Chapter Thirty-Four

A lfie and Bea had missed the wedding breakfast but after a short nap and a bath, Alfie returned to the ballroom in time for the evening’s festivities. It was unusual to extend the celebrations past the breakfast, but Pippa’s father felt he owed a ball to the Ton. And Bea said she had to face her parents.

He wasn’t quite sure what to call what they’d done in her bed chamber though. Not a ribbon from her dress had come off, and she’d touched him until… well… had she seduced him? Alfie had put a stop to it just in time before he lost the last modicum of control. She was a woman to cherish, not to seduce. And most importantly, he hadn’t proposed to her formally with a ring and her father’s permission. Now he thought he ought to secure her parents’ blessings.

He chuckled and rubbed his palms together. Oh, how soft she’d been in his grasp.

After dinner, when Alfie walked into the ballroom, the music swelled, a symphony of strings and woodwinds painting the air with anticipation. Alfie knew that Pippa was cherishing being the hostess and the bride of the ball at the same time, a well-deserved honor. In the center of the ballroom, Pippa and Nick, the newlyweds, commenced their waltz. The assembled guests encircled them, a tableau of the realm’s finest, their approving murmurs a gentle rain.

Alfie’s mind swirled with the intoxicating pleasure of the moments he had shared with Bea. Every touch, every whispered word replayed in his thoughts like a cherished melody. But then, across the room, he saw her—Bea, radiant and ethereal, moving with fluid grace and uninhibited joy. His heart plummeted as doubt crept in, a cold dread that tightened around his chest.

In Alfie’s heart, a thunderstorm brewed when the next pairing drew a collective breath from the crowd as Bea stepped onto the parquet, her hand finding the prince’s with practiced grace. Why wasn’t it him leading her onto the dance floor? The world seemed to pause for Alfie as he watched them, the prince leading Bea into the dance; his elegant bow and her graceful curtsy made Alfie’s insides clench.

A violin solo gave Bea the moment to assume the position and a hush descended upon the ballroom, the assembled guests’ attention fixed upon the center of the ballroom. It was then, in that breath between silence and song, that Alfie’s gaze found Bea. She smiled and appeared pleased. Alfie wanted to scream. He was in hell. The moment her slender hand slipped into the prince’s, an invisible thread pulled taut around his heart, drawing forth an ache he had not anticipated, sharp and unyielding.

Bea moved with an effortless grace, her steps measured and sure as she positioned herself beside the prince. Alfie watched, transfixed, as if the very act of her taking the prince’s hand was an intricate dance all its own—a prelude to the waltz that promised to entwine their fates more closely than he could bear. Her palm lay gently atop the prince’s, a silent testament to the bond being forged in the glow of sparkling chandeliers and expectant eyes.

The way Bea glanced up at her partner, a soft smile gracing her lips, struck Alfie with the force of a tempest. It was a look of cordiality, perhaps even of budding affection, reserved for those destined to orbit within the same illustrious spheres.

“What a sweet match,” a woman’s voice came from behind Alfie.

“The perfect couple,” another added.

Her lithe form found its place within the circle of the prince’s arm, and as they assumed the starting position, the air around Alfie seemed to thin, each breath a struggle against the weight of realization. The elegance of her stance, the delicate arch of her neck as she prepared to move to the music’s rhythm, was a portrait of radiant confidence, casting a glow that seemed to illuminate her from within.

Alfie felt shabby, unable to ask for a dance with her, especially if her parents were there. It was the symbolic crossing of thresholds of classes that were never meant to merge and he had nothing to offer if her father asked—besides his heart. It couldn’t be enough, considering that her parents smiled approvingly as Bea swayed in the prince’s arms. Even though Bea may have given him her heart and agreed to marry him, her father could stop their union.

Bea, in her resplendent beauty and grace, belonged to this dance, to the grandeur that surrounded her. As the music swelled, carrying them away on its lilting wave, Alfie remained anchored in place, adrift in a sea of unspoken love and unreachable dreams. His heart was lost in the darkness of the storm that would wreck his last hope and break his heart, drowning his na?ve hopes that perhaps she could someday be his.

When Bea swayed in unison with the prince to the haunting melody, she moved with an ethereal elegance, her gown billowing softly with every turn, the candlelight flickering against the luster of her hair, now perfectly coiffed yet no less captivating in its beauty. To the onlookers, it was a vision of potential alliances, bright futures with promise. They saw the bride’s beauty, the prince’s majesty, and the dance’s splendor. But Alfie saw only Bea, her fingers lightly resting in the prince’s hold, her waist encircled by his arm. Each step they took together was a dagger to his heart, each smile she bestowed upon her partner a twist of the blade.

The jealousy that churned within him ran wild. He watched as Bea leaned into the prince’s lead, her laughter mingling with the music, a sound more melodious than any aria. She inclined her head and whispered something to him.

Alfie’s heart fractured with each beat of the music, each pulse echoing the shattering realization of his own silent yearning. Amid the grandeur of the ballroom, under the watchful eyes of the elite, he stood alone, a solitary figure grappling with the specter of loss. The dance before him unfolded like a dream from which he could not wake, a poignant reminder of the chasm between what his heart desired and what the morrow would bring.

And as the music dwindled to its final, lingering note, Alfie was left with the bitter taste of envy, and a heartache that whispered of love unspoken, and dreams undone.

*

“I need your help again,” Stan whispered through clenched teeth while the crowd watched them dancing. “List is here.”

“I saw,” Bea responded with the same practiced ease of continuing the graceful dance. It was a chance to speak, hiding in plain sight.

“There’s an Austrian official, Richard Nagy.”

“The bailiff?” Bea asked, meeting Stan’s eyes for a moment. Violet and Henry had mentioned him, he was just as bad as Baron von List.

“Yes. You never cease to amaze me, Lady Beatrice. I hope that you will continue to work with me.” Stan gave a curt incline of his head to show his respect.

That was when Bea realized that she wanted his respect. Being a spy or whatever it was called, using her connections to assist his diplomatic mission—that was what she wanted.

Where was Alfie? She wanted to work with Stan but be with Alfie.

The music rose and Bea felt as if thunderclouds drew apart and light returned to her heart. All she had to do was tell her parents the truth. She’d marry Alfie, no matter his station and her parents’ opinion. If she could work with Stan and marry Alfie, she no longer needed the Ton’s approval. She’d found a path in life that excited her.

“Nagy has a stake in this but I’m not clear yet what it is,” Stan spoke softly.

“And List is smuggling the gold that the Austrians think should be sent to them?” Bea asked.

“I suspect that Nagy doesn’t know where List is keeping the gold.”

“And the Russians want it, too?” Bea asked.

“Perhaps.”