“I don’t need to forgive you, Miss Maxwell,” Mrs. Mitford replied shyly. “It mightn’t look like it, but I’m looking forward to this.”
Valeria took a breath. “Come on, then. Let us not delay any longer.”
Holding onto the cook’s arm, Valeria stepped down from the carriage and made her way up the marble steps to the open double doors of Leven Court: the grand country manor of the Croston family.
Immediately, the chatter of so many voices made her ears tingle as if there was a wasp stuck inside, a shiver running down the back of her neck. Her skin burned with the sting of countless eyes turning to stare at her, a lull in gossip letting her know that she was the center of attention. And she had not yet made it beyond the entrance hall.
This was a mistake… I look ridiculous and everyone knows it.She could have strangled Duncan for making such a fool of her. Maybe, she had gotten it wrong; maybe, this was vengeance fornotfalling for his usual tricks.
“Chin up, Miss Maxwell,” Mrs. Mitford whispered, flashing a wink at her temporary ward. “You look like a princess. Walk like one.”
Valeria pulled her shoulders back and raised her chin, concentrating on her posture and putting one foot gracefully in front of the other, as the two women cut straight across the entrance hall. They moved quickly into the adjoining hallway, following the thoroughfare to the ballroom at the end. And though whispers continued to swirl around Valeria, she did a decent job of ignoring them, taking confidence from the cook at her side.
She has more reason to be nervous than you do. You are, at least, used to it. Be courageous for her, and for the future of the house, if not for yourself.
It helped, reminding her of the sort of person she usually was. Not someone who was easily scared or insulted or diminished or intimidated, but a woman who did not suffer fools, and held herself with dignity. It was just a gown, it was just a ball, it was just the Crostons, whom she did not like; she could not allow anything to get to her, not with so much at stake.
She had barely taken a few steps into the ballroom, when her path became blocked by a gentleman of slender stature and a potent brandy scent. He must have had half a bottle of oil in his fair hair, his blue eyes glassy.
“Miss Maxwell, what a pleasure,” Martin Thorne crooned, turning her stomach. “This is fortunate indeed, for I wasjustlooking for a suitable spinster to dance with.”
Valeria glared at him. “If you were the verylastgentleman in England—and I use the word ‘gentleman’ very loosely—I would not dance with you.”
She might not have been very fond of the Crostons, but she outright despised Martin Thorne, elder brother of Amelia. A cruel, jealous, petulant, generally vile wastrel of a man, who had become something of a pariah in the three years since Amelia’s marriage to Lionel.
“You would rejectme?” he scoffed, swaying slightly. “You should be grateful that I have deigned to speak to you. What are you—thirty and unmarried?”
She sighed. “Five-and-twenty, actually. Now, if you will excuse me.”
She made to walk past him, but he stepped in front of her.
“I will tell you when you may leave.” He puffed his chest. “Indeed, you should be grateful I am even talking to you.”
Valeria shook her head, casting a sideways glance at the cook. “Why does every rejected gentleman feel the need to say some iteration of that to me? I amnotgrateful. Indeed, I wish you would leave me be, for I have nothing to say to you.”
“How is my sister?” he said, undeterred.
“She is none of your concern, and if you mention her name again, or I hear that you have enquired about her at all, I will not hesitate to inform her husband, and her husband’s friend, the Duke of Davenport. They will ensure you have understood with far more insistence than me, so consider this the gentler warning.”
Valeria pushed past him, dragging Mrs. Mitford with her and, this time, Martin did not try to cut her off again.
It was not long before Valeria found herself lost in a sea of people, the cook vanishing to explore the delights of the refreshment room. She stood on tiptoe, trying to see above the heads of the other guests, searching for the reason she was there in the first place… while also hoping she didnotlook like she was searching for him.
“Excuse me?” a man said, smiling as he paused in front of her.
“Hmm?”
“I could not help but introduce myself to a lady as beautiful as yourself,” the man replied, undeterred. “I am Peter Dalgleish, son of the Marquess of Edgecombe.”
She did not bother to glance at him. “A pleasure, I am sure.”
“If your dance card is not full already, might you consider dancing a set with me?” the man continued. “Apologies, I do not think you gave your name.”
“No, because I did not offer it,” she remarked, wondering if Duncan had departed already, to punish her for being late. “I am sorry, I do not suppose you have seen the?—”
She halted, realizing that the gentleman had already gone, not wasting a moment longer on someone who evidently was not interested in his attention.
And without insulting me, too. Hmm… maybe things are changing after all.Still, the man’s absence did not help with her other problem.
