She had mentioned something to that effect, he supposed—that many men in attendance would have wives. That these events were meant to be secret, known only to the privileged few who had merited invitations. A bawdy imitation of aTonevent, and far less decorous.
That much was clear from the hearty cheer that assailed his ears as they approached the door. And that wasn’t the half of it. The sound that crashed over him as the door opened and a man stepped into the crack, extending his hand to receive the invitation that Charity handed over to him was nothing short of ear-shattering.
He supposed there might have been some faint, distant strains of music over the din, but he could pick out naught but a few warbling notes of a violin as they were admitted.
“Miss Nightingale,” the man said as he opened the door. “What a surprise it is to see you. It has been too long.”
“It has, hasn’t it?” Charity said, though her hand tightened upon Anthony’s arm as they proceeded into the house. Ostensibly to bring home the message that she was not in search of a new protector, he thought. “My name is known well enough,” she whispered to him,sotto voce. “I have been wickedfor years and years already.”
It was—nice, for once, he thought, to not be the one who garnered stares. The whispers that followed them were not judgments rendered upon his appearance; it was Charitywho received the bulk of the attention.
And she fairly preened beneath the regard, the indisputable diamond of the ball. “Out of curiosity,” Anthony murmured to her as they moved toward what he thought must be the ballroom, “how long istoo long?”
“Mm. A few years, now,” Charity said on a sigh. And then she swallowed a snicker as a masked woman sauntered past them, her dress half-unbuttoned, breasts exposed, to throw herself into the arms of the gentleman who Anthony supposed must be her paramour. “That’s Sylvie,” she whispered to him. “She isjust delightful.” Another sigh, wistful and longing. “I have missed it. The revelry; the chaos. It’s in the very air. Can you feel it?”
There was most definitely something in the air. Anthony couldn’t be altogether certain that it was not opium smoke. They found the ballroom at last, where a bevy of dancers were circling the floor, the bright skirts of ball gowns—far too risqué ever to grace the ballroom floor of Almack’s—fluttering as their owners whirled.
ATonball, turned upon its head. People laughing too loudly, drinking too deeply, dancing too closely. Where every rule and stricture that made polite society what it was had been stripped away, and no one seemed to find anything even the least objectionable in it. And Anthony felt—
Invisible. A curious notion, given that he’d felt far too much on display just recently. But no one paid him any mind at all, intent as they were upon their own vices, their own night of wicked fun. It made the sorts of events he had attended, both recently and in the past, seem tepid by comparison. Bland and boring.
“Shall we dance?” Charity asked, a glimmer of warmth in her voice.
“What, here?” But it was an utter crush. It had taken nearly all of his concentration to maneuver Lady Cecily about the ballroom floor of a much more sedate ball—and that had been with fewer than half the people milling about now, in no discernable pattern. “I don’t think I could manage it.”
“Of course you can,” she said. “I have every faith in you.” And she seized his hand in hers, dragging him through the throng of people at the fringes of the room and toward the dizzying blur of dancers moving in their riotous circles.
“Surely we must wait for the next set.”
“At aTonevent,” she said. “Not at this one. We’ll justpop in wherever there’s space.”
Anthony wouldn’t have risked it, but Charity charged on boldly, as she did everything—and somehow she’d timed their entrance perfectly, and all of a sudden they were in the thick of it all. Anthony stumbled a step, and was surprised to find that no one had noticed, no one was jeering. “Half the dancers are drunk already,” Charity confided as she squeezed herself closer, leading him into the steps of a rather disjointed waltz, owing to the thick of the crowd about them. “No one will care if you happen to fumble a few steps. They’ll blame it upon a surfeit of liquor, same as themselves.”
The close quarters did not allow for a great deal of freedom of movement, and she’d skillfully placed them toward the center of the floor, which lent itself to tighter, more controlled circles. Anthony gave himself a moment to glance around, surprised to find a sort of wild beauty in the pandemonium. She had been correct; he did recognize more than a few of the gentlemen present. But every person his gaze fell upon looked to be enjoying themselves immensely. A far cry from those few dignified events he had attended, where a rogue smile might threaten to split a face in twain, this was high society let off its leash. Every bit as elegant, every bit as opulent and grandiose—with none of the inhibitions.
From a chaise longue situated near the refreshment table, a woman in a silver mask dotted with seed pearls opened her mouth to taste the ripe raspberry her paramour placed upon her tongue. Across the room two lovers rubbed noses, entirely unconcerned with being seen as they slipped out together into the cool night for what promised to be an assignation in the garden. And amongst a row of chairs ostensibly meant for a bit of a respite after a sprightly dance, a woman sat directly upon her lover’s lap as they shared a glass of liquor.
Perhaps he ought to have found it all a bit sordid. Instead, he marveled at the freedom they enjoyed, the joviality found in every moment, the raw hedonism in which they liberally indulged.
A hard shoulder bumped his own from his blind side, precipitating another stumble which sent him reeling toward Charity. He recovered himself promptly, forcing himself to tamp down upon the instinctive anger which welled up inside him.
“I say,” the gentleman responsible blustered, in slurring tones of drunkenness.
“Glare,” Charity whispered, a measure of glee in her voice.
Anthony turned his headsharply to spear the man with a hard look. Narrowed his eye and glared, as instructed.
Already ruddy cheeks flushed a deeper red. “My mistake,” the man said, his shoulders slumping. “I beg your pardon.” And he swept his partner away, thoroughly chastened.
Charity trilled a laugh, that delightful nightingale melody that warmed him from the inside. Full-throated and lyrical, without even the slightest care over whether or not it had been too loud or inappropriate. Once again he found himself wishing that he had half the courage she had, that he could find his way toward living his life in all the fullness she lived hers. Without regret, without shame, reaching with both hands for whatever bit of joy she might grasp.
Anthony had gotten the distinct impression since the renewal of their acquaintance that Charity could appear to belong anywhere she had the mind to. She had an unassailable confidence that would allow her to mingle with the aristocracy just as effortlessly as with thedemimonde. He could picture her sipping tea with a cluster of ladies in an elegant drawing room every bit as easily as attending a Cyprians’ Ball, and yet, here—here she was truly in her element. The brightest sparkling star of her own world.
For this one moment out of time, it was a balm to his soul only to bask in her light.
The twitch of her fingers on his arm warned him to slide them away before another careless couple sauntered by, and he didn’t feel half so clumsy as he had upon the dance floor with Lady Cecily. It felt rather like a team effort just now, with Charity subtly leading where he could not, generously accommodating for his diminished sight with only the gentle clasp of her fingers.
“Your morning call with Lady Cecily,” she said as they made their first circuit of the ballroom floor. “How did it turn out?”
