He became vaguely aware of James talking, so he murmured something along the lines of agreement, hoping it would be enough to keep his friend content. In spite of the many pretty ladies in the room, Edward had no desire to dance with any more young women he did not know, let alone with two or three, as James had suggested.
I already promised three more. These blasted boots will make the night pure misery.
He did have a hankering to interact with one young woman in particular, but only that very specific one. Would the girl from the woods come to the ball? And if she did, would he recognize her, seeing as he’d only had glimpses of her profile and dark eyes—and her smile at a great distance? Edward’s gaze slid to James. He would know almost as well as Fanny who had been invited tonight and who was likely to attend. Surely he would know the identity of the mysterious young woman.
Edward chastised himself for not asking about her before. He’d stayed silent, to keep the memory safe from the merciless teasing that informing James about it would have brought about. One did not attend boarding school for years with another person without learning precisely how to make their lives miserable. James enjoyed a good joke at others’ expense more than the average gentleman. So as much as Edward loved James as a brother, there could be no sharing of such things as a sudden mysterious meeting with a beautiful woman in the snow-covered wood. More, James would have laughed, and for good reason; Edward had long poked fun at anyone swooning over the poetry of Lord Byron or the love sonnets of Shakespeare.
The young lady admitted to enjoying Byron, but she seemed far more enthusiastic about Mary Shelley, he remembered with satisfaction. She wasn’t one of the silly girls taken by the notion of heroic, romantic tales, which Lord Byron was responsible for getting into the heads of the day’s young women. Yet Edward now understood the fervor of the flames Byron had fanned; every time Edward mentally relived the scene from the woods, he knew why men stood before crowds and recited Byron’s poetry, declaring their love for one woman alone.
“My goodness,” James said suddenly, looking across the room.
“What?” Edward asked, shifting his gaze in the same general direction but seeing nothing unusual.
“Unless my eyes deceive me, Wallington has arrived, and with him, two young ladies.”
“Wallington?” Edward repeated. “You mean Andrew from Eton?”
“One and the same.”
“Where?”
“By the second vase on the right. His father died last year, and his mother’s dowry house was in the area, so I sent him an invitation to visit any time he wished, along with one to the ball. But I had no idea he would come, or that he’d bring guests.” He turned toward the entrance of the ballroom again. “I’d wager that one of the ladies is his wife.”
“I believe he did marry not long ago. Who is the other lady, do you think—his mother?” Edward ventured. He still couldn’t spot their former classmate or his guests.
“Most definitely not his mother,” James said with a chuckle. “A younger woman, perhaps a relation. Quite pretty.”
“You don’t know her?” A simple question to the casual observer, but saying the words made Edward’s heart speed up. He had a feeling that he knew precisely who this mystery woman was, even without laying eyes on her.
“Come,” James said, reaching for Edward’s glass. “As host, I must greet them.” He set the glasses on a servant’s tray, then peered through the crowd again, stretching to see better. “It appears that Fanny has already reached them, but we must make certain to be next.” He tsked and added, “Fanny was right; we should have kept the reception line a bit longer.”
Without waiting for Edward to respond in the affirmative, or even to see whether he’d follow at all, James walked away. Edward tarried behind with indecision for but a moment, wherein he pondered whether meeting a fairyland creature outside the mystic woods would shatter the image he’d created in his mind, something he wasn’t sure he would be able to endure. But before James’s light-brown hair disappeared into the crowd entirely, Edward hurried after him.
Perhaps this night wouldn’t be so dull after all.
Chapter Nine
Edward followed James through the crowd until it parted to reveal, sure enough, their old Eton friend Andrew Wallington with two young ladies at his side. One had her hand through his arm—Andrew’s wife, no doubt. Beautiful in her own way, no question, but blonde and fair, not the type of beauty Edward found himself drawn to. The other woman, however, was strikingly beautiful—not in a classical way with the usual lines and features touted as beauty. In fact, taken individually, her features weren’t much to look at, but put together, they created an impression of uniqueness, quiet strength, and a beauty he would be hard-pressed to forget. Her dark hair seemed to have red tints where the candlelight reflected off curls. She appeared content, if not entirely at home, as she looked about the room, taking in the sight of guests, decorations, stringed quartet—but not him.
Why not me?
James greeted Andrew with a hearty handshake and was quickly introduced to the new Mrs. Wallington. Before Andrew introduced James to the second woman, however, he spied Edward standing a few feet back.
“Edward Blakemoore, is that you?” Andrew stepped forward, tugging his bride along and making James step to the side. “James said you might be here, and I certainly hoped such would be the case.”
“I did not expect to see you here,” Edward said with a firm handshake. “What has it been, five years since the house party at Breckenridge?”
“At least,” Andrew said. He clapped the side of Edward’s arm and addressed his wife. “Between Mr. Blakemoore and Mr. Clement, my time at Eton was made bearable—and often featured colorful mischief the likes of which only the two of them could dream up.”
“Rather, the likes of which one Mr. James Clement could dream up,” Edward said, nodding toward James, who had always been the brains behind their school-year pranks. “He had a way of ensuring that his friends came along, even if it did mean we got close to expulsion more times than I have fingers.”
“Or toes,” Andrew added, grinning at James, who raised a hand in surrender.
“My days of mischief are over, gentlemen.” He placed his free hand over Fanny’s and gazed into her eyes. “I’ve found a far better diversion than stealing uniforms or hiding rotten eggs in professors’ desks.”
“Indeed,” Andrew said, copying the gesture and gazing into his own wife’s eyes. “I understand completely.”
Both men seemed so taken with their wives that the world itself had fallen out of their consciousness, leaving Edward standing there alone. I might have done that too, had I a wife, he thought, granting them a moment of thoughtlessness. Very well, I would have done that very thing.
A few minutes in the woods with what might have been something he’d elevated so high in his mind that no woman could meet such expectations, but if he ever met her again, he, too, might forget about everything and everyone else.
Andrew returned to his senses first, as he stepped back and opened his arm to the second young lady. “This, my dear friends, is Miss Olivia Wallington, my elder sister.” To her, he said, “Olivia, may I introduce Mr. James Clement, whose wife you met moments ago, and another dear friend of ours from Eton, Mr. Edward Blakemoore.”
Olivia Wallington gave him a curtsy. “How do you do?” The two men responded with proper bows and responses.
James gave Edward less-than-subtle gestures hinting that Miss Wallington should be asked to dance. Just Edward’s luck, the previous dance ended right then, and couples were gathering on the floor for the next set. For someone who had recently decided he didn’t enjoy the ball, the timing couldn’t have been worse, yet considering the company, the timing suddenly seemed perfect. Dancing with the unusual beauty that was Andrew’s sister might be enjoyable, or at least different from the other women he’d met tonight. As a relation of Andrew’s, she would probably be a lively conversationalist, something
that would certainly brighten the evening.
“Miss Wallington,” he said with a bow, “would you do me the honor of being my partner for the next dance?” He straightened, and her attention, which had previously been focused on the room only now fully landed on him. She took him in and paled, her eyes widening.
Not precisely the reaction a gentleman hopes to elicit from a young woman.
“Unless you’re unwell,” he added quickly. “I wouldn’t want—”
“No, I’m quite well. Thank you, Mr. Blakemoore,” she said, dipping into a small curtsy. “I would be pleased to accompany you.” As quickly as she’d paled, a smile returned to her lips and her posture straightened. Her head came up as well, and as they walked onto the floor, she looked as if she belonged at Dunstead Manor as much as any other lady present.
Whatever had caused her unease—if that was indeed what he’d seen—appeared to have passed. He certainly hoped so, though he worried about the need to catch her if she fainted. As the music started, Edward noticed a couple of young women in the set giving him disapproving looks. At first, he had no inkling why, and then remembered that he’d promised them dances, and here he was dancing with a new arrival.
Moments into the dance, Olivia Wallington’s face lit up as bright as a summer’s day. Her clear enjoyment radiated so much that Edward found himself diverted more by this dance than any other in memory. Her form was very good, although on occasion she seemed to forget what came next, as if she hadn’t attended a ball in some time. On such occasions, Edward simply led her into the next formation as if he hadn’t noticed her hesitation. She always sent him a grateful look, her brown eyes sparkling.
Another attractive woman with brown eyes, Edward mused as they went under the arched arms of the other couples. What is so appealing about brown eyes?
Her smile stood out to him as well and, at moments, seemed to be the twin to that of the woman from the forest. Unlike the face of his mystery wood nymph, his had not been obscured or covered that day. Were they to meet again, she would most certainly know him, but he would be unlikely to know her. Yet at their introduction, this woman had given no sign of recognizing him. Therefore, he had to assume that his dryad had a name other than Miss Olivia Wallington.
Fairy, nymph, now dryad. I’ve been reading too many fantastical works, Edward thought, and stifled a chuckle. No more mythology for him any time soon, or he’d be liable to believe in such ethereal creatures. And he most sincerely wanted to believe that intelligent, kind, strong women like the one from the woods existed in corporeal form rather than as the figment of one’s imagination.
“Pray tell, what do you find so amusing, Mr. Blakemoore?” Miss Wallington asked as he led her about a circle.
“Am I so transparent?” He reminded himself to think of her not as Andrew’s sister, but as Miss Wallington—though he’d already started to think of her as Olivia, as improper as that might be. If Andrew knew that he’d been taking such license, even in his mind . . .
He’d have my hide in ten seconds flat.
“I wouldn’t call you transparent,” Miss Wallington said. She lifted one eyebrow and seemed to choose her words. “You carry yourself quite . . . nobly. That is not meant as a criticism. But when your oh-so-serious, noble expression falters to make way for a smile, one can’t help but notice it, and then it’s a simple matter of deduction to know that the earlier expression was little more than a mask.”
“One must be exceptionally observant to notice such a thing.” Edward took her other hand and led her into the next step. “I find that to be a bold statement, considering the fact that we’ve only just met.” She was both bold and intriguing. He admired a woman who spoke her mind without fear of repercussions—something all too rare.
“Mmm.”
Now what did she intend to communicate with that? The sound seemed weighty enough to carry a meaning, but of what, he couldn’t fathom.
Taking a page from her own book, he paid special attention to her face and noted twin pink circles slowly blooming on her cheeks. They could indicate embarrassment, but the sparkle remained in her mesmerizing eyes, and her smile only widened. He suddenly didn’t care what she’d meant by the enigmatic mmm. He cared about one thing: making her smile again, and broader, maybe to the point of laughter. He wanted to spend time looking into those eyes, which were downright intoxicating with their browns and golds, like a warm chocolate drink with maple syrup and a bit of melted butter drizzled on the top, then swirled by an artist’s hand.
Would that I’d have gotten a better look at the nymph’s dark eyes. I wonder if they have a similar mixture.
At the thought, he suddenly found himself blushing, as if he’d been caught thinking about another woman in the presence of a lady. Best to introduce another topic of conversation, and quickly, for the sake of his flushing skin and ever-tightening cravat.
“How long will you and your brother be visiting Glenworth?”
Olivia’s—rather, Miss Wallington’s—eyes briefly flicked to his, and she hesitated before saying, “I believe that Andrew plans to return to Landerfield within the week.”
A simple statement, yet Edward sensed she’d withheld a piece of the truth.
“A week,” he said. “So soon.”
His well-intentioned attempt at conversation ended there, as they lapsed into silence for the rest of the set. When the violin’s final note trailed off and the dancers clapped their approval, he was loath to step off the dance floor. To his surprise, the feeling had nothing to do with facing the other ladies waiting for him—or, rather, ladies waiting to dance with a wealthy landed gentleman. He knew better than to think that they cared one whit for him, because they did not know him as anything other than Mr. Blakemoore.
He wanted to stay at Olivia’s side, not escort her back to her brother and sister-in-law. To prolong their time together, Edward pretended to look about for Andrew, giving the task minimal effort, before saying, “Shall we take a turn in the gardens? I understand that a path has been cleared of snow, and that candles are lit throughout so guests may take a walk to get some fresh air after the heat of the ballroom.”
“I would enjoy that very much,” Olivia said. “I’ll fetch my cloak.”
Minutes later, with a beautiful cloak of green velvet draped about Olivia’s shoulders, they walked through the doors leading outside. Two couples passed them on their way in, leaving only Edward and Olivia on the flagstone terrace atop a staircase leading to the gardens. They were alone, save for two servants at the doors. The cold came over Edward like a wave, surprising him with its intensity. Of course it would be chilly out. It was nighttime in the middle of winter.
Daft idea if you ever had one, Blakemoore, he thought, then thought of Olivia’s feet in their thin slippers, and worry came over him for her well-being. The chill would go right through them to her feet, and the moisture would likely ruin her slippers completely. He didn’t know much about women or fashion, but many a time he’d heard his mother complain about rain, snow, and ruined slippers. The terrace was dry, however, and it was illuminated by candles, sconces, and the nearly full moon. This would do, especially seeing as how the area had recently been vacated save for the servants. At least, it would do for a time; if the lowering clouds in the distance were any indication, a dreadful storm would arrive soon. One more reason to not venture too far.
“Perhaps we should stay up here?” he suggested. “I’d hate to see you fall ill on account of walking through snow in silk slippers, and a storm looks to be on its way.”
She lifted her skirts enough to poke one slippered foot out. “I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Though I do so enjoy the outdoors.”
They walked to the edge of the flagstones and took in the view. Below them, he could make out several dwellings, where windows were lit by lamps or candles. Groupings of lights were clustered together, with large swaths of darkness between them. In the distance, the storm clouds darkened the horizon.
And ri
ght before them, straight below, in the center of their view, a large area had no lights at all—the woods. With every passing hour, the details of the scene he’d played a part in grew blurrier, until he’d started to wonder how much of it had been real. Perhaps he’d been nigh unto freezing and had hallucinated the entire episode.
“Everything looks so different from up here,” Olivia said. “It’s nothing like being in the valley.” She spoke softly, almost reverently. One hand held her cloak together under her chin.
“Indeed,” he said. “Though I haven’t visited much of the valley.”
“It’s so beautiful from here.” Her voice seemed to hang in the air before dissipating like their white breaths.
“It is,” Edward said.
How could he enjoy the company of one woman so thoroughly while at the same time longing for another he’d scarcely laid eyes on? Yet that’s what this moment was, and he could make no sense of it. Perhaps he’d fallen so in love with the idea of finding what his friends had. Perhaps he wished so much for as perfect a match for him as Fanny was for James, and as Emma appeared to be for Andrew, so much that he now found beauty and—dare he think the word?—romance at every turn. First the dryad, now Olivia Wallington.
He’d lost the dryad, and he had no reason to believe he would find such a love with Olivia. Such a future would likely remain nothing but a dream. That’s all the country seemed to be of late: one long taunt of fate showing him an ethereal happiness he lacked and could only yearn to find.
Perhaps I should go back to London, he thought, so I’ll no longer see the happiness I lack.
“Look at those clouds,” Olivia murmured suddenly, stepping forward and gazing into the distance.
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball Page 14