Waltzed

by Anthea Lawson

  “A footman is waiting in the foyer,” the maid said. “And if I’m not mistaken, he arrived in Lady Merriweather’s coach. I caught a glimpse of it waiting outside. That color is quite unmistakable.”

  “The orange one?” Ellie caught her breath, hardly daring to hope.

  “Yes, the one that all the gossips deplore.”

  “Is the baroness here, too?”

  Henderson shook her head. “I don’t know. Perhaps she remained in the coach.”

  They reached the stairs, and Ellie hastened down, Henderson at her heels. As the maid had said, an elderly footman stood near the front door. The butler, Mr. Atkins, had taken up his post and was ostensibly reading the newspaper. Between the men sat an upright trunk. Ellie’s heart skipped a beat.

  “Miss Eleanor Tremont?” the white-haired man asked. At Ellie’s nod, he gestured to the trunk. “Your ball gown has arrived, compliments of your godmother, Lady Merriweather.”

  “A bit late, isn’t it?” Henderson said under her breath.

  Ellie sent her a quelling look, then turned back to the footman. “Did she accompany you, by any chance?”

  “She did not,” the man said. “But she gave strict instructions to convey you to the Queen’s Ball with all haste.”

  “You must give her time to dress,” Henderson said, giving the man a cold look.

  “I won’t be long,” Ellie promised. After all, her hair was already coiffed, and she still wore her jewelry.

  “We will take as long as is necessary,” Henderson said. “Bring the trunk up to my lady’s dressing room now, if you please. Follow us.”

  The footman nodded and heaved the trunk onto one shoulder. Little caring about the etiquette, Ellie led him directly up the main staircase. When they reached her room, he set his burden down with care, then made her a half bow.

  “We await you downstairs,” he said. “At your convenience.”

  As soon as he left, Ellie unfastened the latches, her fingers clumsy with anticipation. Henderson moved to brace the upright trunk, and Ellie slowly pulled it open.

  “Oh,” she said softly as the ball gown inside was revealed.

  The dress was stunning. The pale blue silk of the bodice and overskirt shimmered, as though interwoven with silver threads. Rosettes of darker blue velvet lined the edges of the skirt, setting off the embroidered gold underskirt beneath. Another rosette decorated the front of the bodice, with touches of gold at the sleeves and neckline.

  “My stars,” Henderson said. “In that gown, you’re fair to outshine the queen.”

  “No one can compare to Her Majesty,” Ellie replied. “But it is a beautiful gown.”

  “Then let’s get you into it, posthaste.” Henderson lifted the dress out and laid it across the bed. “Fortunate that your hair ribbons match the gold. Oh, and look—a lace cap to go with it. That will suit perfectly.”

  A blue velvet bag remained, tied to a hook inside the trunk. Ellie retrieved it and found a jewelry box tucked within. Inside the box was a set of sapphires—necklace, earbobs, and brooch—and her breath caught in a sob at the generosity of her godmother.

  “Heavens.” Henderson laid a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “The baroness has outdone herself on your behalf.”

  There was a note tucked under the necklace. Ellie’s eyes were too blurred with gratitude to read it, so she handed it to Henderson.

  “The jewels are a loan,” the maid read. “You may return them within the week. But keep the dress—I hope it fits. Your affectionate godmother, Constance Merriweather.”

  Ellie pulled in a deep breath, mastering herself with effort. There were times to dissolve into tears—but this was not one of them.

  Fortunately, the dress did fit. A few small adjustments in the shoulders and waist, a quick pinning of the lace over her hair, the sapphires fastened on, her gloves donned, and she was ready.

  “I’ll accompany you in the coach,” Henderson said. “We must be mindful of the proprieties, and I want to see you safely delivered to Buckingham Palace.”

  “Thank you.” In truth, Ellie was glad of the company.

  She feared her nerve would fail her, arriving so late to the Queen’s Ball. But with Henderson there, she would not turn back from the intimidating thought of entering the palace alone.

  True to his word, the footman waited below, with Mr. Atkins keeping a watchful eye.

  “Best of luck, Miss Eleanor,” the butler said. “I’m pleased you’ll be able to attend the ball after all. Most unfortunate, that mishap earlier.” He frowned and shook his head.

  “Thank you, Mr. Atkins,” she said, warmed once again by the support and kindness of the servants.

  “Look after her,” he said gruffly to Henderson, then opened the front door.

  The footman bowed and ushered them out to where the singularly orange coach waited. Inside, it was upholstered in pumpkin-colored velvet, with candles behind glass shedding a warm illumination. Ellie climbed inside, assisted by the footman, and settled her voluminous skirts. Henderson followed, taking the seat across from her.

  They did not say much during the ride. Ellie’s heart hammered with fear and excitement. What would her stepmother say, to see Ellie gowned like a princess and arriving so remarkably late? Would Kit still be there? Oh, she desperately hoped so, and that she might claim one last dance with him.

  Almost before she was ready, the walls of Buckingham Palace were in sight. The guards at the gate waved them through, and the coach pulled up to the Grand Entrance.

  “At least there’s not a crush to get in,” Henderson remarked. “There’s one advantage of arriving so late.”

  Ellie simply nodded, her throat tight with anticipation.

  The footman opened the door and handed her down from the coach.

  “If you find it agreeable, I shall escort you in,” he said to Ellie.

  “Yes. Thank you.” Even an elderly footman was better than approaching that intimidating facade by herself.

  “And I will find the ladies’ maids and wait until the ball ends,” Henderson said. “Dance well.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Ellie managed a smile.

  She would not mention that her embroidered slippers still pinched her feet quite uncomfortably. A pity the baroness had not sent footwear, but, she chided herself, her godmother had been more than generous.

  Luckily, the gown was a trifle long, the skirts sweeping down to trail on the ground. If Ellie removed her slippers to dance, well, no one would be the wiser.

  Setting her gloved hand on the footman’s arm, she entered Buckingham Palace. The red-coated guards on duty at the front door did not even glance at her as she and the footman walked between them. She supposed that was better than reproving glances on the tardiness of her arrival, though it rather did make her feel invisible.

  At the long, red-carpeted sweep of the Grand Staircase, she nearly lost her nerve—but truly, she could not turn back now. Instead of focusing on her racing heartbeat, she tried to concentrate on the ornate gilded balustrade, the huge portraits of former monarchs lining the high walls.

  They reached the top of the stairs, and now she could hear the crowd—a murmur like the sea, punctuated by occasional strains of music. The doors of the Green Drawing Room were open, though she could not see much of the room beyond except a few bright dresses and plumed hats. An official-looking fellow—perhaps an under steward—presided over the threshold.

  “My lady,” he said, stepping forward. “Have you an official invitation?”

  “I was invited, yes.” Ellie met his gaze. “I am Miss Eleanor Tremont, joining Lady Tremont and her daughters, who arrived earlier.”

  Much, much earlier. But there was nothing to do but brazen it out.

  “Miss Tremont, is it?” The steward gave her a penetrating look. “I was not notified you would be coming so late. The ball is well underway.”

  “With all due apologies,” the footman said, “she was unavoidably delayed by my mistress, the Lady Merriweathe
r. But Miss Tremont is here now, and, as you can see, quite ready to make her entrance.”

  The steward raised one bushy brow. “Lady Merriweather, you say?”

  “Yes,” Ellie said. “She is my godmother.”

  The man let out a harrumph, but it seemed the baroness’s reputation as an eccentric stood Ellie in good stead.

  “Very well,” he said. “I will announce you. Most everyone is gathered in the Throne Room, however, and will not hear you come in.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said.

  “Best of luck, milady.” The footman bowed over her hand.

  She smiled her thanks at him, and then he was gone and the steward was announcing her name in a deep voice. It was time to step forward—in every sense of the word. Shoulders back and chin high, Ellie made her entrance to the Queen’s Ball.

  11

  It was, admittedly, rather anticlimactic. As the steward had said, most of the attendees were packed into the Throne Room, just visible through the double doors at the end of the Green Drawing Room.

  Ellie walked through the high-ceilinged room, trying not to wince as her slippers pinched her toes. The chandeliers shed brightness over the figured green carpet and olive-hued walls. A half-dozing elderly gentleman in one of the scattered chairs marked her passage, as did a wilted-looking young lady and her companion, but with those two exceptions, the room was strangely empty.

  Noise poured from the scarlet-draped Throne Room ahead, however—a blast of music followed by the sound of applause. She edged into the room in time to see a line of costumed dancers make their bow to the queen and prince, who stood on a raised dais to one side of the crowded space.

  Ellie noted with relief that Queen Victoria wore a magnificent ball gown. Intricate lace framed the neckline, and gold trimmings accented the white silk bodice and overskirts, while the underskirt was a rich, rose-colored brocade. The queen made an altogether splendid picture, especially with her equally well-garbed consort at her side.

  Pride filled Ellie, that she was a subject of such a regal couple. And thank heavens she would not have to worry about outshining the monarch at her own ball.

  While the dancers filed off the floor, Ellie glanced about the room, hoping to catch sight of Kit. And her stepfamily, so that she might avoid them.

  She thought she glimpsed Abby’s red hair in the far corner, but she couldn’t be sure. Then her heart lurched as she spotted Kit making his way toward the door. He looked rather unhappy for a fellow who was attending the most celebrated ball of the Season.

  “Excuse me,” Ellie said, wedging herself between a woman wearing bright green skirts and a courtier in a coat that stuck out so far from his body she wondered if he’d put part of a hoop crinoline beneath.

  After a brief struggle, she emerged, just in time to catch Kit’s arm as he went past. He turned, and the look on his face transformed in an instant, like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The light in his eyes made her catch her breath, and she berated herself for a fool.

  Even if Kit had feelings for her, he’d made it all too clear that he would never ask for her hand.

  But in that moment, with the musicians striking up a waltz and the crystal chandeliers overhead sparkling with a thousand tiny fires, she didn’t care.

  “Ellie,” he said, the warmth in his voice unmistakable. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “I was delayed,” she said. “Luckily, my godmother managed to procure me a gown at the last instant.”

  “And a lovely one it is too. You look particularly beautiful in it.”

  She blushed. “You weren’t leaving, were you?”

  “Not any longer.” He lifted his head and scanned the floor. “I know it’s cramped quarters, but might I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  “I’d be delighted,” she said, then frowned at the thought of trying to waltz in her too-tight slippers.

  “What is it? I promise not to step on your toes.”

  “I am worried about my toes,” she confessed. “My dancing slippers are intolerably small.”

  He leaned forward. “Slip them off, then,” he said in a confiding tone. “I won’t tell.”

  “I’m scandalized,” she teased. “What an improper thing to suggest.”

  However, she had already stepped out of the offending footwear, pushing them off each foot with her toes. The bare floor felt blessedly comfortable.

  “They’re already off, aren’t they?” His eyes twinkled with mischief.

  “Yes—except I can’t bend over to pick them up.” Not only was the space too crowded, she feared her skirts would fly up. She wasn’t used to wearing such voluminous lengths.

  “Push them to the edge of your gown, then drop your fan,” he said. “I’ll pick it up and collect your shoes into the bargain.”

  “But where can I put them? My reticule is too small.”

  “Leave that to me.” He gave her a conspiratorial smile.

  Trying not to grin too broadly in return, she let her fan fall, then scooted the slippers out from under her hem.

  Kit swooped them up. Bowing, he presented her with her fan. His other hand was tucked awkwardly beneath the skirts of his coat.

  “You can’t simply hold them there,” Ellie said. “It looks very odd.”

  “Take my arm, then. Your sleeves will cover them. Yes, like that.”

  It was ridiculous, smuggling her slippers through the crowded room, and she was on the verge of laughter as Kit maneuvered them close to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows. With one swift motion, he thrust the footwear behind the red velvet draperies, then turned to her with a triumphant look.

  “Now we are free to dance.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” she said, laughing.

  It felt like old times—like she had a family and friends and no worries for the future.

  “And yet eminently practical.” He gazed down at her with a warm smile. “You can retrieve them when you go. It’s the last curtain.”

  “Yes, I’ve marked it.”

  “Then come—this dance won’t last forever.”

  He deftly swung her out onto the floor, and suddenly Ellie wished it would last forever. She could happily spend an eternity with her hand clasped in his, his arm about her waist as they whirled in a scarlet sea beneath a thousand diamond suns.

  Her pale blue skirts swung out, and anyone watching could have seen her stockinged feet—but she did not care. Nothing else mattered except this moment, waltzing with Kit—the way they used to practice in the daisy-starred meadow, when she had no cares, no sorrow chaining her to the ground.

  But, as it must, the music ended, and her heart regretfully returned to earth. Kit released her, and she was conscious that her pulse was racing—partly from dancing, but mostly from being near him. The heat and jostle of the throng pressed in upon her.

  “Might we step out a moment?” she asked. “I could use a bit of air.”

  “The Picture Gallery should be less crowded,” Kit said.

  “You know your way about the palace.” She lifted one brow. “One might almost think you’re a frequent visitor here.”

  He gave her an amused look. “I’m not, I assure you. I discovered the gallery as a useful retreat earlier this evening when your stepsisters were trying to cajole me into multiple dances.”

  “Completely understandable,” she said, tucking her arm through his. “Lead on, good sir.”

  He wove them through the mob to the wide opening leading to the gallery. Several other guests had the same notion and were perambulating about the wide hall, but on the whole it was much less crowded.

  They paused before a large painting of Queen Charlotte, and Ellie pulled in a breath. “This is much better.”

  “I agree—though I did enjoy our waltz very much.”

  “As did I.” Bittersweet melancholy tugged at her heart.

  She was nerving herself up to ask him when he was departing England, when an older gentleman viewing the next painting glan
ced over at her.

  “Why, is that Miss Eleanor Tremont?” he asked, a note of pleased surprise in his voice.

  “Hello, Lord Brumley.” She made the earl a curtsy, recognizing him as one of Papa’s old friends. “Yes, it’s Eleanor.”

  “How good to see you, my dear—and looking well. I must say, I was sorry to hear of your father’s passing.”

  “Thank you.” And for the first time in eight months, she was able to respond without fighting back tears. “Allow me to introduce my escort, Lord Christopher Newland.”

  “A pleasure.” Lord Brumley extended his hand. “Newland, is it? Any relation to the new marquess?”

  “Yes, he’s my father,” Kit said.

  “Will he be taking his seat in the House of Lords this fall? I understand he has connections in India. I’m rather interested in the spice trade myself.”

  “My father certainly intends to take up the duties of his new title,” Kit said. “He plans to arrive in England within the next two months.”

  “Excellent. Tell him to call upon me when he reaches London. We can trade tales of our travels abroad, compare India to Indonesia and whatnot.” Lord Brumley gave him a jovial smile. “In fact, why don’t you pay a visit yourself, young man? Find me at Brumley House on Grosvenor Square.”

  “I shall, thank you.”

  “Now, off with you both,” the earl said, waving them away with a shooing motion. “You young folk should be dancing and enjoying yourselves.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Ellie said. “It was nice to see you again.”

  With a lighter heart, she and Kit continued their stroll. His company, plus her newfound ability to bear hearing condolences on Papa’s death, made her feel as though she were returning to herself. No longer the grief-stricken shadow of a girl or the pliant servant of her stepfamily, but Ellie Tremont, who would face the world on her own terms.

  They reached the end of the gallery, where columns flanked a small, nearly hidden anteroom. Ellie glanced at Kit.

  “Is this the last time I’ll see you before you return to India?”

  “I expect so.” His gaze met hers, green eyes the color of shadowed oak leaves, no trace of a smile on his firm lips.