Chapter 3

"It's no trouble if it won't curl properly, Rachel," Anastasia assured her maid as Rachel tucked one of Anastasia's pale ringlets behind her one ear while she sat at the dressing-table. Anastasia gazed at her own face, surrounded by her fine, pale hair that often was hard to curl, since the strands were thin enough that it singed easily at the proper heat.

"It's curled well, my lady," Rachel assured her swiftly, and went to the fire to place the metal curling-rods on the hearth. "I just need to place some pearl pins now. Here, do you reckon?" She held up a pearl-ended pin and slid it into the side of Anastasia's hair, near her ear where the ringlets hung.

"If you think so," Anastasia said mildly. She gazed at her own reflection nervously. Her own wide blue eyes stared back, troubled and fearful.

She studied her appearance. Her face was long and slim, her features neat, and her skin pale. Her long blond hair was arranged in ringlets about her face and drawn back into a chignon that was decorated with white ribbon. Her gown was white, the tight bodice covered with white gauze, and the sleeves delicate puffs. The skirt hung from the fashionably high waistline and down to her ankles. The dress was beautiful, made of white silk, and Anastasia wished she could have felt excited about the ball. Instead, she just felt nervous.

Her father had said he had high expectations of her at the ball. It was her second Season, and he expected her to make connections.

"There you are, milady," her maid said softly.

"Thank you," Anastasia said a little distantly, and stood up from the chair by the dressing-table. She went to her bed, lifting the soft, filmy shawl and her small, drawstring velvet reticule from it, and then she walked out swiftly into the hallway.

"Oh! Anastasia!" Lily, her younger sister gushed. "You look beautiful! I wish I could come."

"Next year," Anastasia promised, giving her younger sister a crushing hug. Lily was ten and six and, though she could have come out into society already, her parents preferred to wait until the following year. Anastasia, three years her senior, smiled as Lily gazed up into her face. "You'll make a tremendous come-out into society next year, I promise. Then all of the Ton will be beating their way to our door." She smiled into her sister's bright hazel gaze.

"Oh, Anny," Lily teased. "If that was going to happen, they'd be here already. But for you."

Anastasia just smiled. "I'll tell you about it tomorrow," she promised Lily, who clapped her hands.

"Good! I shall importune you throughout the breakfast hour for every minute detail until you find yourself utterly weary of recounting another word."

Anastasia laughed. "Good. Goodnight, Lily. See you soon."

"Have a tremendous evening, Anastasia!" Lily called to her. Anastasia was still smiling as she went down the stairs, hearing Lily hurry to the drawing-room where she would practice the pianoforte. Lily was a skilled pianist too, and she had a sweet voice.

Anastasia felt her stomach twist as she saw her parents waiting near the front door. Mama was dressed in a blue gown, her graying honey-brown hair arranged in tight ringlets and covered with a brief cap that looked more like a wide hairband—an indicator of her married status. Her eyes widened as she saw Anastasia, her long, thin face that was something of a mix between Anastasia's and Lily's, lit with a grin.

"Daughter! You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Mama," Anastasia murmured, feeling genuine warmth as she gazed at her beloved mother. Her gaze went sideways to Papa and the uncomfortable clenching of her stomach returned again. Her fists, likewise, clenched in a response that was mostly fear.

"You will have to be on your most sparkling behaviour," her father told her resolutely as Anastasia looked down at her toes. "This is not your first Season, you know." His words could have been kind, but they were like a wintry wind, chilling her, stealing her warmth.

"Hubert!" Mama hissed with a shocked tone. Papa ignored her words.

"I have great plans for you, daughter," he told Anastasia firmly. "But you have to try harder."

"Yes, Papa," Anastasia muttered. She felt tears in her eyes as she walked to the door. Her father always made her feel worthless, as though she could do nothing right. She felt her mother rest her hand briefly and lovingly on her shoulder and she took a steadying breath.

She turned and smiled at her mother, trying to reassure the older woman that she was all right. Then they all alighted into the coach.

"I will go to the Club tomorrow," Papa informed Mama as the coach drew off. "I have business associates to meet with."

"Of course," Mama murmured without looking at him. Anastasia glanced caringly at her mother. Over the years, she seemed to have come to a place of neither fearing nor disliking Papa, despite his unpleasantness and rudeness. Mama seemed largely to ignore it, but Anastasia knew that, despite her brave facade, every dismissive word still hurt. She reached out and took Mama's hand, holding it firmly in her own.

Mama smiled and the coach rolled on down the street, heading for Westminster and for Almack's Assembly Rooms.

They stopped outside the Assembly Rooms half an hour later—as always, on the night of a ball, the traffic was congested in the area with coaches being forced to stop while others tried to turn in the street after divesting themselves of their noble occupants. Anastasia jumped down from the coach, her skirts rustling as she landed, ankles jarring on the hard stone-dressed surface.

"Pray let us enter," Mama murmured, gathering her shawl closely about her shoulders. "The air is rather brisk this evening."

Anastasia nodded and she walked with Mama, hand-in-hand, as they went up the stairs and into the building. The front doors were wide, flanked with pillars and topped with a stone entablature. They went in and Anastasia blinked in surprise at how warm the hall felt compared to the chill outside. A footman stood waiting to take cloaks and coats, but Anastasia had only her thin shawl and she drifted past, heading towards the ballroom.

"It's filling up already," Mama murmured as they stood on the threshold. Papa was behind them, with their tickets. Whether one had an invitation, or a voucher, to attend Almack's or not, one needed also to purchase tickets—neither was enough on its own. Anastasia watched as Papa demonstratively showed the tickets and they all went into the ballroom together.

The voice of a footman announced their arrival, but Anastasia barely heard him—her head was tilted back, and she was gazing up at the chandeliers. At least six or seven of them hung overhead, the crystals winking in the light of perhaps a hundred candles. She gazed up, mesmerized by the beauty.

"Anastasia!" Camilla called her. Anastasia looked down, beaming.

"Camilla! So good to see you." She grinned at her friend. Like herself, Camilla wore white, but her dress was decorated with lace, as she had said, a filmy over-skirt of gauze covering the white silk. Her red hair was drawn back in a tight chignon, decorated with some tiny white flowers made of lace.

"And grand to see you, too," Camilla said with a smile. "Are you losing yourself in staring at the candles?"

"They're beautiful," Anastasia retorted.

Camilla chuckled. "You have a keen eye for such details. Come, let us make our way to the refreshment table. The lemonade, though notoriously dreadful, is a welcome respite in this oppressive heat."

Anastasia laughed. She followed Camilla to the refreshments table. When she reached it, Papa was there already. She blinked, gazing up at him in surprise.

"Daughter," he said firmly. "There is a person to whom I wish to introduce you."

Anastasia glanced at Camilla. Her heart thudded with nerves.

"I'll come with you," Camilla said instantly.

"Thank you," Anastasia said firmly. She took a deep breath and followed her father through the room towards the side door.

"Ah! Lord Ridley," he greeted a man who stood there. The man in question was, Anastasia guessed, close to ten years her senior, with a long oval face and intense blue eyes. His mouth was a small bow and somehow it seemed mean to her, his lips barely lifting into a smile as he saw her. He was wearing a dark blue tailcoat, dark blue knee-breeches and white stock, and an elaborate cravat. He smelled of expensive cologne. His eyes contemplated her inquiringly. They were slate blue, and she saw no expression there except a mild interest as he might pay to a minor diversion.

"Good evening," he greeted her neutrally.

"Lord Ridley. May I introduce my daughter, Lady Anastasia? Anastasia, this is Thomas Baker. He is Viscount Ridley."

"Good evening."

The man bowed low and straightened up. When he cast his gaze over her again, it seemed almost calculating.

"Lord Graystone?" he began, addressing her father respectfully but ignoring Anastasia herself utterly. "If I may, I would like the honour of claiming your daughter's hand for the waltz."

Papa blinked. Anastasia stiffened. There was no precedent for him asking Papa that. He had to ask her permission, not her father's. Her father looked surprised but turned to the viscount.

"Of course. I don't see why not."

Anastasia stared at her father, horrified. It would have been appropriate if he had told the viscount that he had to ask her, not him. That it was her permission that was needed, not his own. Her mouth opened and she shut it. There was no point in saying anything to either of them.

Anastasia glanced sideways, seeing her mother approaching them. She felt her stomach twist. If Mama had heard what had just happened, she would doubtless say something. Part of her hoped she had not—it would do Mama no good to be angry, and it would do no good if she tried to intervene.

"Come, my lady," Lord Ridley murmured. He gestured towards the refreshments table. "May I fetch you a glass of something?"

Anastasia shook her head. She could smell brandy and when she stared into Lord Ridley's prominent eyes, he barely seemed to notice her.

"No, thank you," she murmured.

"I will fetch some port," he announced. "And you will have lemonade."

Anastasia blinked. She had already said she did not want anything, but he apparently had not heard or had not cared to listen. She watched as he wandered off and came back a minute later with his own glass, and some lemonade. She accepted it wordlessly.

"A fine ball," Lord Ridley continued, and it was not apparent to her if she was supposed to say something, since he was not looking in her direction. "I think the waltz will be soon."

"Yes," Anastasia murmured.

She heard the quartet tuning up in the corner and her heart sank as she noticed that they were playing a waltz. The introductory notes were distinctly in a waltz tempo.

"Come," Lord Ridley demanded. Anastasia followed him and winced as he took her hand. The correct place for the other hand was over the shoulder-blade on her back, and she prayed he would know that. His touch was cold and forceful, and she recoiled from it. He rested his hand, fortunately, on the region of her upper back. They stepped onto the dance floor.

"Careful," Anastasia hissed as they whirled round and almost collided with another couple. She tensed, inwardly counting the meter of the dance. He was clumsy, almost stepping on her feet. She shut her eyes, wishing that she could run.

Papa wanted to introduce me to him, she thought confusedly. The implications of that were clear. He had intended her to meet this man, and that spoke volumes. He had a plan in mind. He was naturally good at investing, and he had made a considerable fortune for himself on top of what he had inherited, making Graystone a wealthy estate. And looking at Lord Ridley, he was wealthy too. She felt her heart sink, wondering if her father was seeing yet another opportunity to make money.

She felt Lord Ridley misstep, and she gazed upward, watching the whirling, winking chandeliers. They were so beautiful, mesmerizing in their beauty. She counted the steps but otherwise she barely focused, losing herself in the world of bright silvery light overhead.

The sound of the melody shifting brought her head sharply down from her contemplation of the candle-light. The waltz was rounding off. She slowed and stopped, her gaze moving abruptly from the ceiling to the crowd around them.

Lord Ridley was bowing, and she curtseyed automatically as the people around them did likewise, some politely applauding each other's efforts. Her gaze roamed the crowd distantly and then she froze in place. Her eyes locked with striking green ones, and she knew she was staring at his grace, the Duke of Willowick, who was just a few paces away from her across the room.

She looked hastily down and then up again, her heart thudding at that striking green stare. She took a step off the dance floor, and her feet led her, almost without her conscious choice, across the floor towards where he was standing, lost in the crowd.