by Mary Balogh
And so Cinderella approaches the ball, she thought ruefully and smiled with private amusement.
“Charming,” Alleyne said, making her an elegant bow. “I suppose Aidan has reserved the first set and the first waltz with you. May I have the second waltz?”
“Waltzes?” Aidan was frowning when Eve looked up at him. “There are to be waltzes tonight, Wulf?”
“Aunt Rochester has assured me they are quite de rigueur at every fashionable ball,” the duke said, looking Eve over from head to toe, a jeweled quizzing glass half raised in one hand. “And of course Lady Aidan, being a mature married lady, will be able to dance it even without the nod of approval of the patronesses of Almack's.”
“Oh, pooh,” Freyja said. “Who cares for those old tabbies anyway? Do you know the steps, Aidan? It would be too, too bad if you were to tread all over Eve's toes.”
“I have waltzed in Spain,” he said. “But does Eve know the steps? Do you?” He looked down at her.
“I learned them this week,” she told them, “and performed them with Alleyne.”
“Did you, indeed?” Aidan's frown turned to something resembling a scowl. “That was remarkably obliging of him.”
“Yes.” Eve smiled sunnily. Was it possible that he was jealous? Of his own brother? How delightful!
“Come and see,” Freyja said, taking Eve's arm and drawing her in the direction of the ballroom doors.
Her first sight of the ballroom itself fairly took Eve's breath away. Hundreds of candles burned in the three crystal chandeliers overhead and in wall sconces along the length of the room, their light shivering over the gilded ceiling and walls. Wall holders and large gilded pots and vases held bouquet after bouquet of flowers, all in varying shades of yellow and white. Their perfume filled the air. The French windows leading to a balcony beyond were all thrown back to reveal colored lanterns placed along the balustrade. A full orchestra of formally dressed gentlemen was seated on the dais at one end of the room, tuning their instruments behind banks of flowers.
“Aunt Rochester whispered the color of your gown to Wulf,” Freyja said. She laughed. “It is a good thing you did not change that as you did your court dress.”
“I am overwhelmed,” Eve admitted.
“You need not be,” Freyja said. “Word of what happened this morning will have spread. There is no doubt of that. It will be known that you appeared before the queen in black and that she spoke to you with approval. There can be no higher recommendation. The admiring attention of the ton is yours before they even meet you. Wulf has raised his eyebrows. He expects you to come running.”
Eve turned and hurried out of the ballroom to join the receiving line, her heart still hammering in her chest, but as much with excitement now as with trepidation. She calmed herself further by thinking of the letter she would be able to write home tomorrow.
Despite the short notice at a time of year that brought dozens of invitations to every fashionable household with every post, so many guests arrived at Bedwyn House within the next hour or so that Eve wondered if there would be enough room for them all in the ballroom. She stood between Aidan and the Duke of Bewcastle and curtsied surely hundreds of times before it was over. She had never held a smile for quite so long. Her face positively ached with it. How relaxing it must be to be the duke or Aidan, who simply looked haughtily well bred.
“We will go in and begin the dancing,” the duke announced at last, during a lull in new arrivals. “I will greet latecomers as they appear.”
Stepping inside the ballroom again was a nervous and thrilling moment for Eve. It looked twice as large and formidable when filled with guests. She appreciated Aidan's steadying hand on her elbow and smiled up at him. She was surprised by the rush of affection she felt for him.
The opening set was of country dances that Eve knew well, ones they had, in fact, danced at their wedding celebration in Heybridge. But it was one thing to kick up one's heels at a country assembly, and another altogether to be dancing in a London ballroom at the height of the Season.
“Oh goodness,” she said as they took their places at the head of two long lines, one for the ladies, the other for the gentlemen. “Must we twirl all that way after the first figures?”
“We must,” he said. “In full view of everyone present. I will try not to become dizzy and spin off through the ranks.”
She flashed him a smile. There it was again, that poker-faced flash of dry humor. “Of course you will not,” she said. “You are an accomplished dancer. We may dance together only twice this evening. It is one of the arbitrary rules the ton sets such store by. Your aunt made very certain that I was aware of that. Are you going to waltz with me?”
“I must,” he said, “In order to discover how fine a teacher Alleyne has been.”
“But it was the dancing master who taught me,” she said. “Alleyne just had the infinite patience to partner me.”
“Hmmm,” he said.
It was just possible, Eve thought unexpectedly, that she was falling a tiny bit in love with her husband. But fortunately there was not time to explore that alarming possibility. The orchestra began to play a lively tune, and Eve, her heart hammering against her ribs, moved into her first steps at her first grand ton ball. The splendor of it all was almost overwhelming. Again she had that feeling of having stepped inside the pages of a child's storybook. But the sights and sounds and smells were very real, as was the feeling of utter exhilaration. When their turn came to twirl down the open space between the long lines in order to take their places at the bottom of the set, she laughed openly. It was strictly against the rules, of course. Lady Rochester had explained to her that ladies of superior breeding never displayed open enthusiasm in public, but rather affected an air of slight boredom. Eve did not care even though she knew that most eyes in the room must be upon her. She laughed.
And then a truly extraordinary thing happened. Her husband's face, dark and harsh as ever at first, gradually relaxed—oh, not exactly into a smile. His face did not smile. Neither did his mouth. But his eyes did. They softened and glowed with an expression she could only describe to herself as a smile.
And the whole world smiled.
Eve was caught up in her own exuberance. Her eyes were focused upon Aidan. But part of her was very aware of her surroundings, and aware too that she was no longer intimidated by them or by the dozens of people watching her. Let them watch. Let them censure her smiles. She did not care. Aidan was smiling at her. Yes, he was. She would swear he was.
She danced on, smiling, laughing, conversing with Aidan and sometimes with their closest neighbors in the lines, enjoying herself perhaps more than she had ever enjoyed herself before. Somewhere beyond that thought, she knew, there was reason and common sense. But tonight she did not want to face them. Tonight she was going to enjoy her Cinderella night at the ball.
WHILE EVE DANCED THE NEXT TWO SETS, FIRST WITH Alleyne and then with Viscount Kimble, Aidan made himself agreeable to some of the chaperones, mothers and grandmothers who were doing duty by keeping watch over their young female charges even though many of them, he was sure, would be far happier in the card room. He moved from group to group, always standing in such a position that he could watch his wife.
It was altogether possible that Aunt Rochester would consider much of her week's efforts a failure. Wulf might think so too. Eve was certainly very different from any other lady present. She was openly enjoying herself—smiling, laughing, dancing with enthusiasm as well as grace. And she glowed. But no one seemed to be looking on her with disfavor. Quite the contrary.
“A pretty gel,” the Dowager Lady Harvingdean said to him. “And sparkling as any happy bride ought. You must be doing something very right, Colonel.”
He was undeniably enchanted with his wife. She was like a promise of springtime bursting through the arid winter soil of his life. No, not a promise, perhaps. There was to be no future for them. But that was not a thought he cared to dwell upon tonight. Tonight he w
ould simply enjoy watching her and look forward to waltzing with her later—and to having her all to himself when the ball was over. He was very much afraid that he was going to miss her dreadfully once she returned to Ringwood—but yet again he pushed aside any thought that might diminish his enjoyment of the evening.
The next set was a waltz, and at last he could lead Eve onto the floor again.
“Aidan,” she asked him as the music began and he moved her into the lilting rhythm, “do you know any dance more divine?”
“None,” he said firmly. “I believe the waltz is the dance the angels perform—on the clouds.”
She laughed. “I like it when you do that,” she said. “You look absolutely serious and then you say something absurd. Are you happy?”
“How could I not be?” he asked her. “I am at a ton ball, which will surely be pronounced the grandest squeeze of the Season, entirely at the whim of Bewcastle, the focus of all eyes, except those exclusively besotted with you. And I am here with a wife who keeps insisting that she is not married to me. Who in my situation would not be twirling with glee at every corner?” He took her into an exaggerated twirl about the corner that was approaching.
She laughed again, and then they fell silent. He had always found the waltz rather tedious and even embarrassing. His partners had invariably been ladies with whom he had danced out of courtesy. Being face to face with a woman for half an hour when one did not find her sexually appealing—or, worse, when she was someone else's wife—was not his idea of a grand time.
This waltz was magical. Eve was tall and slender—her head reached to his chin. She was light on her feet and graceful. Her spine arched beneath his hand and she anticipated his every move so that they waltzed in perfect unison. The colors of gowns and plumes and coats blurred into a glorious kaleidoscope of shades as they twirled. Jewels sparkled in the candlelight. Aidan found himself wishing that the dance would go on and on. But of course it drew to an inevitable end.
“Ah, that was wonderful!” Eve said, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glowing, her voice breathless. “You are a superb dancer, Aidan. I do wish we were permitted to dance again.”
Duty was calling, he could see. He nodded in the direction of Bewcastle, who was standing in the doorway, looking inquiringly at him.
“More arrivals,” he said, offering Eve his arm. “They are very late indeed. We had better go and pay our respects.”
“If many more people come,” she said, “some of us will have to dance on the balcony. Have you ever seen so many people gathered in one place? I certainly—”
She broke off midsentence, and when Aidan looked down at her, it was to find that her smile was frozen on her face and her gaze was riveted on the people they were approaching in the doorway. For a moment her steps faltered.
“Ma'am,” Bewcastle said, addressing her, “may I present Sir Charles Overly, who is with Britain's embassy in Russia, and Lady Overly? And Viscount Denson, also with the embassy? Lady Aidan Bedwyn and Colonel Bedwyn, my brother.”
Eve curtsied as did Lady Overly. The gentlemen exchanged bows and greetings.
“You have returned to England for the victory celebrations?” Aidan asked Sir Charles.
“We have,” the man replied. “Actually we returned two months ago as soon as the victory of the allied forces became imminent. But we are certainly looking forward to the Czar's arrival soon.”
“May I congratulate you upon your marriage, Lady Aidan?” Lady Overly tittered and looked arch. “It is quite a coup. The Bedwyn men have been remarkably elusive in the marriage mart.”
Eve smiled, but when Aidan looked down at her, it was to the discovery that her face had paled and her lips were bloodless. It was perfectly clear to him that she already knew one of the three arrivals—the blond, smiling, extremely good-looking Denson, at a guess. He was bowing to her.
“I see that sets are forming for the next dance,” he said. “Will you honor me, Lady Aidan? With Colonel Bedwyn's permission, of course.”
Aidan inclined his head and Eve, without a word or a glance, turned back into the ballroom.
They danced for a while, Denson with charming smiles for everyone around them, Eve with her eyes lowered, her movements mechanical, all her sparkle gone. When the orchestra paused between tunes of the set, Denson lowered his head to say something to her, set a hand beneath her elbow, and stepped out onto the balcony with her.
Aidan watched them go, his fingers curling into his palms against his back.
IS THERE SOMEWHERE MORE PRIVATE WE CAN GO?” he asked.
There were two couples out on the balcony as well as a larger, noisier group at the far end.
“No,” she said.
But he had seen the steps down into the garden and grasped her elbow again to lead her down. There were graveled walks down there and seats and an ornamental pond with a fountain. Lamps had been strung in the trees, and several guests were strolling there. It was a warm evening.
He had returned to England two months ago. A month before her marriage. Perhaps even before Percy's death. He had been in England all that time.
“Eve,” he said when they had reached the bottom of the steps, “I had no idea it was you who had married Bewcastle's brother. Until I arrived here this evening, until you were almost upon us, I had no idea.”
“You have been back in England for two months,” she said.
“I have been busy,” he told her. “There has been scarcely a moment to spare. I have been meaning every day to run down to Oxfordshire to see you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed you.”
“Two months,” she said. Two months for someone who had sworn he would rush home to her as soon as he set foot upon English soil again?
“How could you do it, Eve?” he asked her. “We had an agreement. We—”
“Percy died,” she said. “He was killed at the Battle of Toulouse.”
He led her toward one of the seats, which was set back slightly from the path and was shaded by the overhanging branches of a willow tree. She sank onto it and looked up at him. The light from a lamp in another tree illumined his perfect features. He looked more handsome than ever.
“I am sorry to hear that,” he said. “But why did you do it, Eve, and so soon after? Why did you marry Bedwyn?”
“Papa died after you left,” she said. “Perhaps you did not hear the terms of his will. Everything was to be mine only on condition that I married within a year of his death.”
“You should have written to tell me so, then,” he said. “I would have—”
“What?” she asked him. “Hurried home to me? But how could I have written even if it had not been improper to do so? I would not have known where to send the letter. I certainly would not have known your London address.”
“Eve,” he said, “you must understand. It is important for a man in my position to be seen during the Season, to entertain and be entertained. I would have come home in the summer. We would have married then.”
“Would we?” She felt as if scales were falling from her eyes. Fifteen months ago, going to Russia had been more important than marrying her. This year entertaining and being entertained had been more important. “Percy would have turned over everything to me after the year was at an end or at least shared it with me if I had insisted. But he died too soon. Cecil would have inherited.”
“You should have let me know.” He leaned over her. “Damn it, Eve, you should have let me know.”
“I had one week in which to comply with the terms of Papa's will,” she said. “I had no idea you were back in England. You might have found a way of letting me know.”
She knew suddenly beyond any doubt that he had had no intention of marrying her—ever. He had been fond enough of her, perhaps even in love with her, but he would not have married her. Had she not been so naive and so much in love herself, she would surely have realized that before now. This summer, if circumstances had remained the same, he would have found another excuse to delay speaking
with the earl.
“Why Bedwyn?” he asked. “I would have thought him plump enough in the pocket not to need to snaffle up an heiress in such unseemly haste.”
“He brought me the news of Percy's death,” she said. “When he understood my predicament, he offered me marriage.”
“And you forgot me so easily?” he asked, seating himself beside her.
“How could I forget you? After all there had been between us?”
They had met when she was barely twenty. Her father had already been making overtures to the Earl of Luff in the hope of promoting a match between them. They had met in a country lane while they were both out riding. They had greeted each other and conversed politely for a minute or two, and then he had turned his horse to ride beside her. After that they had met often, by design, always in secret because the earl had firmly refused Papa's suggestion. John had been at university and then in London, beginning his career in the diplomatic service. But whenever he was at home, they had met. Their friendship had deepened inevitably into a romantic attachment. They would marry, John had promised, when he finished university and was of age. They would marry, he had promised later, when his career was established. And then had come the posting to Russia.
He had expected to be gone for a year. They would marry immediately upon his return, he had told her. She had desperately wanted them to marry before he left, or at least to announce their betrothal so that they could exchange letters while he was gone. She had wept in his arms, and he had held her tightly to him and shed a few tears of his own. And then . . . and then somehow they had moved beyond the brink of merely holding each other, kissing each other, and declaring eternal love for each other.