Chapter 18

Nicholas stood on the steps at Lockwood House. The street was surprisingly empty, the usual bustle of people that would have filled it already ensconced in clubs or theaters. The boys employed to hold a light to guide the coaches waited, the sky a soft purple with early evening behind the bright flames of their pitch-torches. Nicholas drew in a deep breath. The cravat around his neck, lace-edged and modish, seemed about to strangle him. He turned, hearing footsteps in the entrance-foyer behind him.

"Nicholas! Come in! The guests won't be here for an hour yet." Grandmother's voice was friendly and commanding at once, as only she could manage.

"Yes, Grandmother," Nicholas answered. He turned in the doorway, finding Grandmother behind him. She, like himself, was already dressed for the evening. A gown of a deep charcoal, almost black, covered her body, her throat sparkling with a discreet silver necklace. She always wore mourning colors, grays or navy blue or purple; a reminder of Father's passing. Nicholas swallowed hard. His grandmother smiled.

"The ballroom is almost ready!" she murmured. "The musicians have just arrived. Come in, Nicholas," she repeated insistently. "We'll have plenty of time standing here later to greet the guests."

"Yes, Grandmother," he repeated softly, and followed her inside.

The ballroom, as she had mentioned, was ready. A hundred candles cast bright light on the dance floor below, their flames brightened by the crystals that decorated the chandeliers. The ceiling soared high overhead, the walls decorated with molded plaster, the floor gleaming and the space echoing as the staff hurried about, bringing food to the tables or dusting surfaces. Everything was impeccably arranged.

"The guest-list is not too extensive," Grandmother told him lightly. "Fifty seems to be the right amount. We simply couldn't leave anyone off the list."

"I'm sure it will be a good number, Grandmother," Nicholas said absently. Inside, he was praying inwardly to be able to manage the evening. Attending a ball with Grandmother and Grandfather constantly hovering would be difficult. Attending the same ball with half the Ton in attendance would be horrible. He felt uneasy, as though his shirt was too tight, his cravat stifling. He fidgeted with it uneasily, watching his grandmother walk through the ballroom inspecting the tables.

"Nicholas! Grand, grand." Lord Lockwood, respectable in a black tailcoat and black trousers, came to join Nicholas. Nicholas swallowed hard, feeling nervous. "A fine evening, eh? Your grandmother has worked tirelessly organizing it."

"I imagine," Nicholas murmured. "I appreciate it." His words were hollow; spoken because he knew they were expected, not because he felt sincere about them. He looked around. Grandmother had, clearly, put a great deal of time and effort into organizing the evening, though it was hard to appreciate something that wasn't really what he wanted.

"Fine! Fine," Grandfather declared. He stood with Nicholas for a minute or two and then wandered away.

Nicholas breathed deeply. In a few minutes, Bernadette would arrive.

Bernadette, he thought with a smile, savoring the memory of what it was like to say her name. The memory of her blushing smile filled him with warmth and made him smile. It was a small refuge, like a lovely garden to which his mind could travel, seeking peace.

"The guests are arriving," Grandfather commented, wandering up as the butler strode in. It would be the butler's job to announce the guests as they arrived. Nicholas coughed stiffly, his cravat choking him. He dreaded the initial half an hour or so, when the guests would arrive and he'd be expected to greet them at the door.

At least I will not be doing it by myself, he thought with a small, tense smile. Bernadette would be joining him as soon as she arrived.

Where is she? he thought nervously.

"A fine evening," Grandfather observed to nobody in particular, wandering up to the door to join Nicholas. Grandmother came to stand beside him.

At any minute, he reminded himself, Bernadette would arrive to stand with him. They would welcome the guests together. He reached up to his cravat again, loosening it. Where was she? He gazed around nervously.

"Lord Blackburne?"

He turned sharply to the right at the sound of someone behind him.

Bernadette stood there and he found he could look nowhere else.

Her soft brown hair was styled in a chignon, the front curled about her face. She wore sparkly earrings and a silver necklace, and he drew in a breath at the dark blue gown, which fitted her perfectly. It was tight at the bodice with its low square neckline and falling loosely from the high waistband. The deep, intense blue brought out the hazel of her eyes and highlighted the soft golden-brown tone of her hair. Her skin was like porcelain, her lips red and cheeks blushing.

She smiled shyly, her cheeks blushing, and he felt his throat tighten with admiration.

"Good evening, Bernadette." He bowed.

She curtseyed. "Good evening, Nicholas."

He smiled. Beside him, his grandmother made a small cough, as if she disapproved of something. He ignored it. He stood with Bernadette, and they turned to welcome their first guests of the evening.

"Lord and Lady Cranmer and their son, Lord Wilchcombe."

Nicholas inclined his head, greeting the guests. He had met them perhaps distantly and he didn't really know them at all. Most of Grandmother's guest list would be the Ton ; the fashionable and the noble elite. That meant they were, for the most part, people he didn't know and in all likelihood wouldn't befriend anyway. He glanced at Bernadette.

Her gaze was slightly unfocused, her lips pressed together as if she was summoning courage for something that terrified her. He recalled the charades of the previous evening and how brave she'd been—much braver than himself, who hated being in full view. He shot her a smile, hoping to give her some strength. She beamed back and his own smile stretched broadly across his face.

"Lord and Lady Grovedale." The butler announced.

Nicholas felt Bernadette's feather-light touch on his arm where she gripped it and he smiled at her again in reassurance. She curtseyed to the guests, who both looked approvingly at her. Nicholas wanted to whisper to Bernadette that nobody could help thinking well of her. Everyone who met her seemed to like her. He glanced sideways at her, his heart warm. It seemed unbelievable to him now that he had ever thought she was foolish, or shallow. She was kind, understanding and clever and funny. She was a truly lovely person. He glowed as he stood there beside her.

"Lord and Lady Epstone, and their son, Lord James, and daughter, Lady Amelia."

Nicholas bowed and glanced sideways at Bernadette, who curtseyed and smiled, exchanging brief pleasantries with the arriving people.

"There are fifty guests on the list," he whispered to her in answer to her weary gaze. "We'll be here for about an hour."

"Fifty," she whispered back, eyes wide and round in amazement.

"Yes."

They grinned at each other, a conspiratorial look passing between them, and then more guests flooded in, needing their attention.

"Lord and Lady Gladwell."

Nicholas felt his feet starting to get sore in the boots he wore. He glanced at Bernadette. Her feet must be cold. She was wearing thin dancing shoes, made from the finest silk that must allow every blast of cool breeze to chill her. He looked about concernedly. The ballroom was getting full. Soon they would be able to go in, he reminded himself to reassure himself.

"Lord Overham," the butler announced, and Nicholas bowed to a tall, disinterested looking fellow who he distantly recalled was a duke. He glanced at his grandmother, but she was smiling at the guests with a thin, hard smile that he knew meant she didn't really like them. She'd clearly invited them for the impression she wished to make on them.

It was a strange system, he thought wryly. They invited people they didn't even know or like. It was a system that shut him out; a crowd of cruel, judgmental whisperers that he avoided. Now, thanks to Bernadette, he could see its foolishness. They were spending time and money entertaining people they neither knew nor liked. Why? It made no sense whatsoever.

He turned to Bernadette, wanting to share his realization, but his gaze caught someone, and he froze.

"Lady Alverton and her daughter, Lady Emily."

Nicholas gasped, suddenly feeling like he couldn't breathe; as though the wind had been knocked from him. He glared at his grandmother, but she was standing behind him, unaware as she chatted with another guest. He turned to greet Lady Emily.

"Good evening."

He bowed, barely even looking at her.

"Good evening," he murmured.

She looked up at him as though she expected him to greet her with more than the coldest frost possible. He looked at her mother, then looked away from them both. He felt anger ignite, hot and corrosive, within. How could his grandmother allow that?

He looked behind him, seeing Grandmother greeting the newly-arrived guests, both of whom were dressed in mourning colors, as was appropriate. Lord Alverton had passed away not quite a year ago, after all. He took a deep breath.

"Lord Cloveley."

He breathed out as more guests arrived. Bernadette was greeting them, a frown on her brow, her face stiff with tension.

"Are there more guests?" he asked softly.

"Two coaches," the butler, standing near him, replied without his asking. Nicholas breathed out, heavily.

The two groups arrived and then the butler was closing the doors and Nicholas, relieved, moved away. He glanced at Bernadette, who was still holding his arm. She looked distressed.

"We should find some refreshment," he said swiftly. She must be thirsty, and likely cold, too. He glanced around, seeing if the footman who had taken everyone's cloaks and shawls was nearby. She should have something to warm herself.

"Thank you, Lord..."

"Nicholas," he interrupted, feeling confused. He did prefer it when she used his name. It was important.

"Yes, Nicholas." She sounded weary. Nicholas cursed his grandmother inwardly. Why did she have to have such a long guest-list?

"Nicholas!" Grandmother called him from near the refreshments table. "Come and see Lady Heatherstone. She hasn't seen you since you were a little boy."

Nicholas went over to greet the woman dutifully, grateful that Bernadette followed. He took a glass of cordial for Bernadette from the table, taking an identical one for himself. He sipped it, making a face. It was lime cordial; one he didn't like. He glanced at Bernadette, thinking she probably didn't like it much, either.

They drifted through the hall, as they were intended to, greeting the guests and accepting their wishes dutifully. Nicholas glanced around, searching for his mother and Henry. They had said they would come but they couldn't stay long—Grandmother had elected to have a four-hour ball and they wanted to retire early so the girls would have enough energy for Lady Gracefield's ball the next day.

The evening wore on, and Nicholas heard the musicians tuning, getting ready to start playing the dance music. He felt his heart skip. He'd never danced with Bernadette before. Swallowing, he tried to calm his raging nerves. He had so little practice at doing this and he wanted to do it properly. He had no idea how to do that, but he prayed inwardly for courage, and decided his best would have to be good enough.

"Bernadette?" he said softly. "Would you...would you do me the honour of the first dance?"

He saw her draw in a breath, and he considered, for a horrid moment, that he'd done it the wrong way and she wasn't going to agree to it. But she curtseyed, and when she looked up at him, her eyes, which had been wearied from the long hour of greetings, were sparkling once more. He drew in a breath, heart soaring.

"Yes," she said, her voice soft and gentle. "Yes, I will."

Nicholas bowed and took her hand. He felt as though the whole room watched them as they walked to the floor. He tried to ignore it, and then, after a moment or two, found he didn't care. Let them stare! What did he have to be ashamed of? The most beautiful, the sweetest, woman in the ballroom was dancing with him. They could stare until their eyes watered.

He bowed again when the music began, then took her hand in his and drew her close, heart thudding at the closeness of their stance for the waltz. His hand was on her shoulder-blade, drawing her against him, his other hand on hers where she held it outstretched to grasp his. Her body seemed to mold to his as they took a step and his skin prickled with a strange, tense yet lovely sensation as they swayed together in the steps of the dance.

The music was slow, yet with the lively rhythm of a waltz, and he stepped and whirled and guided her across the floor. She danced beautifully, her steps light, her turns gracious, and he found that he could listen to the music, his mind soaring as they whirled and stepped and turned. It was easy. It was effortless.

Nicholas let out an amazed breath. He'd never danced like this.

They whirled about the room, her hand in his, her body pressed close in the turns, her scent giddying his senses. He closed his eyes as they danced, lost in the beauty of it.

They heard the cadence change, indicating that the music was slowing, and she curtseyed, and he bowed as the dancers around them applauded their own and each other's efforts. He looked into Bernadette's eyes with his own soul flooded with warmth.

"Thank you," he whispered, "for a lovely dance."

"Thank you," she intoned softly.

They walked off the dance floor towards the doors, where cool air blew in from the terrace outside. Nicholas stood near the doors, breathing in the cool air, letting it cool the perspiration on his brow. He gazed down at Bernadette.

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes bright, her lips a brighter red, cheeks flushed with the effort of the dance, and his heart stopped as tenderness and joy flooded through him.

Could I be falling in love? he asked himself.

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and he knew. He was.

He took her hand and stood with her, unsure what to do or say, knowing only that his heart was full and that, somehow, soon, he would need to find the words to tell her how much he cared.

He gazed down at her, eyes full of love, and hoped that soon he would have the courage to tell her so.