CHAPTER 7

Sylvia was engulfed in a whirlwind of emotions following her dance with Lord Wesley. The music might have ended a while ago, but the echo of their movements lingered within her, wrapping around her heart with a tender insistence. She could not help but acknowledge the bond she had felt with this stranger, the undeniable spark that had flared between Lord Wesley and herself with every step, every glance.

Yet she could not get too lost in these thoughts because she knew that Lord Wesley was an earl. Her aunt had told her as much when his family entered the ball. It did not matter if she was not as familiar with titles and social standings as the rest of the ton, she knew all too well that an earl could not marry a vicar's daughter. Nor should he even really look her way. As soon as he realized who she was, this connection between them would fizzle for sure.

But that did not stop her from enjoying the moment while it was here, right in front of her.

"Tell me, Lady Sylvia," Wesley continued, his voice a smooth melody in the chaotic din, "if Austen is your favourite author, which is your favourite book? I must confess, Pride and Prejudice holds a special place in my library."

Sylvia's eyes widened with pleasant surprise. "Really? That is one of my favourite as well. I love the critical view on society and gender roles."

"Oh yes?" Lord Wesley asked. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, women are portrayed as objects of beauty with no rights, as shown in the marriages between Mr. Collins and Charlotte, and Lydia and Wickham. But the way that Mr. Darcy changes through out the plot… well, it ends up with a marriage based on independence, understanding, equality, and respect."

"I have always thought that the book shows how marriage affects not just the individual partners, but the assorted family and society around them," Lord Wesley agreed. "Which has always fascinated me as a concept."

She could not believe that this stranger seemed to share so many interests with her. It was fascinating because they had come from such different places in life, but had so much to speak about. Wesley was making her feel like she really did belong in this strange world.

As they continued their discussion, they delved in to the worlds of various novels, comparing characters, themes, and the impact of different stories on their lives. Sylvia was pleasantly astonished to find Wesley extremely well read in several novels she cherished. They spoke of many authors and even the lesser known poets and playwrights that Sylvia adored but rarely found the opportunity to discuss.

With each passing moment, the rest of the room seemed to fade into the background, leaving them enveloped in their own little bubble of literature. Sylvia could not stop herself from growing with excitement and passion as she spoke, because of the way that Lord Wesley responded to her. The buzz of the dinner party became a distant hum, the other guests mere shadows at the edges of her vision. Sylvia felt as if they had been transported to a private library, surrounded by the comforting scent of old books just waiting for her to devour them.

Sylvia could have sat in the corner of any room talking to him forever. He really was the most interesting person she had ever met. It helped that deep down she just knew that her father would love him as well. In his heyday, she could just imagine them chatting as easily as she was with him right now.

However, Sylvia's brief escape from reality shattered when dessert was served. The rich aroma of chocolate and fruit tarts filled the room, but Sylvia could hardly appreciate it. Her attention was captured by the piercing gaze directed at her from across the table. The woman who she had been introduced to as Wesley's mother, Lady Victoria, glared at her with a disdain that was unmistakable. The elegant woman's expression, hardened into an icy mask of obvious condemnation, sent a chill down Sylvia's spine. She could feel the judgment in those cold, blue eyes, as if Lady Victoria could see straight through to her very soul and found her deficient.

It was almost as if she knew that Sylvia was not a Lady in the same way that others were around this table. That she might have had noble blood running through her veins, but that she had grown up as a lowly vicar's daughter.

Sylvia hastily looked away, her cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and discomfort. She sought refuge in the familiar faces of her surroundings, but as her eyes wandered, they locked onto another equally scornful gaze. Lady Arabella, with her perfectly coiffed hair and impeccable manners, was the epitome of aristocratic grace. Yet now, her expression mirrored Lord Wesley's mother's, a look of contempt that made Sylvia's heart sink.

Was she the reason that Lady Victoria did not like her? Was she the Lady that she wanted for her son? If so, that was going to be really hard for Sylvia to accept because she could never measure up to a beautiful grace like Lady Arabella.

In that intense moment, Sylvia was back to being an outsider in a world where she did not belong. The warmth and connection she had felt with Lord Wesley just a moment ago dissipated like a wisp of smoke in the wind, leaving her exposed and vulnerable in a room that suddenly felt hostile.

The lively chatter and laughter of the other guests seemed to mock her, amplifying her sense of isolation. Sylvia forced herself to focus on the food before her, but each bite tasted like ashes in her mouth. She knew that this was a nightmare that she could not escape from any time soon.

"What about art?" Wesley asked her, clearly completely unaware of the terrible looks and the inner turmoil she was currently experiencing.

Sylvia forced a smile, struggling to recapture the joy she had felt moments earlier. "I do enjoy art," she replied, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears. "Turner and Lawrence, in particular, have always fascinated me. Their attention to detail and the way they weave stories into their paintings are quite remarkable. I also very much enjoy the work of Towne."

Wesley's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm. "I could not agree more. I also very much enjoy the work of Towne. I find his paintings transport me to another world."

As Wesley continued to speak, Sylvia found herself nodding along, but her heart was not in it in the same way. She could feel the scrutiny of Lord Wesley's mother and Lady Arabella like a physical weight pressing down on her. Their disapproving stares had shattered her confidence, leaving her feeling exposed and out of place. That was not a feeling she could easily shake off, no matter how hard she tried.

She now wanted this to be over. This whole night. The ball had been fun, and she had truly enjoyed dinner. Speaking with Lord Wesley had been a true unexpected joy, but all of that had been tainted now. It was almost a relief when the gentlemen were called to the parlor for port, so the women could go to the drawing room. That separation was just what she needed so she could sneak a moment alone. Sylvia needed some time to get her thoughts in order, and could not do it with Lord Wesley around her.

"Well, I best take my leave," Wesley said with a regretful smile. He did not look like he wanted to leave her, which only tugged at her heart strings more. She was desperate for an escape, and he did not feel the same way. "It has been enchanting, thank you."

"Yes," Sylvia agreed as she swallowed hard. "Thank you very much."

"I hope to see you very soon."

With a final, lingering look, Wesley bowed and took his leave. Sylvia watched him go, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions. If only it was not for the judgement of others, she could have continued to enjoy one of the nicest nights of her whole life.

As the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, Sylvia moved mechanically, her mind racing. The chatter of the other women swirled around her, a cacophony of voices discussing fashion, gossip, and the evening's events. She found a quiet corner and sank into a chair, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. None of that could possibly interest her when her head was in such a powerful spin.

Lady Victoria's and Lady Arabella's contemptuous gazes had left her feeling raw and vulnerable. Muddy, like she was too dirty to belong in a place like this. The connection she had felt with Lord Wesley now seemed like a cruel illusion, a beautiful dream interrupted by the harsh light of reality. She reminded herself of the social chasm that separated them, a barrier reinforced by the icy disdain of the people in his life. She had to keep that in mind, so she did not get carried away with herself.

"Sylvia," Aunt Grace hissed as soon as she spotted Sylvia sitting alone. "I need your assistance right now. Can you please mingle and talk to everyone for a moment? I must speak with the butler about something."

Sylvia nervously agreed. This was the last thing she needed. "Yes, of course I will."

She did not feel ready for this, but she also could not say no. Her aunt had done so much for her, she did not want to let her down.

Sylvia watched her aunt hurry away, leaving her feeling even more vulnerable. Her heart pounded as she rose from her seat and approached the nearest group of women, who were engrossed in a discussion about the latest fashion trends in London. A subject that Sylvia did not know much about. Not even to attempt joining in.

Unfortunately, Lady Arabella noticed Sylvia's approach and seized the opportunity to find a way to make her feel small once more. "Ah, Lady Sylvia, do join us. We were just discussing the latest fashions that people have been wearing tonight, for the start of the Season. Tell me, do you have a favourite designer?"

Sylvia managed a polite smile, though she felt her nerves tightening. She would not even be able to feign knowledge for this. Sylvia was going to have to be embarrassingly honest. "I am afraid I am not very familiar with the latest designers. My tastes are rather simple."

Arabella's smile was predatory. "How quaint. Simplicity does have its charm, I suppose. What do you think, ladies?"

The other women tittered, their laughter grating on Sylvia's already frayed nerves. She felt her cheeks burning, a clear signal that she was out of her depth. Lady Victoria, sitting nearby with a regal air, joined the conversation with a calculated comment to really drive the knife in.

"It is understandable, Lady Sylvia. London's fashion scene can be quite overwhelming for someone not accustomed to it. But perhaps you will learn in time."

Sylvia's smile wavered, but she nodded graciously. She had to keep her grace with her, for her aunt's sake. "Yes, I hope so."

She could feel the patronizing attitudes and veiled stares burning through her. Sylvia knew that they were there purely to leave her feeling belittled and out of place, and it was working. All she wanted to do was run. But she had nowhere to go. This was her aunt's home.

"Spending time with Lady Grace as her companion must be quite interesting," Lady Arabella jumped in, seemingly bolstered by Lady Victoria's attitude.

Sylvia managed a polite smile, her heart pounding as the nerves violently zig zagged through her. "Yes, Lady Grace has been very kind to me. She is a wonderful aunt."

The other ladies exchanged knowing glances, their whispers just loud enough for Sylvia to catch snippets of gossip about her background. It was clear that her humble origins had been a topic of discussion long before this evening. This was the last thing that she wanted. She just wanted to survive this, she never wanted to be center of attention.

But it did not matter.

The spotlight was on her regardless.

Feeling increasingly isolated, Sylvia sought solace in the faces around her. To her relief, she found empathy in Clara's eyes. But of course, that was a woman who likely understood where she was coming from. At least a little bit. She also saw that the woman who had been introduced as Wesley's sister, Harriet, when the family first entered the ballroom, was frowning unimpressed by the behavior of the other people. That shocked her more. Did she not feel the same as her mother? Did she not have a hatred for Sylvia, just because of who she was?

Still Sylvia could feel the pressure mounting. The room around her and everyone in it gave her a breathless sensation, as if she was being stifled and trapped in a cage. She longed for an escape, a moment to breathe without the weight of judgment bearing down on her, but she could not go anywhere. Not until her aunt was back.

Just then, Aunt Grace entered the room, her presence a beacon of hope. Sylvia seized the opportunity, her mind racing for a plausible excuse to escape this nightmare. "Aunt Grace," she whispered, her voice laced with feigned distress, "I am feeling quite unwell. A sudden megrim, I fear."

Aunt Grace's eyes widened with concern. "Oh, my dear, you do look pale. Please, take yourself to bed, Sylvia. I want you to feel better."

Sylvia nodded, grateful for the pretense that allowed her to leave. She bid the ladies a hasty good night, her voice trembling slightly as she excused herself. "I must retire for the evening. Please, forgive me."

The scrutinizing eyes followed her as she made her exit, their whispers still haunting her hurried steps. Once outside the drawing room, Sylvia quickened her pace, desperate to reach the sanctuary of her bedchamber as soon as she could. The corridors of the house seemed to stretch endlessly, much further than usual, but finally, she reached her door and slipped inside, closing it firmly behind her.

Her first night with the ton had not gone well, which was not great for the rest of her Season here.

Sylvia did not feel ready for this at all.