Chapter 20

The Montagu Ball

I t had been exactly two weeks since Briana had seen Victor. He had been noticeably absent from several routs and balls despite his family attending. The man had withdrawn completely from her life, and she secretly mourned the loss. However, Caitlin Drummond mentioned that the entire family would be attending tonight’s ball. Briana was determined to speak to Victor and hopefully clear the air between them.

The Montagu mansion blazed with hundreds of candles, their light reflecting off the crystal chandeliers and casting dancing shadows across the gilt-edged mirrors. Briana stood near a marble column, her fingers nervously tracing the delicate embroidery of her fan. She had chosen her gown with particular care tonight—a silk confection in dark blue that brought out the silver highlights in her eyes. Caitlin thought she looked splendid in it but now Briana felt every inch the foolish girl, primping and preening for a man who may never want to see her again.

After failing to spot him among the guests, Briana almost despaired that perhaps he would not attend. But just as the first notes of the La Graces quadrille filled the air, she breathed a sigh of relief when she saw him. Victor cut an impressive figure in his perfectly tailored evening coat; his cravat tied with military precision. Her heart performed its usual treacherous flutter at the sight of him, even as she noted with growing despair how he guided Miss Camille Fenton to the dance floor, his smile warm and intimate as he bent to whisper something that made the young lady laugh with delight.

Throughout the set, Briana could not tear her eyes away from the pair. Victor moved with his characteristic grace, but there was something different in his manner tonight—a coldness she had not seen in weeks. Not since that disastrous morning at his home when everything had gone so horribly wrong.

She watched as he led Camille through the intricate steps, his hand lingering perhaps a moment too long on her waist during the turns. Each touch was like a knife to Briana's heart, made worse by the knowledge that barely a fortnight ago, it had been her hand he had held, her waist he had touched with such wanton pleasure.

Inevitably, their gazes finally met across the crowded ballroom. Briana felt her breath catch, hope rising unbidden in her chest. She gave him a slight smile and nod of acknowledgement But Victor's eyes, once so warm when they gazed upon her, now held all the chill of a wintery blizzard. Ice cold, empty eyes glared back at her. His jaw tightened, and with deliberate precision, he turned his head away, bestowing that devastating smile once more upon Miss Fenton.

The cut was so direct, so pointed, that several nearby matrons turned to stare. Briana felt the heat of mortification climb up her neck to stain her cheeks. Unfortunately for her, Camille’s coven of witches were hovering nearby. Penelope Swinbourne’s poorly concealed titter of amusement behind her fan was the final stroke.

"Are you quite well, Miss Walsh?" came Penelope’s saccharine inquiry. "You look rather flushed. Perhaps you should retire to the ladies' withdrawing room?"

Briana's fingers tightened on her fan until she feared the delicate ivory sticks might snap. "You are too kind, Miss Swinbourne," she managed, proud that her voice remained steady despite the burning behind her eyes. "But I assure you, I am perfectly well."

She was anything but well. The room seemed to close in around her, the press of the crowd suddenly unbearable. The music that had seemed so full of anticipation just moments before now mocked her with its cheerful tempo. She watched as Victor led Camille from the dance floor, his dark head bent attentively toward her golden one.

Without conscious thought, Briana found herself moving toward the terrace doors. She needed air—needed escape from this glittering cage where her heart lay shattered on the polished parquet floor. But even as she fled, she could not help but wonder whether she had imagined everything between them. There was no way she could approach Victor now without causing a scene. He had made it clear that bridge had been well and truly burned.

OUT ON THE TERRACE , the cool night air hit her face like a blessing, but it did nothing to ease the ache in her chest or the burning humiliation of knowing that tomorrow, the ton would be abuzz with whispers of how the Walsh girl had been cut dead by Victor Cambridge at the Montagu Ball. She would become the lesson to lowborn women not to dare to rise above their station. Her season was destined to end in social disaster, and not for the first time did she curse her predicament.

Soon, however, she was startled by a sound on the terrace. A woman called her name. Briana turned to see Lady Lydia Seymour standing in the dark watching her.

"Lady Seymour, you startled me."

Lydia slowly stepped into the light with a catty smile and replied, "I beg your pardon. I merely meant to console you, my dear, on your loss."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"Men like Victor, they need sophisticated women to keep them satisfied. Whatever dalliance you shared, however brief, I can assure you, it meant nothing to him."

"I do not know what you speak of."

"Oh, but I think you do. You see, I've been watching you, Miss Walsh. There's an innocence about you that draws men like Victor. But don't be fooled. Once he has his fill, he will discard you as he had all the others, and eventually return to me."

Briana just snorted. "With respect, I really do not understand why we are having this conversation."

"Can you not? But wait, let me guess—he made you feel special somehow, as if you were the only woman alive."

Briana tried not to flinch. Instead, she replied, "Whatever lesson you are about to impart, please do so that I may take my leave."

"Very well. By the body language between you, I would say you have spent time in his bed. And let me guess, while you were there he whispered sweet words like, ‘No woman has ever stirred my heart, body and soul. I shall never let you go’... or something to that nature."

Briana felt as if she was going to be sick. That is exactly what he had said to her. But how did Lydia know?

"I... I'm sorry, but I really do not need to hear any of this."

"It's true, and I know because he says those words to every woman he beds and dallies with. He once said them to me. You're nothing special, Briana Walsh. Remember your place." With that parting shot, Lydia returned to the ballroom.

But the words had hit their mark, and Briana felt shattered. Victor made her feel special when really, she was just another in a long line of women.

VICTOR FOUND HIMSELF in desperate need of refreshment. It had required every measure of self-control not to pursue Miss Walsh when she quit the ballroom. Though he observed a flash of hurt cross her countenance when he delivered the cut direct, he remained steadfast in his resolution to maintain his distance.

Making his way to the refreshment table, he massaged his temple, thoroughly fatigued from feigning interest in Miss Fenton's insufferable discourse. The lady's conceit and vapid chatter had tried his patience most severely, and the fixed smile he had worn throughout their dance hurt his cheeks. No sooner had the set concluded than he made haste to remove himself from her presence.

While seeking a fresh glass of lemonade, he found himself accosted.

"I say, Lord Victor, what think you of that Walsh chit?"

"For what purpose do you inquire?"

"Oh, we rather thought you harboured a tendre for the lady after boorishly chasing off half her suitors. Indeed, wagers have been placed regarding the timing of your offer." The gentlemen's laughter rang out.

Victor clenched his jaw, for he held neither Lord Buckley nor Lord Faville in high regard. They were notorious wastrels, known to create mischief if given the slightest provocation. He affected a derisive laugh. "Do not be absurd. I should never contemplate courting her. The lady is quite insufferable."

"That seems rather severe. I might offer for her myself, were it not for my mother's objection to her humble origins," Lord Faville remarked.

"Given the paucity of eligible ladies this season, and my pressing need for new money to replenish my coffers, I am prepared to overlook the taint of trade," Lord Buckley declared.

Victor stiffened at the slight before responding, "My brother shows particular attention to her dearest friend. I merely tolerate her presence. I harbour no tender feelings for the chit beyond that."

"Then you would not object were I to call upon her?" Lord Faville inquired.

Though it required every ounce of restraint not to punch Faville repeatedly in the face, Victor merely shrugged with nonchalant indifference. "Why should I concern myself with the matter?"

As the gentlemen took their leave, Victor turned toward the terrace, only to find himself frozen in place. There stood Miss Walsh, having been within earshot of the entire exchange. Her face blanched as their eyes met, her expression one of profound devastation and betrayal. He knew at once he had gone too far, his anger having led him to unconscionable cruelty.

"Miss Walsh, I beg your pardon. I did not intend—"

"Oh, but you most certainly did intend those words, sir."

"No, you do not understand. The situation is not as it appears. I behaved abominably—"

"No, it not abominable, but honest. You spoke your true feelings, and I was wrong to listen where I ought not. I shall take care to remove myself from your presence immediately."

Victor reached for her arm in mounting distress, desperate to explain. "Briana, please wait. Not a word of it was genuine. You see, Buckley and Faville are notorious gossips. I meant nothing of what was said, and I implore you to understand that the slightest encouragement would have led them to create mischief. Forgive me, I had no wish to cause you pain—"

"I assure you, Lord Victor, precious little in this world has the power to wound me."

"You do not comprehend, Miss Walsh. Lord Faville is the greatest gossip in all Christendom. I could hardly express approval lest his attacks grow more virulent—"

"Do not make this encounter more awkward than it already is. I did not intend to overhear your conversation. Indeed, I regret it more than ever. But if you will excuse me, I must take my leave. I bear you no ill will for your honesty."

Unable to endure another moment, Briana did the only thing she could—she fled. Though Victor attempted to follow, he found himself detained by several matrons and could not reach her before she vanished into the night.

In the months that followed, Briana went to great lengths to avoid any encounter with Victor Cambridge. On those rare occasions when their paths crossed—primarily at family gatherings involving the newlywed Lucas and Caitlin — they remained perfectly civil but underneath it all simmered a dangerous tension, threatening to consume them both. Like a powder keg awaiting a spark. It was merely a matter of time before the heat and pressure between them would prove too great to contain.