pale golden hair out of her eye and frowned at her red-haired friend beside her. Camilla had come to join her the instant two people had joined her and the scarred gentleman; her arm wrapped through Anastasia's as though she was about to drown.

"My dear friend!" Camilla hissed; her expression concerned. "I had to come and rescue you."

"From what?" Anastasia asked, blinking her pale blue eyes confusedly. She looked around the gallery where she stood. There was no fire, and no footpads or bandits had leapt out from behind the pillars. Or, if they had, she had not noticed them.

"From that man!" Camilla whispered urgently. "He looks like a terrible sort. I could not bear to see him exchange a word with you." Her dark eyes widened with urgent fear.

"That man...?" Anastasia blinked again, looking around. There were quite a few men at the gallery, walking about in fashionable velvet coats and long trousers. But nobody seemed dangerous. Just behind them, their chaperone, Martha, walked. Nobody had approached them, and she could not imagine what had made her friend fearful.

"The one with the scar! He was horrible."

"Him?" Anastasia shook her head confusedly. "No. He was quite affable. He talked about the paintings." She gazed dreamily up at the portraits they had discussed together. There were so few people willing to chat at art galleries that she had been glad to stop and talk about the artworks with somebody. Camilla had been talking to a mutual friend in the doorway and she had missed being able to share comments with someone.

"But that scar!" Camilla repeated. Her long oval face was a picture of shock. Her deep russet hair was piled up on her head in a fashionable chignon; her pale pink dress a cheerful clash with the spicy color of it. Her hazel eyes were wide, framed with black lashes and her lovely face was still distorted by her shocked look that she directed towards Anastasia.

"He had some scars, yes," Anastasia said lightly. "But his insights into the work were interesting. Shall we go over there?" she gestured at the wall where the landscapes were.

"Some scars...Anastasia!" Camilla exclaimed. "That's the Duke of Willowick. Everyone says he's monstrous."

"The Duke of Willowick?" Anastasia frowned. She recalled distantly hearing some gossip. She barely paid attention to gossip. "Well, whoever he was. He knows a lot about art. And he's friendly. What difference would a few scars make to that?"

"A few scars?" Camilla exclaimed, then grinned. "I wager you a shilling that if Napoleon Bonaparte were to stroll in here, you would scarcely take note of him either. Your attention perpetually resides elsewhere."

Anastasia chuckled. She linked arms with her friend, and they drifted towards the paintings.

"Are you going to attend Almack's tomorrow?" Camilla asked as they wandered around. They had taken a turn around the gallery already. "I find myself quite parched," she remarked, gliding toward the doors.

"Indeed, I feel the same way," Anastasia responded. "As for Almack's... I believe so," she added, though her voice exhibited a hint of uncertainty.

Camilla grinned. "You must know!" she teased. She often teased her friend about being permanently elsewhere, her head full of thoughts and dreams. Anastasia chuckled.

"Indeed, I shall attend. However, I confess I do not possess a particular inclination to do so.

"Why, I do comprehend your concerns!" Camilla chuckled gently. "However, I assure you, it shall be a diverting engagement! I have a great affection for dancing."

"Me too," Anastasia assured her. Dancing was one of her favorite activities; more than playing the pianoforte or painting. The pianoforte ran a close second, however, which was a happy coincidence, since Camilla loved to sing. They performed together whenever they had a moment and were highly praised among their family and friends for their talents.

"Well, then," Camilla said lightly, "it should be diverting."

Anastasia nodded slowly. They were walking past a tea- house, and she glanced at Camilla, who nodded, and they went over to the door.

"Why not?" Camilla asked lightly. "The Hatfield is as good a tea-house as any I know.

They went in. Anastasia looked around the bright, white-wallpapered interior, where dozens of long windows let in plenty of light and the wooden floor was meticulously clean. A woman in a long black dress with modest long sleeves and an apron approached them. The proprietor, Anastasia guessed.

"A pot of tea for us, and...shall we say two slices of cake?" Camilla asked Anastasia, her voice wandering as her gaze moved towards the counter.

Anastasia lifted her shoulder. "I suppose."

Camilla shot her a look and they both grinned.

"So," Camilla asked as they went over to the table that the proprietor indicated to them. Martha followed and sat down with them. "You are prepared for the first ball?"

"I have to be," Anastasia said lightly as the proprietor returned with their tea. "Papa has ordered the gown and everything." She felt her stomach knot awkwardly. Her father, the Earl of Graystone, was known even more for his love of money than for his noble status, and she often got the impression that he saw her purely as a means to advance himself on both fronts. He always insisted that she attended Almack's and every other fashionable venue when they were in Town, and he always bought her a new wardrobe, including the showiest gowns. Anastasia loved dancing, but she would much rather have been at home reading or chatting to her sister Lily and Camilla than being at Almack's and feeling like she was on show.

"Oh." Camilla made a face. She understood better than anyone how Anastasia felt. Her own parents, the Viscount and Viscountess of Bramley, were nowhere near as interested in advancement and Camilla's mother frequently assured her that she could marry whomever she chose. Anastasia's stomach twisted. She wished someone had given her anything like that assurance.

"Yes," Anastasia murmured in reply. They stood and wandered over to the counter to select their cakes as the proprietor brought the teapot to the table.

"I would rather be at Lady Etherly's ball," Camilla commented, pouring some tea and stirring in a lump of sugar. "The music is better."

"Absolutely," Anastasia agreed firmly. She poured her own cup of tea and sipped it. It was hot and she sipped it slowly from the small porcelain cup with its painted roses. "The quartet at her balls is much better."

Talking of music with Camilla reminded her of discussing art with the strange man at the gallery. It had been diverting to talk with him. He had seemed as though he knew a great deal about art, and she had been looking forward to talking further with him. She recalled again those haunting green eyes and the way his lips had lifted in a slight smile, though his gaze had not lightened but remained brooding throughout the discussion.

"Ah! Thank you," Camilla murmured as the proprietor appeared with the slices of cake that they had chosen. Anastasia accepted her plate of fruit gateau with a smile and a nod and took a delicate forkful with the silver cake-fork. She shut her eyes for a moment, savoring the sweet, many-layered taste. She had barely eaten at breakfast time, being lost in thought and a little apprehensive about the upcoming ball.

Her mind wandered back to the gallery, and thence to the man she had talked with there.

"That man," Anastasia asked, as her friend took a hearty mouthful of cake. "Were you concerned because you know something about him?" It seemed very unusual for Camilla to judge someone by their looks and her friend's vehement reaction had confused her. Camilla coughed, apparently almost choking on her tea. "The Duke of Willowick?" she asked, her eyes round. "What more can one know about him? He's a beast. People say he sleeps all day and walks about at night like a nocturnal creature, and that he can curse people."

"What?" Anastasia blinked. "Camilla, my dear! Surely none could be so foolish as to truly believe such a thing, could they?"

Camilla shot her a look. "Well, I don't think the last bit can be true," she admitted. "But he is rather frightening in his appearance, so I understand how people might assume it."

Anastasia shook her head. She felt a little sad. While she had never felt pushed out by society, she had been raised by her mother to try and accept people in spite of their differences. It seemed confusing and hurtful that other people did not see things that way.

"He just has a scar," she said slowly.

Camilla raised a brow. "But what if it's a dueling scar?" she demanded. "How many times do you reckon he's dueled to get so many of them?"

"Indeed, it could be said that such an occurrence took place but once. Should that indeed be the case, I should imagine he would have little inclination to engage in further hostilities."

Camilla stared at Anastasia and then burst out laughing.

"Indeed, you speak with complete accuracy!"

***

Anastasia felt her own lips lift. She was glad she had managed to change the subject and to lighten the atmosphere a little. It was so unlike Camilla to be hurtful or judgmental that she was pleased the mood had lightened somewhat.

"Will you have time to practice tomorrow?" she asked, referring to a song they were preparing for the season's many soirees. Young ladies were often called upon to play the piano or sing, and she and Camilla always performed together.

Camilla sipped her tea and looked up at Anastasia wide-eyed. "An hour in the morning, at least. I have to go to the modiste's, in the afternoon."

"Oh?" Anastasia grinned. "A new gown?"

"Two new gowns," Camilla answered, making a wry face.

Anastasia chuckled. "A ball gown?" she pressed. The light, happy conversations she had with Camilla always lifted her spirits.

"A ball gown," Camilla confirmed. "White, as befits a young lady, with plenty of lacy embellishments."

Anastasia grinned. "I'm sure it will become you very well." Camilla's mama had a tendency to design Camilla's gowns—at least her ball-gowns—without much input from her daughter. Since Camilla's parents were, in every other respect, some of the most relaxed parents in the ton , neither Camilla nor Anastasia minded that one foible. And Camilla insisted on being the sole designer of her day-dresses.

Camilla made the same sour face. "I'm not so sure. But the other gown is promising. Dark green and long-sleeved. I think it suits me well."

"I'm sure it does," Anastasia answered, sipping her tea. Camilla was beautiful, with her long, fine-chiseled features and darker coloring. Anastasia felt quite sure Camilla was more of a society beauty than she herself was, with her pale hair, blue eyes and slightly sharper features. But Camilla always assured her that the opposite was true until Anastasia had to beg her to stop saying it. As always, they ended up laughing a great deal.

"I ought to return to the residence," Camilla said, casting her gaze up at the timepiece. "I must attend to some matters within the ledgers." Camilla was very quick with numbers and her father often asked her if she could cast her gaze over the household accounts with him. Anastasia nodded.

"I should return too," she agreed a little sadly. She would have to pretend to be excited about the upcoming ball when she went home, and she felt no true excitement. Her father focused on it, and she felt afraid he had some or other expectation of her, since he often commented that she needed to uphold the family honor; something he had never said before.

"I will see you tomorrow, though?" Camilla asked, lifting her cup to sip at her tea.

"Of course. In the morning," Anastasia agreed.

They went into the street where the coach was waiting, and they all alighted into it. As the coach moved down through London, Anastasia stared out of the window, watching the buildings and houses move past under the gray sky. Her thoughts returned to the art gallery, and she found herself thinking, once again, of the man she had met. Her lips lifted at the edges as she recalled how he had talked to her so naturally. Not many people were so ready to discuss art, and he seemed knowledgeable.

You'll not see him again; her mind reminded her. He doesn't seem the sort for balls and parties, or you would already have spotted him somewhere.

She gazed out of the window, watching the buildings rattle past and trying not to think of the Duke of Willowick, nor of the upcoming ball, which she had to endure in a few hours' time.