“No.” Petra picked up the lovely fan, also chosen by Arabella, from where it sat on the vanity. “I refuse to spend the evening looking like a demented buttercup.”
Mother expelled a whoosh of air, lips quivering in affront at Petra’s unexpected rebuke. “A…what? I insist—”
Petra walked toward the door, deliberately swinging her hips to allow the diaphanous fabric to flutter about her waist. “I am wearing a gown ofmychoice, not yours. And I must say, I look magnificent.”
“You will not leave this room in that gown. I forbid you to wear such a thing.” The declaration was followed by the stamp of her mother’s slipper clad foot.
“As you wish, Mother.” She wavered as if unsteady on her feet. “Oh my, I’m feeling very ill. My stomach is unsettled.” Petra put a hand to her forehead. “I should return to bed. Please make my excuses to Lady Pendleton.”
“You wouldn’t dare, Petra.” Her nostrils flared at Petra’s rebellion.
“Try me, Mother.” She crossed her arms.
A sputtering noise, like a teapot, came from her mother’s lips. “I do not care for this behavior Petra. I simplydo not. We shall discuss your…intractability, on the morrow.”
Petra sailed toward the door. “Indeed we shall. Are you coming?” Not bothering to wait for an answer, she strode down the stairs to the sound of music below.
My God, that felt good.
21
Brushbriar’s ballroom was filled with society from Castleton, Buxton and the surrounding area. Liveried servants passed through the swirl of skirts and snapping fans. The smell of pomade and lavender filled the ballroom even as the doors to the rear were thrown open to allow in the evening’s cooler air. A flurry of names and faces passed before Petra as introductions were made. She danced first with Simon, then Baron Haddon. Mr. Divet twirled her about the floor, laughing when she stepped accidentally on his toe. A young gentleman, a squire’s son from Castleton, next claimed her. Then Dr. Stubbins questioned her health while spinning her about.
Her eyes constantly peered into the corners of the ballroom and through the small crowd, searching for an overly tall man with a mop of unruly ebony curls. She’d promised herself she wouldn’t do such a thing but seemed unable to stop looking for Morwick. Surprisingly, Katherine did appear, alone, resplendent in a gown of dove gray silk decorated in lace and black jet. Even as a widow she far outshone every woman in the room.
Petra hastily looked away from her, lest the other woman see the jealously erupting like a wound torn open. At least Morwick wasn’t at her side.
Lady Pendleton surveyed the dancing from her place against a far wall. A chair covered in red velvet had been placed upon a raised dais, and there, Queen Lydia perched. A group of older women, including Petra’s mother, clustered about Queen Lydia, hanging on her every word.
Lady Pendleton bestowed indulgent smiles to her small court, waving her boney gloved hands and flapping an overlarge fan at her bosom. Laughter erupted from the group and Petra heard her mother.
Lady Marsh glared back at her daughter, eyes gleaming with future retribution for Petra’s disobedience. She shot a pointed look at the skirts of Petra’s gown.
Petra didn’t give a fig.
Her mother had ruled Petra with an iron fist for the vast majority of Petra’s life. Rules piled upon rules.Constantsupervision. Everything decided for her without due consideration for Petra’s opinion. She was like a small country who had finally thrown off the yoke of petty dictatorship.
Oh, that’s quite good. Unfortunately, I can’t share such a thing with Simon to prove my ability to understand simple politics.Morwick, though, would find the comparison amusing. Petra ignored the brief stab at her stomach, thinking of the intimacy she’d witnessed last night. He was involved with Katherine. She must accept their relationship and acknowledge their brief flirtation was at an end.
The day alone, sitting and watching the moors while reading about rocks and minerals, had given Petra plenty of time to think without interruption. While her future was now uncertain, Petra wasverysure of what she didnotwant. She recalled the conversation she’d had so long ago with the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. She’d made a promise to the elderly woman to follow her heart.
Yes, but follow it where?
Simon claimed Petra for a dance, expertly twirling her about, executing each move with precision. He kept a proper distance between the two of them, careful not to hold her too close, his gloved fingers resting lightly on her waist. He danced with her exactly as he had in London, but now Petra felt none of the thrill she had before. Every so often, Simon would lean in and instruct her to lift her skirt a bit or mind her step.
The guests in the ballroom, observing she and Simon, would incorrectly assume he was whispering endearments in her ear as they danced. Or perhaps Lord Pendleton was taking the opportunity to eye his dancing partner’s bosom, so delightfully displayed in the slightly daring neckline of the gown. Nothing could have been further from the truth. Petra felt as if she were whirling about the floor with the dancing instructor from her youth. He’d been so much more charming in London.
Once the dance ended, Simon returned Petra to the group of women surrounding Lady Pendleton, bowed low and brushed his lips against her knuckles. “I think I’ll play cards for a bit, my dear. I’ll be sure to find you before the buffet is served and claim you for another dance.”
Petra dipped. “Of course, my lord.” She rather hoped he’d play cards all night.
“Lord Pendleton doesn’t care for your dress.” Mother hissed below her breath as Simon walked away toward the card tables. “I could see the disapproval in his eyes from where I stand.”
Petra gave her Mother an unconcerned look. “Well, then, it’s a good thing he’s not wearing it.”
22
“May I have the honor of this dance, my lady?”
