Society Girl (Animos Society)

by Alys Murray

  “I’m serving the champagne tonight, sir.”

  “Right.” Daniel’s face sank as Ifan refused to even look at him. So, this was how the other half lived? He reached for a pair of flutes. “Uh. Let me take two, I’m meeting—”

  “Daniel?”

  It was a romantic movie cliché, but, like all romantic movie clichés, Daniel Best believed it was true. When he whirled around toward the sound of his name and saw Samantha Dubarry in all of her ball gown finery, time lay down at their feet.

  She was… Unlanguageable. A million lifetimes wouldn’t have been enough time to write a song capturing how she looked now. She stood in the middle of the large French doorways, right in the hustle and bustle of everything, but the rest of the world went dark, leaving only Sam in a puddle of perfect, glittering light. Her thick brown hair—pulled back, per usual—was studded with small pins. They caught the haze of light, giving her an almost angelic glow. A blue dress rippled down the curves of her body; it was as if someone had made a fabric of a stormy sea and tailored it to her every inch until she became a thing of the earth, a living embodiment of nature and all its beauties and dangers.

  Trading her usual slacks and blazer for a ball gown, she looked so unlike herself and more like herself than he’d ever seen her. As always, she was a dizzying swirl of contradictions, each more confusing and intriguing than the next.

  He wanted to kiss her. God, did he want to kiss her. With every passing second, he realized he wanted to kiss her ten times more than in the second before it.

  “Sam. You look— You are…” Say something poetic, man. You’re a writer. The romantic poet of Oxford, for Christ’s sake! “Wow.”

  “It’s just a dress.” She blushed and nodded at the floor, though her tone flatlined.

  “It’s not the dress. It’s the woman wearing it.”

  “You look very handsome.” She changed the conversation with a deftness he hadn’t anticipated. “Where’d you get a tux?”

  As proper as she tried to speak and behave, Sam betrayed her own anxiety. Her fingers tugged at the fabric of her dress. A sheen of sweat beaded on her forehead. Her eyes darted this way and then the other. Daniel furrowed his brow. What did she have to be worried about? This was her party.

  Not wanting to spook her, he didn’t pry. He tried to distract her as best as he knew how. He laid on the charm especially thick. If Ifan hadn’t run off with the champagne, he would have prescribed her a glass of the strong bubbles as well.

  “This old thing?” He tugged on his lapels. “I bought it off a drunk who lives on my street.”

  “Really?”

  “No,” Daniel admitted with a chuckle. “I play weddings sometimes.”

  This evoked a real, honest-to-God reaction from her, a scoff and an authentic toss of her head. Around them, the prying eyes of the crowd peered into their conversation, but he didn’t care. The band could play all night and Daniel would still be here, trying to puzzle out this beautiful woman before him.

  “What a drag,” she grumbled.

  “Weddings? What have you got against weddings?”

  “You like listening to people lie to each other?” Daniel’s face must not have been doing a very good job of concealing his shock. She continued incredulously. “What? I don’t need to tell you weddings are stupid, expensive symbols of a union doomed to last five to ten years at best.”

  It would have been a disappointing statement if it hadn’t given him the key to unlocking this woman who’d so fascinated him.

  “You’re a cynic.”

  “I’ve had a long twenty-three years to become one,” she said. Her smile didn’t touch her cloudy eyes. Daniel couldn’t stop himself.

  “Do you want to dance?”

  Sam scanned the dance floor with imperious eyes. Empty. She tilted her chin up slightly.

  “No one’s dancing yet.”

  “No one has a partner like mine,” he said, offering her his hand.

  Part of him expected her to demur and run away. She didn’t. She placed her small hand in his with an agreeing tilt of her head.

  “One dance.”

  Though his feet were firmly planted on the ground, Daniel could almost see this moment playing out through the eye of a movie camera, pulling out and zooming in as he led Sam to the dance floor, placed one hand on her hip and one hand in hers, and waited for the new song to begin. A skilled photographer would capture Sam’s sharp intake of breath as he drew her to him, the hungry eyes of the crowd, and the happy fingers of the musicians as they struck up a new tune, something smooth and sensuous.

  The only thing a camera couldn’t detect was the thrumming of his own heart.

  “You’re light on your feet,” he complimented after a few steps.

  “You…” She struggled for diplomacy but eventually laughed, a real laugh the likes of which he hadn’t yet seen her give. Maybe he was wearing her down after all. “Are not.”

  “I’m not used to this kind of dancing. I’m more of a cut-a-rug guy,” he explained, tumbling over his own shoes in the pseudo-waltz they were stumbling through. “I’m a hoofer at heart.”

  “Cut a rug? What is this, a Fred Astaire movie?”

  “Says the woman who walks around pretending she’s one of those Downton Abbey women.”

  “Am I really so transparent?”

  “Yes, but it’s very endearing.” By now, they’d slowed their waltz to a gentle sway. Around them, a handful of couples joined them, whispering and muttering to one another just as they were now. “And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to crack you. I’m going to find the real Sam Dubarry somewhere in there.”

  “You’ve seen her.”

  “If you say so.” Daniel shrugged. She wanted to play Downton Abbey with him? He could join in the game. He cleared his throat and adopted a truly abysmal Irish accent. “Lady Ashbrooke. What’s a rich girl like you doing with a poor chauffeur like me?”

  The music swelled around them, reaching its climax. The chaotic sevenths rattled Daniel’s heart, though not nearly as much as Sam’s gentle reply.

  “Dancing.” Her head settled on his chest. He wondered if she knew she’d squeezed him tighter to her, or if it was done subconsciously. Either way, it awakened his body like never before. Tighter wasn’t tight enough. Close could never be close enough. “Just dancing.”

  A million questions and thoughts and declarations hung on Daniel’s love-hungry tongue, but they were cut off by the arrival of a new presence, one he vaguely remembered. A tall Golden Boy in his Oxford best approached them and tapped Daniel’s date on the shoulder. Daniel could have killed the man for robbing him of the warmth of Sam’s cheek.

  “Pig—” The man caught himself. Here, Piggy, Piggy, Piggy. Daniel knew exactly from where he recognized this guy. He was one of those Animos bastards. “Sam. May I have the next dance? This fine gentleman couldn’t possibly dream of hogging you all night.”

  Daniel hardly knew the man, but he hated him almost instantly. Sam was free to dance with anyone she wanted to; her dancing didn’t bother him. There was something in the cloud of air this stranger had around him. His smarm sickened him to his very stomach.

  To make matters worse, he could feel Sam’s heartbeat through her dress. It picked up considerably when he sidled up to them.

  “Yes. Uh.” She pulled away. Daniel instantly felt cold, and not just from the thinly veiled fear in her eyes. “Yes. Daniel, would you mind getting me a glass of champagne?”

  He couldn’t even respond. The next song, something dense with plenty of unnecessary snare drum, began and she was gone, swept into that man’s arms. Daniel found two champagne flutes before making himself comfortable at the edge of the room. The dancing went on for four more songs, each seemingly longer than the last, as she exchanged partners and entered new conversations. Daniel tried not to look too closely. He didn’t want to seem as if he were spying on her…

  But it didn’t take a sp
y to see how uncomfortable she was with these men. Worlds apart from how they’d been dancing. Soon, as the twirling reached its fifth song, Sam’s first dance partner—the one Daniel recognized from their passing encounter outside of Christ Church—parked himself next to Daniel. He sipped champagne with annoyingly practiced elegance, as if champagne was a regular delicacy in his household.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” The man nodded to Sam’s spinning figure as her skirts flared and her partner awed at the sight.

  “Yes.”

  “Reginald Wavell”—the stranger (Reginald, apparently) captured Daniel’s hand and shook it vigorously—“future Earl of Hillsborough.”

  “Daniel Best,” he replied.

  Another champagne swallow. Reginald waved the near-empty flute between Sam’s distant body and Daniel’s stationary one. The hairs on his neck stood on end. He’d lived in Oxford his entire life; he’d dealt with his fair share of entitled pretty boys. This would need to be handled with grace, dignity, and all of the sly insults he could possibly throw at this guy. Otherwise, the predatory glaze over his glances at Sam would end in Daniel throwing him through the nearest window.

  “How’d you two meet again, you and Samantha?”

  “Some assholes left her naked in a park and I made sure she didn’t freeze to death.”

  Not as subtle as he would have liked, but Daniel managed to keep the ire from his voice, which he counted as a victory considering how he truly despised the stranger beside him.

  “But you do work here, don’t you?” Reginald offered. It must have made him feel so big to get to rub cold facts in the faces of the hired help.

  “Yes.”

  “Chauffeur?”

  “And mechanic. I like working with my hands. Shows I actually know how to do something for myself.”

  This struck a blow. Daniel watched it land.

  “What a party.” Reginald rocked back on his heels.

  “Yes,” he answered, hoping the brevity would convince this guy to leave him the fuck alone. It was a vain wish.

  “Funny thing is this whole thing wasn’t planned until Tuesday. No one even knew about it until Sam started begging people to come. How’d you get an invitation?”

  “She invited me,” he answered, watching as she began to beg off of another dance. “On Monday.”

  A low whistle from the future duke or whatever the fuck he was calling himself.

  “You must be something very special, then.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Because there wasn’t a party until she told you there was one.” Before Daniel could ask what he meant, the man waved across the room, an excuse to dismiss himself. “Ah, Leopold! If you’ll excuse me. It was a pleasure to meet you.”

  Daniel couldn’t remember the last time he’d had champagne, so maybe it was the drink tilting the room onto its side. Or maybe it was the realization striking him as Sam strolled up, casual as she could be, and took the full flute from him.

  “Thank you—”

  He cut straight to the point, just like her stupid Animos friend had. “Are you trying to show me how rich you are?” His voice lowered to a whisper. “You threw this whole party because you think I need to be bought?”

  Sam’s eyes widened, too far for her face, but to her credit, she didn’t even attempt to deny it.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I already like you. I liked you when you didn’t have a stitch of real clothing on your back. When I couldn’t tell if you were the Lady of Ashbrooke or a drunk who’d lost her clothes in a bad hand of poker. You don’t need to buy me.”

  He’d been too harsh. He knew it as soon as he saw Sam’s head drop in shame.

  “I wanted to impress you,” she explained in a timid voice, one he didn’t quite believe.

  “You didn’t want to impress me. You wanted to hide.”

  He saw this entire party for what it was. A way to distract him from ever getting too close and seeing the real her. This was a circus. A sideshow attraction.

  “Maybe a little,” she confessed.

  For a long moment they stood there, neither knowing quite what to do with themselves. He glanced around the room, surveying the polite conversation and joyless dancing all around him. She thought this would impress him?

  “You think if we leave, anyone would notice?” he asked.

  “Why would they notice? None of them really know me.”

  Daniel held her hand as though it was the most natural thing to do.

  “C’mon, then.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I’m gonna show you what a real party is. And we’re going to see how good a dancer you really are.”

  Chapter Eleven

  On the outskirts of old Oxford, there stood a rickety old aircraft hangar, one of those metallic creations brought with them when the Americans flew in. In the hasty victory celebrations that followed V-Day, the U.S. Army forgot to take their building back with them, and the city left it there. Between 1945 and the day Sam and Daniel arrived, it had been everything from a fallout shelter to an unwieldy concert hall. In its more recent years, a local historical laid claim to it, hosting Regency dance lessons and Arthurian sword fighting classes.

  But, by far, the most popular event they held was the twice-annual Blitz Ball. Inspiration for the event had come from Daniel’s mother, the Historical Society President. She’d been three-quarters deep in a bottle of wine when she clicked the “If You Liked Call the Midwife, You Might Also Like,” bar on Netflix. One thing led to another, and suddenly it was seven in the morning, she’d exhausted Netflix’s entire catalogue of films about World War II, and she was making half-tipsy, half-hungover calls to her Historical Society friends about holding a 1940s dancehall night. They’d only intended to do the one, but it was such a smash they’d now done it for five years running.

  The key to the success was the authenticity. Mrs. Best was a perfectionist, spending hours upon hours poring over yellowing Polaroids and copies of Soldiers Magazine. When guests arrived, after making their donations at the door, they were shuffled into a kind of shopping mall of sorts, a real MGM costume shop of 1940s clothing. Everyone traded their old duds for new looks.

  A veritable legion of volunteers trained for weeks to learn the quickest way to twist a long-haired woman’s hair into a Victory Curl and pour the perfect sidecar. It took nine full days to transform the main hangar of the building into a proper dancehall, and the band selected to play the live music needed at least five months’ notice so they could learn Mrs. Best’s book of era-appropriate songs and arrangements.

  With the tremendous overhead and the headaches it caused all of the volunteers it could only happen twice a year, but if the people of Oxford had their way, there would have been a Blitz Ball every weekend.

  Sam knew all of this, of course, because Daniel had talked about it the entire car ride from her home to the place. Before she could even offer to change out of her ball gown or offer the use of her father’s 1940 Coupe De Ville (it was a World War II dance, after all), Daniel had shuffled her into his car. The rusty tin can of a vehicle was immaculately maintained. The sight of the freshly vacuumed interior and hand-buffed hood brought back memories of her house being trashed by the Animos. They had everything but cared about nothing as much as Daniel cared about this cheap car.

  As the tree-lined roads unwound themselves, leading away from the thin violin music humming in her house, she found she enjoyed listening to him talk, and not just because he provided an easy distraction from her racing mind. For every time her thoughts strayed to the sickening tightness of Captain’s hand at her waist or the sight of him muttering gleefully to a stone-faced Daniel, she found instant relief by tuning back to his quick quips about his disastrous attempt to master some sword technique at a Historical Society class.

  Her sides actually hurt from laughing by the time they reached Oxford proper. The laughter turned to vocal awe, though, as Daniel rounded the co
rner and the hangar came into the full view. The front windshield framed it like the square lines of a movie screen, giving the entire sight a distinctly Hollywood-constructed flair. If she hadn’t known any better, she’d have thought she’d been driven onto a soundstage. Or back in time.

  There could not have been two different places than the one they’d arrived at and the one they’d left. Her house was a palace, an imposing construction of stone and manners. Music was kept to polite lows, so it couldn’t even be heard from the front driveway. No guests stood outside, and the staff who did remained in their trained poses of rod-straight backs and impassive faces. Even the house’s lights didn’t intrude too violently into the dark night outside, only barely bleeding past the drawn curtains onto the front lawn. It was closed off. Exclusive. Too good for anyone, even the people who were special enough to be invited.

  When compared with the Blitz Ball, her party looked like a funeral. A very nice and stupidly expensive funeral, yes. But a funeral all the same. She hadn’t even stepped inside and she could already tell. The Hangar—that’s what the locals called it—was an overflowing champagne glass of delight. Even half a block away, the flamboyant wail of the trumpet shook the windows of their car. Golden light poured into the surrounding street with arrogant abandon, as if challenging the entire city to ignore it. Come inside, it beckoned, you’ll have a hell of a time. It was seductive. The doors hung open, and jitterbugging couples of all color, sexes, and description shook in and out, cigarettes and plastic cups in their hands. Laughter moved across the air like delicate tinsel. The mood was wild. The entire display was almost offensive in its disregard for rules and decorum. Her family, not even Thomas, who was the least snobbish of them all, wouldn’t be caught dead at a place like this. It was beneath them, as tasteless as it was insulting. An embarrassment.

  Sam couldn’t wait to get inside.

  “Wait there.” Once they’d parked, Daniel nearly tore off his seat belt and dove out of the car.