by July Hall
When he’d sat back down again, Josephine murmured, “I don’t know if that was supposed to be touching or terrifying.”
“Why can’t it be both?” Charles asked. He glanced down the table. Craig gave him another slightly wobbly smile. Jane looked a little shocked. Ah. He’d forgotten how that might sound to her, Craig’s only relative in attendance. How offended was she?
She gave him a smile of unabashed delight. “Oh my God!” she squealed, clapping her hands. “I’m your new sister!”
* * *
Sandra nearly wept with joy when the servers removed the cloth covering to “oohs” and “aahs” from the guests. Sylvia Weinstock had done the cake. It stood seven tiers high and was covered with thousands of tiny flowers in Christmas colors. Some of them would be made of icing, but others were undoubtedly real, and all of it would be edible. It was dusted all over with gold flakes. Those would be real, too.
That was literally thousands of dollars’ worth of sugary goodness. One glance around the room told her that a good percentage of the guests were going to decline a piece, which Rosalie had surely known and been forced to ignore when placing the order. You had to pretend that nobody at a wedding was watching their weight.
Sandra wasn’t going to turn it down. If something that beautiful had to be slaughtered in the name of dessert, she was damn well going to enjoy her share. Her mouth was actually watering. She’d saved room all night for this, knowing that her fitted bodice didn’t have a lot of give and that dancing was next on the agenda.
She loved dancing, though she didn’t get the chance to do it often. She’d used to feel incredibly self-conscious, but when she’d learned that everybody else did too, she stopped worrying about it. Dancing didn’t put you under a spotlight—it let you get lost in a crowd. All you had to do was relax, follow the steps, and enjoy the music.
She wondered if Charles liked dancing. He’d enjoyed swaying with her to Nina Simone that morning in his kitchen. The memory gave her a glow deep inside.
It was a lot better than remembering what had happened before the toasts. She’d glanced over at the head table, trying not to be obvious about it, and had seen Charles and Josephine Banks exchanging conspiratorial smiles. The look of amusement on Charles’s face was as subtle as ever—most onlookers wouldn’t have recognized it. But Sandra did. Obviously Josephine did too. She touched him. She made him laugh…
Get it the fuck together, Sandra ordered herself for the thousandth time. They’re old friends. He said so. You’re allowed to laugh with your friends.
His toast had really been something else. Sandra could swoon from listening to Charles read the phone book, but hearing his deep voice speaking about family, and loyalty, and affection…even the memory made her belly warm with desire.
The servers paused to let people take pictures of the cake with their phones. Sandra saw the look of deep disapproval on Charles’s face and decided she’d wait for the wedding album.
Stephen and Craig shared the first two slices and ignored the cries of encouragement to smash the cake into each other’s faces. Sandra wondered if Charles and Eleanor had done that, and all of a sudden, she was convinced that they must have. They’d picked on each other as children. She’d never known Eleanor Magister, but somehow she was pretty sure that she’d covered her new husband’s face with cake. Sandra wondered if Charles had had a beard then. That would have been messy.
The thought made her smile. It would have been pathetically easy to be jealous of Eleanor’s memory, since it had filled Charles’s heart for ten years, letting him get close to no one else. But somehow she couldn’t manage it. Even if she still had a hold on him, Eleanor had made him happy. She’d been a part of his life for so long, someone who’d shaped him into the man he was today—the man Sandra loved.
Josephine was another story.
After the newlyweds had shared their slices, the servers began cutting the cake and distributing it at a staggering pace. They had efficiency down to an art form. The cake, made with Varlhona chocolate and raspberry layers, tasted as luscious as it looked. At the first bite, Sandra decided she’d died and gone to heaven.
“Wow,” Evan mumbled around his mouthful.
“It’s got gluten in it,” Tyler said mournfully, eyeing his partner’s plate.
Arnaud said nothing. His eyes were closed. Sandra had seen that look on his face only once before: when she’d caught him listening to a recording of choral music after hours in his office. Ecstasy.
Too bad Kristen wasn’t here to see it.
Sandra chuckled to herself. All the guests would be going home with gift bags full of goodies, as if Stephen’s wedding was the Oscars. Maybe Sandra could figure out how to sneak out a piece of cake for her sister, too.
She glanced at the head table yet again, and she froze. The cake turned to a brick in her stomach. Josephine had rested her chin in her hand and was leaning toward Charles with a smile on her face. It wasn’t overtly flirtatious or seductive—she wasn’t pushing her boobs at him or anything—but her affection was obvious. Charles seemed relaxed as well, more than Sandra had seen all night. They were chatting.
Charles glanced up, as if he’d felt her gaze on him, and before Sandra could look away, their eyes met. Her face filled with heat. Oh God, he’d caught her staring. Sandra turned her head toward Tyler as if he was the most fascinating person in the world, even though it was too late.
A few moments later, she couldn’t help herself and glanced back. Josephine was still leaning, but Charles’s posture had gone more formal and reserved.
Sandra took in a deep breath, then exhaled. At the sound of it, Evan looked at her. “Are you feeling okay?” he asked.
“Of course!” she said brightly. Shit, had her face slipped that much? “I’m just looking forward to the dancing.”
“Me too,” Evan agreed. He gave her a winning smile. “Promise me a spin around the floor? We can talk curtains.”
“Absolutely,” Sandra said. “Sounds like fun.”
Then Rosalie rose to her feet, clapping her hands and smiling radiantly. It was time to move into the evening’s third act. Sandra could already hear the soft strains of jazz coming from the ballroom.
Time to face the music and dance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Sandra had been in the ballroom twice before tonight, guided first by Warrick and then Charles, as part of a general tour. Both times, the chandeliers had been hidden by holland covers, and there hadn’t been any furniture. The room had looked like a cavern, and every sound had echoed. How strange that it should look even bigger now that it was filled with people and things.
Still, she’d been to Versailles and the Palais-Royal. Even the Magister ballroom couldn’t compete with that. Luckily, they hadn’t tried; there was something gauche about American architecture that aped a vanished golden age. The house had been built on Long Island in 1873, not seventeenth-century Paris, and it didn’t try to pretend otherwise.
Instead of gilding every available surface and stuffing the corners with cherubs, the newly wealthy Magisters had laid down basic elements of impeccable quality. The floors were pale marble, gleaming beneath the light of crystal chandeliers hung from the thirty-five-foot ceiling. The walls were painted in a pale cream, but brown marble pilasters broke the monotony every ten feet or so and emphasized the massive height of the room. This height allowed for a musicians’ balcony. The string quintet was gone; the reception was apparently going to feature a jazz octet for some livelier music. In another corner of the room, Sandra saw the grand piano, where a woman in a long black dress sat in readiness. Apparently a Magister wedding didn’t involve hiring a DJ.
After the closeness of the anteroom, the ballroom felt enormous, too big for the party. Rosalie had compensated by surrounding the dance floor with plenty of tables for tired guests. Two more huge Christmas trees stood along the walls, while bouquets of red and white roses, surrounded by greenery, formed the centerpieces at the tables.
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There were three open bars, and Sandra was sure you could get something a little dressier than a gin-and-tonic if you wanted. Some of the waiters from the dining room had moved location and were now circulating around the room with trays of more champagne, pausing to take the occasional drink order.
Most weddings Sandra had attended involved everyone eating and dancing in the same reception hall. An emcee engineered it all, letting people know where to go and when to do what. They officially opened the dance floor, announced the first dance of the happy couple, and then maybe the bride and her father or whatever, if that was a thing.
Tonight, Sandra and Arnaud took a seat at one of the tables and watched as people flowed in from the anteroom at their own pace. Everyone seemed perfectly comfortable, as if they knew what to do and had their own rituals. The jazz band began to play “In the Mood,” and several couples swung seamlessly into action, the men taking their partners in their arms and gliding onto the dance floor. Sandra smiled to see that Tyler and Evan were among the first.
“How much have you had to drink?” Arnaud asked.
Sandra looked at him, startled. “Um…my glass of champagne and the white wine.” Mindful of the need to keep her wits about her, she’d only taken a few sips of the red, even though it was delicious.
“I finished my red, too. I think I’d better be done for the night,” Arnaud said. “I’m feeling relaxed, but I don’t want a buzz.”
Sandra remembered Charles’s injunction that Arnaud better not drink at all before driving. Hopefully some of that had been hyperbole. They were bound to be here for at least another hour or two, anyway. “Okay,” she said.
“I don’t mean to dampen your good time,” Arnaud said, to her surprise. “I’m going to get some water. Can I bring you anything?”
Sandra began to say that she’d like some water too, when some little devil grabbed hold of her, and made her say, “Do you think they’d mix me a piña colada?”
Arnaud stared at her. “Are you serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Sandra said firmly. She looked around, and to her delight, saw a young woman already holding a glass that had an umbrella sticking over the rim. “See? I’m not the only one.”
“All right, all right.” He stood up and smoothed imaginary wrinkles out of his pants. “I’ll come back with my water and your Jimmy Buffet tribute.”
While he was gone, Sandra took the opportunity to watch the guests milling around, dancing or sitting or talking in small clusters. One old woman in particular seemed to be holding court near one of the Christmas trees. She looked pretty splendid—had a diamond tiara and everything. Maybe she was European nobility, too. Where was that earl, anyway?
She was supposed to be here to network. Looking around now, that seemed impossible. Running into Tyler and Evan at dinner had been a miracle. Arnaud made it sound easy, but she had no idea how to talk to total strangers, most of whom wouldn’t give her the time of day on the street, and find out if they might want to hire her.
Well…that wasn’t the point. The point was to put on a pretty smile, tell them her name, and hope that they remembered it. She wasn’t here to hand out business cards, but to make a good impression.
Okay, then. She could do that. She could smile, be nice, make people feel comfortable with her, and if they asked what she did, she could tell them. It couldn’t be that hard, could it?
That was, if anybody wanted to talk to her at all. She was starting to feel like a wallflower. Well, at least Evan had already claimed her for a dance, and Arnaud was too much of a gentleman not to take his own escort out for a spin on the floor. So, that was someth—
“Ahem.”
Sandra looked up. Her eyes widened. Standing before her was the Earl of Somewhere-or-other.
“G-good evening,” she stammered.
“Bertram Westfolke, tenth Earl of Rothborough, at your service.” He gave her a short bow. “May I have this dance?”
“Of course,” Sandra said, feeling totally breathless, but she couldn’t help looking around for the lady in fuchsia. Was that his wife? Would she be mad?
He smiled. “My wife is in deep discussion with an old friend she hasn’t seen in quite some time. And no young lady should be left wanting for a partner.” He held out his hand.
She took it, hoping that her knees wouldn’t shake. So much for fading into the crowd. People were already staring as Sandra Dane took the floor with an earl. Wait until Rosalie heard about this.
They took the floor just as the band switched to “Fly Me to the Moon.” Sandra let him guide her while she tried not to think too much about it. At least she wasn’t wearing very high heels.
“I didn’t catch your name, miss,” he said.
“Sandra Dane.” She grinned. “Nobody in particular, of Brooklyn. At your service.”
“Ah.” He smiled. He seemed to be in his late fifties but had a sort of rakish charm. She could imagine him causing a scandal or two in the tabloids. He was very engaging all through their dance, telling her about his family seat in Wiltshire and explaining how he’d come to know the Magisters: “Well, we’re distantly related, you see.”
Sandra blinked. She couldn’t have heard that right. “You are?”
“Tale as old as time. A Magister heiress married one of my ancestors at the turn of the last century so her fortune could save the old pile. She got a title, he got the money…you know how it goes.”
Oh yeah, that happened all the time in Sandra’s world. Practically every day. “Sure,” she agreed. How weird that Charles had never mentioned this, back when they were talking about his possibly-Norman ancestry and joking about how he hadn’t been allowed to meet the queen. She’d have to ask him about that.
“Anyway, Charles and Stephen met with the PM…it must have been twelve years ago, or thereabouts. I met them too, and we all got on quite well. It turned out that bastard could really sit a horse. Charles, that is. I suppose he still can. You wouldn’t think so, would you?”
Sandra hoped that her blush could be put down to the dancing. “I’ve never thought about it,” she lied. Great. Now she wasn’t going to be able to think about anything else. “Did you race or something?”
“God, no. Polo! Bit of a culture clash, really. You see…” He paused to spin her around. She laughed breathlessly. “We play in short passes to move the ball down the field. There’s an art to it. And there’s Charles Magister, breaking forward at a full gallop, sending passes all the way downfield almost before our boys could get there. You Americans charge like raging bulls.”
“Sorry,” Sandra said with a grin.
“I wasn’t. I’d wagered on his team.” The song began to wind down to a close, and the tenth Earl of Rothborough winked at her. “That’s the secret, you know. Always bet on the winning team.”
He led her off the floor, back to where Arnaud sat with their drinks and an impressed look on his face. She decided not to be cute and bob a curtsey or anything. Instead, she smiled with all the pleasure she really felt, and said, “Thank you for the dance, Lord Rothborough.”
He nodded and smiled. “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Dane.”
He left, and she saw him walk toward his wife, who’d just entered the room in a cluster of other women and who didn’t appear upset. Thank God. Pissing off the Countess of Rothborough was just what she didn’t need tonight.
Sandra took her seat next to Arnaud, and picked up her piña colada. “Thanks.”
“I’d say you’ve earned it,” he said with raised eyebrows.
“He was really nice.” She took the glass. Miss Manners had said you weren’t supposed to drink while you were wearing evening gloves, but everyone else seemed to be, so she sipped. Delicious. It had an umbrella and a pineapple wedge on the rim and everything. Although after dancing with an honest-to-God earl, maybe she ought to be drinking vintage port or something.
Then she looked up and saw Charles on the other side of the room, staring at her. Before he had a chance
to look away, she turned the glass so that he could clearly see the pineapple wedge.
He turned his head, but she could swear his lips twitched. Ha. Score one for her. Maybe tonight wasn’t going to be all about sexual frustration after all.
A faint whine of feedback got her attention. Everyone turned to look at the west end of the room, where the woman in the long black dress had taken her place next to the piano. She held a microphone. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she said in a sultry voice. “If I could have your attention. This next dance is for the grooms.”
The crowds obligingly parted, and Stephen and Craig stepped onto the dance floor, hand in hand.
Without further ado, the piano player began tickling the keys, and the singer began to croon “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.” Craig led. It was hard to tell for sure, but Sandra thought Stephen looked a little nervous. Okay, so yeah, sometimes dancing didn’t help you fade into a crowd.
Speak of the crowd. She took the chance to look around some more. Most people were sitting, drinking, and chatting in low voices while the grooms had their first dance. Charles wasn’t sitting. On the other side of the room, he stood next to Josephine Banks at the edge of the dance floor.
Sandra’s stomach curdled. She knew what was coming.
Sure enough, when “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” stopped and everyone had applauded Stephen and Craig, Charles led Josephine onto the floor. The warm glow of the chandeliers and Christmas lights caught the gold detailing on her dress. The band changed its tune, moving into a slower tempo. The last few songs had been pretty bouncy. Must be time to switch it up and have a little variety.
So Sandra—and everyone else in the room—got to watch as Charles and Josephine glided over the floor to the strains of “I Got It Bad and That Ain’t Good.” Maybe Sandra had done something to piss off the universe, because that was just cruel.
Charles danced well. Apparently he rode a horse well, too. He was very, very talented at doing things with his body. Sandra closed her eyes to shut out the image of him in formal wear—and holding Josephine in his arms—while she took a slug of her piña colada. It wasn’t doing anybody any good for her to sit here and think about tearing off his clothes and riding him until he said, “Josephine who?”