A Holiday by Gaslight

by Mimi Matthews

  “You’re very harsh.” Sophie finished rolling a section of Emily hair around the rat. She sank in a pin to secure it. “Do you think you’re the only young lady who’s ever developed a tendre for an unsuitable gentleman?”

  “How is Mr. Murray unsuitable? He’s as wealthy as Mr. Sharpe. Indeed, he partners with him in all his investments. Besides, I actually like Mr. Murray. He’s not carved from a slab of granite. He’s funny and thoughtful and…he makes me laugh.”

  Sophie concentrated on rolling the next section. “That’s all very well, dear, but I thought you wanted to marry a title?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t know…I didn’t expect…” Emily exhaled a frustrated breath. “I don’t want to make a mistake.”

  “How could you?”

  “By doing what I’m told. Or not doing what I’m told. By choosing the wrong gentleman. You can’t comprehend what it’s like to struggle over such decisions, Sophie. You’re too perfect.”

  “Perfect?” Sophie caught her sister’s gaze in the mirror. “I’m the furthest thing from perfect, Emmy. I have to struggle every day with doing the right thing.”

  “At least you know what the right thing is.”

  “Sometimes I don’t. Some days I’m filled with doubt.” She ran the brush through a fresh section of her sister’s hair. “And some days I know what the right thing is and I don’t want to do it. I’d rather be selfish and think only of myself.”

  “But in the end, you always do what’s expected of you.”

  “Expected by whom? Mama and Papa? Not always.”

  “You do when it matters,” Emily said. “You’re even willing to accept the gentleman they chose for you, though I know you don’t like him.”

  “You’re wrong. I do like Mr. Sharpe. And Mama and Papa didn’t choose him for me. He chose me for himself. They merely encouraged the match.”

  “That’s a nice way of putting it, but I know how it truly is. And you’re not to think I don’t care, just because I bicker with you and lose my temper at all your economies. I would save you from marrying him if I could.”

  Sophie’s lips curved into a smile. She was both touched and a little amused by her sister’s concern. “There’s no need to save me, Em. Mr. Sharpe hasn’t even proposed yet. He may never.”

  “Good. It will spare you the scandal of breaking a betrothal.”

  Sophie laughed as she anchored the last pin in Emily’s hair, securing the final cluster of flowers. “There. What do you think?”

  Emily preened. “Oh yes, this is just what I had in mind. And the pins only hurt a little.”

  “I’m glad. Now bend your head and I’ll give it a good spray.” Sophie fetched the glass atomizer of liquid bandoline. It was made of a clear gum solution, the stickiness of which would keep Emily’s hair in place throughout the ball.

  With her sister’s hair done, Sophie could at last retire to her room to attend to her own toilette. Annie quickly arranged her hair and helped her dress.

  Sophie’s gown for the Christmas ball was really a combination of two outdated evening dresses the village seamstress had made over to match a plate in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. The resulting ball gown was a fashionable—and quite daring—creation of wine-colored crêpe over wine-colored silk, with double skirts, tiny fluttering sleeves, and a V-shaped neckline cut low in both front and back.

  The whole of it was adorned with sprays of gold flowers, oaken leaves, and gilded acorns. Annie stuck some into Sophie’s hair for good measure.

  “You look ever so handsome, miss,” she said, beaming.

  Sophie paused a moment to admire herself in the pier glass. “It came out well, didn’t it? It looks almost new.”

  “No one could tell who didn’t know.”

  Satisfied, Sophie pulled on her gloves, gathered up her little paper fan that doubled as a dance card, and made her way down the hall.

  Evening had fallen and the corridors were lit with the soft glow of gaslight, an ever-present reminder of her father’s extravagance. For what must be the hundredth time, she resolved not to think about it. Fretting over their finances would serve no purpose except ruining the ball for her. And why should she do that? The money had already been spent. The guests were here. The food was ordered. And the orchestra was setting up in the ballroom.

  There would be ample time to weep over their situation after Christmas.

  For now, she would plaster a smile on her face and greet the guests with the rest of her family.

  She’d gone no more than a few feet when she saw Ned coming from the opposite direction.

  Her heart performed its now familiar somersault.

  He was garbed in black and white evening dress, his dark hair combed into meticulous order and his short side-whiskers trimmed close along the hard line of his jaw. He looked elegant and commanding. So much like the severe gentleman who’d courted her in London that she almost forgot how dear he’d become to her.

  And then he smiled.

  Good heavens.

  A flush of pleasure suffused her chest, as warm and glowing as the gaslight that surrounded her. She met him halfway down the hall.

  His blue gaze drifted over her. “Sophie.”

  “Hello.”

  She’d never been more aware of him. Of the way he looked, so tall and handsome. Of the sound of his voice, so much deeper and huskier than usual. Her bosom rose and fell on a self-conscious breath. His gaze dropped and lingered there for a fraction of second. She was sure she blushed. She could feel the heat of it seeping over the wide expanse of exposed flesh at her neck and shoulders.

  “Sophie,” he said again. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. “You look…” But he only shook his head, seemingly lost for words.

  “You’ve seen me in evening dress before,” she reminded him, her cheeks burning. “A ball gown isn’t so very different.”

  “Isn’t it? It feels a world of difference to me.”

  “You approve, I take it.”

  “I more than approve. I stand in awe.”

  Well.

  “Is that your dance card?” He touched a white-gloved finger to the dangling fan at her wrist.

  “It is.”

  “And how many dances may I claim?”

  “How many would you like?”

  Ned’s voice deepened. “All of them.”

  Sophie’s lips tilted in a bemused smile. “You don’t even know if I’ll make a good partner.”

  “I know.” He spoke with unerring confidence. “Shall I put my name down for all of your waltzes?”

  “There are four waltzes this evening. And I can dance no more than three dances with any one gentleman.”

  “Three, then.”

  She nodded and Ned made short work of penciling his name into her dance card. When he’d finished, he looked at her again, the weight of his gaze making her feel a tiny bit flustered. “What is it?”

  “You,” he said simply. And then: “I’ve never seen anyone look so vivid under the gaslight.”

  “Oh, that.” Sophie gave her skirts a little rustle over her crinoline. “Most colors lose their brilliancy by gaslight. But this particular shade is complemented by it. The gaslight deepens the hue. Makes it warmer and richer, like a full-bodied red wine. Or so my seamstress claims.”

  “She’s not wrong. It looks… You look…” He made a noise low in his throat. “I’m not sure I can let you—”

  “What?”

  But he didn’t seem disposed to answer. Instead, he caught her hand and pulled her into a small alcove off the hall. Once upon a time, it had contained a marble pedestal holding an expensive sculpture. Now, the alcove was empty—and just large enough to fit the both of them standing face to face.

  Ned bent his head. “I don’t know if I can let you dance with anyone else. Not without kissing you
first.”

  Oh my.

  Sophie’s heart skipped several beats. A wall sconce outside the alcove flickered, casting a half shadow over Ned’s face. This was to be her gaslight kiss, then. Just as he’d promised her. “We can’t. Anyone might see.”

  He brought his hand to cradle her face. “We’re quite hidden.”

  She refrained from pointing out that her skirts were spilling out into the hall. At this stage it didn’t seem to matter. He wanted to kiss her. And she very much wanted to kiss him back. She raised her hand to curl about his neck, the movement unsteady and uncertain. “I’m afraid I’ll crush your cravat,” she admitted, a little sheepishly.

  Ned’s expression softened with something like tenderness. “Never mind my cravat.”

  And then his mouth covered hers.

  Sophie’s eyes fell shut and her breath stuttered. For a moment, she stood still as a statue, just as she had the first time. But it was impossible to remain so. Not with her hand curved tight around his neck. Not with his arms moving to encircle her waist, drawing her flush against his chest.

  Her lips softened beneath his, half-parting under the gentle, searching pressure of his mouth. She felt the warmth of his breath. The clutch of his fingers at her corseted waist. And they kissed each other. There was no other way to describe it. They kissed each other. Like equals. Like partners. Both active participants in what had to be the most intimate experience of Sophie’s entire life.

  “My God,” he breathed when they finally broke apart. It sounded like a groan. Or possibly a prayer. “My God, Sophie.”

  She held his gaze, lips still half-parted as she tried to catch her breath. “Was that all right?”

  Ned ran a hand over his face. And then he gave her a lop-sided smile. It was the smile of a much younger man. Smitten and foolish. A little rueful. It was utterly unlike any smile he’d ever given her before.

  Sophie’s heart clutched. Had she finally managed to put the stern and forbidding Mr. Edward Sharpe out of countenance? To render him no more than a speechless schoolboy?

  Or perhaps not so speechless.

  “It was more than all right,” he said. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

  It was the worst possible thing he could have said. Especially following Emily’s accusations of perfection.

  Not that it ruined the moment. She didn’t think anything could. Still…

  She’d rather he thought of her as a woman than some glorified feminine ideal

  “I’m not perfect.” She backed away from him, or at least as far as the alcove would allow. “But I am obliged to you for the kiss.”

  “And I to you.”

  “Well, then.”

  His lop-sided smile widened. “Well, then.”

  The sound of musicians tuning their instruments drifted up the stairs. The ball was about to commence. “I shouldn’t linger. The guests will be arriving soon. My parents will expect me in the hall to welcome them.” She paused. “Will you escort me downstairs?”

  “Er…you go ahead. I’ll stay here awhile.”

  “You’re right. We’d do better to go down separately. We wouldn’t wish to be remarked.”

  “No, indeed.” He caught at her hand as she moved to leave. “Sophie?”

  She met his eyes. “Yes?”

  He looked steadily back at her. “I mean to claim those waltzes.”

  “They’re yours, Ned,” she said. But what she really meant was I’m yours. And, as she slipped out of the alcove and hurried down the hall, she suspected he knew it.

  The ballroom at Appersett House was magnificent. It was also hot, stuffy, and overcrowded. The crystal gasoliers and the gas jets in the gilded wall sconces worked in concert with the guests to suck the oxygen from the room. Three ladies had already fainted. It was quite an achievement—and not at all a negative one. Indeed, no party was counted a success unless it was an absolute crush.

  As the orchestra played the last notes of Ned’s final waltz with Sophie, he contemplated inviting her for a walk on the terrace. The snow would be a refreshing change from the cloying scent of men’s pomade, women’s perfume, and human perspiration. Besides, he wanted to kiss her again and the odds of finding any privacy indoors were next to nil.

  She stepped back as their dance ended, returning his short bow with a shallow curtsy. “I told you I wouldn’t be a good partner. I must have trod on your toes three times.”

  “Four times. Not that I’m keeping count.”

  She gave him a laughing grimace. “How mortifying. I’m not usually so clumsy.”

  “You’re tired, that’s all. The gentlemen have danced you off your feet.” Ned didn’t think she’d ever lacked a partner. She was a firm favorite with both the gentry and villagers alike.

  “You’ve been no less popular.”

  “I’ve been much less popular.”

  “Nonsense. You danced with Mrs. Lanyon and Miss Tunstall and I don’t know how many others.”

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Were you keeping count?”

  “You needn’t look so smug. I only noticed because Mrs. Lanyon fainted after the lancers.” Sophie cast a quick look around. “I hope she’s feeling better now. I don’t see her anywhere.”

  “My mother took her upstairs to rest in one of the guest rooms.”

  “Bless your mother. She’s not having very much fun, is she?”

  “She dislikes frivolity. And I’m sure the lack of fresh air doesn’t help. She’d rather have a few moments of quiet than linger at the side of a ballroom. Even if those moments are occupied wafting smelling salts under someone’s nose.”

  Sophie sighed as Ned led her from the floor. “I can’t say I blame her. It’s so dreadfully close in here.”

  He didn’t disagree. “Would you care for some punch? Or—if you have a wrap—perhaps you might accompany me out onto the terrace?”

  “Both, if you please.”

  “Which would you like first?”

  “Punch. I’ll come with you to the refreshment table. We can…” Sophie’s voice trailed off, her attention arrested by something happening across the ballroom.

  Ned followed her gaze. Sir William and Lady Appersett stood at the edge of the polished wood floor, engaged in a heated conversation with Emily…and Walter Murray.

  “What in heaven…?” Sophie wondered under her breath.

  Ned’s stomach clenched in a knot. He had a sinking feeling. A feeling which was only intensified by the sight of Walter’s hand on Emily Appersett’s back. Ned watched it move in a soothing, and wholly proprietary, circle. As if Walter was trying to calm the agitated young lady. As if…

  Damn it all to hell.

  Hadn’t he warned the man? Hadn’t he told him…?

  “Something’s happened. They’re leaving.” Sophie moved to follow after them.

  Ned caught at her hand. “Wait. I’ll go with you.”

  She looked at him, her eyes filled with helpless dread. “Ned…”

  “I know. It will be all right.” He squeezed her hand before tucking it through his arm. “There’s nothing broken that can’t be mended.”

  Sophie didn’t respond. Not in words. But her fingers clenched his sleeve as he escorted her from the ballroom.

  Sir William and Lady Appersett convened with Walter and their younger daughter in the library. Lady Appersett was settling herself in a chair when Ned entered with Sophie on his arm.

  Sophie instantly let go of him and went to her sister. “Emily…?”

  The two of them exchanged hushed words while Walter lingered nearby. Ned caught his friend’s gaze and held it, unflinching. Walter turned a dull red. Ned was amazed that he still could. The man was clearly shameless.

  “This is a fine kettle of fish.” Sir William paced in front of the fireplace. “At the ball of all places. Wh
ere anyone might overhear.”

  “Keep a level head, my dear,” Lady Appersett murmured to him. “We must all try to keep a level head.”

  Emily scoffed. “It’s only a proposal, Mama. It isn’t as if I’ve been compromised.”

  “Only a proposal!” Sir William turned on Walter, pointing at him with a shaking finger. “You, sir, are a deceiving blackguard. To come into my home under false pretenses. To approach my daughter—”

  “My proposal of marriage was made in earnest,” Walter said. “I mean your daughter no disrespect.”

  “It’s not the proposal I object to, man. It’s the way you went about it. Have you no sense of the manner in which these things are done? You should have come to me first. There are contracts to hammer out. Settlements and the like.”

  “Mr. Murray doesn’t view me in those terms, Papa.” Emily moved closer to her still-blushing beau. “I’m not a boring old business arrangement.”

  Ned stole a glance at Sophie. Her expression was shuttered, her arms folded tightly at her waist.

  Is that what she thought? That she was a business arrangement to him? Nothing more than a dry negotiation of contracts and settlements? Granted, when he’d wished to court her, he’d gone to her father first. He’d done everything exactly as the Gentleman’s Book of Etiquette advised. Pursuing Sophia Appersett had been the most important decision of his life. He hadn’t wanted to put a foot out of line.

  Only now did he realize that, in his zeal to do everything right, he might have inadvertently done everything wrong.

  He’d wanted so badly to win her. To show himself a gentleman equal to those of her rank and breeding. As a result, there had been no romance in his pursuit. No impetuousness.

  Unlike Walter Murray’s pursuit of her sister. An unsanctioned courtship filled with teasing and flirting and God knows what else.

  “I wouldn’t like it if he’d asked you first,” Emily went on. “As if he didn’t care for me at all and only cared for my dowry.”

  Walter glanced down at her with an expression of affectionate indulgence. “Your father’s right. I should have asked him for your hand before I approached you.” He looked at Sir William and Lady Appersett in turn. “I apologize for my impulsiveness, but I love your daughter. And I believe she loves me as well.”