Chapter 29

Though Seth was full of a general anxiety about whatever it was that Miss Alcott wished to say to him, he was soon preoccupied by a much more immediate anxiety: Ferrying two glass cups of lemonade through an overcrowded ballroom without spilling any on anyone else or his formal white gloves. No one could ever have described Seth as a man of grace, so this was a Herculean effort as far as he was concerned.

He was so focused on the task at hand that he at first did not realise that he had made it to where Miss Alcott awaited him. She accepted her lemonade without comment or smile, clearly not wishing to encourage onlookers to make speculations.

They stood in relative silence for a moment, the noise of the ballroom washing over them. All about, conversations, laughter, music, the sound of feet on the dancefloor, the rustle of silk gowns joined into a chaotic rush, like water over a fall. It made Seth feel jumpy, like a country horse unused to the traffic and noise of London.

"You do not care for all of this, do you?" Miss Alcott asked, nodding in the general direction of the ball. "Please," she said when Seth bobbled his head around, waffling without really answering, "let us pay each other the compliment of honesty. I shall begin: I have very little desire to marry you. There."

Taken aback, Seth rocked back on his heels a little. He had never had a young lady state her position so clearly, particularly such a cool, dispassionate rejection. He blinked at her for a moment. "Very little? Why very little, if I may ask?" he inquired.

She shrugged, giving a blasé wave of her gloved hand. "You seem an amiable enough chap, particularly for a viscount. I do not expect I should be unhappy with you, but I also do not expect I should be happy with you, either."

Seth nodded, understanding her completely. "Then why are you…?" he asked, gesturing vaguely toward her and the ballroom generally.

She considered for a moment. "Curiosity, for one thing: I wished to know you before dismissing any proposal outright. For another, you are not the only person facing parental pressure to marry well," she said, sipping her lemonade coolly. "You are the only son of this house, yes?" Seth nodded, and she continued. "Well, I am my father's oldest daughter with five younger brothers, and he has grand plans for them. It is imperative that I not only marry well, but brilliantly, as far as he is concerned, so that I might drag them with me up the social ladder."

"And none have proven to be up to the mark?" Seth asked.

A wry smile lifted one corner of Miss Alcott's mouth, the first sign of humour that Seth had seen all night from her. "On the contrary, a number of beneficial introductions have been arranged for me ever since I made my debut into society." She paused, swirling her lemonade, making the little slice of candied lemon on the top bob about like a ship at sea. "It's more that no man wants a bluestocking for a wife, particularly one who has no interest in playing the part of society hostess."

Seth allowed this information to sink in. It was becoming all the more suspicious that his mother would push him to marry Miss Alcott; Lady Veronica had made it clear that she wanted Seth to restore the Cluett family and name to its former standing. He would need an accomplished hostess to have any hope of doing this. Of course, it was entirely possible that Lady Veronica wanted Seth to marry someone so disinterested as Miss Alcott so that she could simply keep her role as lady of the house.

"How does Sir Wright fit into all of this?" Seth asked suddenly.

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Miss Alcott admitted, gazing across the ballroom. "Here is what we know: My father, ever at Sir Wright's service, desires an advantageous marriage for me, and your mother leaps at the chance in a most uncharacteristic manner. Sir Wright, to whom your family is connected in some way, suddenly has the beautiful and young but penniless lady's companion on his arm. It is all a little too much of a coincidence for my taste."

She took another sip of lemonade, then lifted out the little slice of candied lemon without a care for her gloves and bit into it, peel and all. "I cannot abide these machinations—a bunch of sour-faced schemers, the lot of them," she said, her eyes staring coldly across the ballroom.

Seth followed the direction of her gaze, and found that Lady Veronica, Sir Wright, and another gentleman who Seth could only assume was Mr. Alcott, were all standing together. They all took great pains to not touch one another, looking stiffly posed, smiles stretching their faces grotesquely that did not reach their eyes.

"A den of vipers," he murmured. "They underestimate us, I think."

Miss Alcott silently clinked her glass against Seth's in agreement.

* * *

It would be easy for one to assume that Kitty had grown accustomed to being overlooked, given her position for the past year. It was true that she had taken on something of a wallflower status at most social events, but it had been born of necessity; Lady Veronica needed her to glean information from places that a viscountess could not go. Kitty had also learned that it would not be wise to outshine Lady Veronica.

This did not mean, however, that Kitty enjoyed this state. She was naturally a social, effervescent creature, who enjoyed the company of others. She had hoped, perhaps naively, that with this ball, she might be able to recover some of her old spark, maybe to even re-enter society in some capacity.

After she had fled the dancefloor, hiding as much from Seth as from her own feelings, she realised that it had been disturbingly easy for her to do so. No one came looking for her; no one came running after her. She had half-hoped that Seth might do precisely that, that he would whisk her away to Scotland that very night… But no, she was left to nurse a bruised heart alone, hidden in a little alcove where no one could see her fighting to hold back tears.

When she had gathered herself up, reasoning that she was missing a ball, a ball that she did not have to attend as a servant or a lady's companion or anything else demeaning, she was determined to enjoy herself even a little. Moping had accomplished very little for anyone in life, herself included. Thus, with a proud toss of her head, and armed with a ready smile, she felt herself prepared for anything.

She was not, in fact, prepared for anything. She was decidedly unprepared to see, while surveying the ballroom, Seth and the young lady that had been in his mother's company locked in conversation in a discrete corner. She could not stop watching them, riveted to the scene as if she were Lot's wife. Their heads were close, clearly speaking lowly to each other. Whatever they said, they sealed with a chummy clink of their glasses.

The world tilted oddly for a moment, as if reality were spinning away from Kitty. She knew that she was staring openly, but she could not stop. The knowledge that Seth would begin to court someone else was purely hypothetical up until that point; the reality was far harsher and more terrible than Kitty had ever considered.

She was shocked back to herself by a cold hand locking about her wrist. Dumbly, she looked down, noting the oddly long fingers that wrapped about her, the cold of them seeping through the thin silk of her glove. Her eyes followed the fingers up, up, up, the long arm, and slowly her vision coalesced on the sharp and wan features of Sir Wright.

"Miss Johnson," he said, his eyes searching her face, "there you are. Shall we return to the ballroom? I believe you have space upon your dance card still."

Kitty stared at him for a moment, and then determination made her jaw clench firmly. "No," she answered definitively. "We shall not." When Sir Wright's face showed annoyance, she raised her free hand. "I believe that we need to come to an understanding. Perhaps we might adjourn to the library?"

She did not wait for him to answer, merely turned about and assumed he would follow. Her arm slid from his grasp, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was behind her; she could feel him looming, like being stalked by some primordial reptile. Quickly, Kitty wove her way through the house, slipping past a few wandering guests here and there, who were either too engaged with their own pursuits or too drunk to notice her.

The entire veneer seemed to have faded from the party: The flowers were beginning to wilt in their vases; half-spilled drinks left little puddles everywhere, making unsuspecting fingers sticky; the air, so warm and welcome against the cold of winter outdoors, was stifling and thick with bad decisions and too much noise. It was not a gilded affair of the rich and connected of London—it was simply another bawd house for all the transactions that were happening within.

Kitty tried to shake off her bitterness. It would not do to enter into negotiations with someone as wily as Sir Wright with a clouded head. She could not afford to be sentimental, not anymore; this was the final lesson that Lady Veronica imparted upon her.

Once they had attained the library, Kitty, with surprisingly little feeling, instructed Sir Wright to close the door.

"Aren't you worried for your reputation?" he asked with a hint of a sneer.

"I think we are both long past caring about that, Sir Wright," Kitty replied dispassionately. "And I do not wish to be interrupted."

Sir Wright bowed slightly, the gesture a little ironic somehow, but complied. When he turned back around, Kitty faced him unflinchingly, assessing him as openly and shrewdly as he had done to her at their every meeting.

"I promised that I would give my answer to your proposal tonight, and I have every intention of doing so," she began, folding her arms over herself. "But first, I would like the answers to some questions."

"As ever, Miss Johnson, I am at your service," Sir Wright replied smoothly with another little bow. Kitty gave him an arch look that told him exactly what she thought of that statement, which only made him laugh.

"Why is it that you are proposing to me at all? I come with neither land nor dowry, and very little connections to speak of," Kitty asked bluntly.

Her honesty seemed to surprise him, but he tilted his head a little, intrigued. "I find that I have all of those things that you speak of," he said, "but am lacking someone to share it with. I require a beautiful young wife who will be an ornament at all of my parties. More importantly, I need someone hard and sharp who will not be swallowed whole by my world. I move in the highest of circles, and they will cut anyone to ribbons who does not cut them first."

"And you think this is me?"

"I think you could be a worthy companion, yes…with the right tutelage. You are still burdened by sentimentality," Sir Wright said, folding his hands behind his back and stepping closer until he was less than an arm's length from her.

Kitty looked away, taking in the dusty books on the shelves. It had been months since anyone had set foot in here with the intention of dusting, and the stale smell of book mould hung in the air. She turned back to Sir Wright, meeting his pale eyes unflinchingly.

"I want security for my parents," Kitty said suddenly, clearly taking him off guard.

"Do you indeed?" he asked, smiling but with an icy irritation just below the surface.

"I am not a fool--I know that I have very little to bargain with—but if you truly wish me to be your wife, then I shall need assurances for my parents," Kitty continued, lifting her chin. "I should think that a small price to pay for my acceptance."

"And what of the Viscount's land, mm?" Sir Wright said, pulling back a little.

"That too," Kitty said, glancing away for the first time.

Sir Wright did not answer immediately. The sounds of a raucous party made their way through the walls of the library, muffled by the shelves of books. Somewhere in the house, a glass broke, followed by shrieks of laughter.

"I wonder," he said, his voice low and dark, "if you were pressed, would you choose the land for the young Viscount, or your parents' rescue from destitution?"

Kitty met his eyes, hardening her own gaze. Slowly, she leaned forward until she was nearly nose-to-nose with Sir Wright. Speaking clearly, enunciating crisply, she pronounced, "Isn't it a fortunate thing that I do not have to make that choice?"

Sir Wright stared at her for a moment, anger and admiration at war on his face. Removed, Kitty idly figured that chances were equally good that he might kiss or strangle her. Finally, he straightened, and Kitty slowly exhaled a breath through her nose that she did not know she had been holding.

This is how it will be , her mind whispered, this is your life with him. It will be a battle of wills, a constant struggle between you two; this will not be a partnership. You will become hard and formidable, and know nothing of softness ever again.

It's a small price to pay , her heart answered. Who am I, in all of this? Just one silly, romantic girl.

"Very well," Sir Wright said, looking down his sharp nose at Kitty. "I agree to your terms."

"Then I accept," Kitty said without hesitation. She did not wait to see if he would attempt to follow up this pronunciation with a token of affection—the chances of that seemed improbably small—and swept past him, leaving him alone in a dark, dusty library.

With slow, measured steps, Kitty ascended the stairs to her rooms. It was folly to believe that she had come down those same steps only hours before, floating on a cloud of hope and possibility.

"An apt metaphor," she murmured to herself as she climbed. Those feelings had only been as substantial as a whisp of cloud in a night sky, with nothing to support them.

Now, she left the golden light and sound of the party below, every step as long as a mile for all the distance it put between herself and Seth. Ahead, the dark, unlit hallway loomed.