Once inside her bedchamber with the door closed, Valeria finally plucked out the card and opened it.
A net to catch a husband before summer’s end – Lockie.
Shaking her head, Valeria tossed the card into the fireplace, watching as the flames licked ravenously at the paper, gobbling it up. It was not the apology she deserved, but at least she knew that Duncan would be there at the ball tonight.There, she would gain her apology, whether he liked it or not.
“Do you hear that, Valery?” Beatrice asked in a mischievous whisper.
Valeria glanced at her cousin. “Hear what?”
“Why, I do believe it is the sound of eyes popping and hearts breaking.” Beatrice grinned, clapping her hands in giddy delight. “Every gentleman here will want to stand at your side, and every lady will want to be you. Although, I must say it is rather rude of them to try and sneak ahead of me, for I havealwayswanted to be you.”
Valeria did not know whether to laugh or grimace at her dear cousin’s encouragement, though she had to admit, vengeance had had a rather transformative effect upon her confidence. Where Valeria had struggled and doubted herself in that first, midnight blue gown that Duncan had sent, she had no such inhibitions now—her head held high, her body moving with grace, the extraordinary gown an extension of her rather than a hindrance.
“I really ought to talk to you about your vivid language, Bea,” Valeria said with a chuckle. “‘Popping eyes’ is so… unpleasantly visceral.”
Beatrice laughed. “Yet, it is the only worthy description. Look around and tell me I am not right.”
Pretending she needed to find something in her reticule, Valeria cast a discreet, sidelong gaze at the ballroom she had just entered. Her eyes were drawn first to the orchestra, playing a lively tune for the enjoyment of the equally lively couples who danced in the center of the room, but as she widened her observation, she sawexactlywhat Beatrice meant.
Among the groups and gaggles of women, many had stopped talking altogether, staring in open-mouthed shock at this new version of Miss Valeria Maxwell. Among the clusters of gentlemen, however, discussions seemed to increase in haste, hushed sentiments rustling through the crowd toward her, along with their stares.
“They are probably asking one another who on earth I think I am, strolling into someone else’s ball in a gown of Italian velvet,” Valeria murmured, flashing a wink at her cousin. “It is poor form to dress more ostentatiously than the host.”
Beatrice raised an eyebrow. “What nonsense. It is not as if Lady Sandford needs to find herself a strapping, handsome gentleman to marry… not until Lord Sandford carks it, anyway. Though, by the looks of him, that might be sooner rather than later.”
“Beatrice!” Valeria gasped, fighting to swallow the laugh that threatened to bubble up.
“What?” The younger woman feigned irreverent innocence. “He is either dozing in that chair over there, or he has already passed. You cannot tell me that he resembles a man of vigor.”
Valeria noticed Lord Sandford, slumped in a chair at one of the tables on the periphery of the ballroom, a spot close to the doors that led through to the refreshments room. She had to admit that he was long past his lively days, but she was rather more impressed with how he was managing to sleep through a noisy, chaotic ball.
“Nevertheless,” she said diplomatically, “it is impolite to speak so crudely of others, even if you are terribly amusing.”
Beatrice seemed to bask in the veiled compliment, plump cheeks flushing a happy pink. “Mother is always telling me how ‘terrible’ I am, so I might as well be ‘terribly’ funny.” She pulled on Valeria’s hand. “Come, let us have some punch. I amparched.”
“We ought to wait for my papa,” Valeria said, turning back to see where Aaron had gotten to.
He had been right behind them not two minutes ago, but the lengthy hallway between the ballroom and the foyer showed no sign of the man. Valeria frowned, spotting two gentlemen veering left, halfway up the thoroughfare. They passed through an ordinary looking door, attended by an ordinary looking footman, but Valeria saw the brief nod pass between the men.
“Never mind.” She sighed. “Let us have that punch.”
Her father had undoubtedly ventured into the smoking room—that secret place where no woman was allowed to tread—to hunt down Lord Walworth. Whether what her father had to say wouldbe of any benefit to their situation, she did not know, but she had no choice but to let him try.
Meanwhile, she still hadherpart to play.
Gentlemen of the ton, I am ready for you.She pulled back her shoulders, adjusted her posture, and glided toward the promise of punch with all the subtle appeal she could muster, making sure to walk slowly so that any man who had taken an interest would know where she was going. Just some of the crafty tricks that Duncan had taught her, bolstered tenfold by the most exquisite gown in all the world.
Indeed, if her actions did not speak loudly enough, the dress certainly screamed:Let the game of courtship commence.
Yet, as Valeria paused on the threshold of the refreshments room to cast a cursory glance across the ballroom—pretending to be looking for someone but really giving potential suitors a moment to decide if they would approach her—there was only one gentleman on her mind.
And he was not there.
All of the primping and preening and rehearsing and deliberating what slights she would hurl at him to claim his apology, and he was not there. She was almost two hours late, wearing his gifted gown, and he was not there.
“What are you staring at?” Beatrice asked, snapping Valeria out of her thoughts.
Valeria shook her head, putting on a smile. “Nothing, dear girl. I thought I saw an old friend.”
