Waltz With a Stranger (13 page)

***

“Thank you, Mr. Sutcliffe,” Aurelia said somewhat breathlessly, fanning herself as they left the floor. “That was a delightful waltz.”

He smiled down at her. “The pleasure was mine, Miss Newbold. Might I have the honor of partnering you for the supper dance?”

Aurelia consulted her dance card. “I’m afraid that I have already promised it to another,” she said with genuine regret.

“Then, the first dance after supper?”

That, fortunately, was unclaimed, and Aurelia penciled in Mr. Sutcliffe’s name beside it. He bowed to her one last time, then approached another young lady, one of several seated in this particular corner. She rose with alacrity, and they strolled toward the middle of the dance floor, a number of envious gazes following them.

Not at all surprising that they should, Aurelia thought. Mr. Sutcliffe was both eligible and attractive: fair-haired, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered…as her first love had been. But where Charlie had been a youth, scarcely more than a boy in some ways, Mr. Sutcliffe was unquestionably a man. She realized with a not unwelcome shock that for the first time in memory, she had thought of Charlie without pain.

Plenty
of
fish
in
the
sea
, her mother and her sister had assured her during those years she had mourned Charlie’s defection. Now, she found she might just be ready to believe that truism; dancing almost every dance did wonders for one’s confidence. She hoped that she was not so naïve as to think that all the gentlemen attending this ball had been struck by the light of her
beaux
yeux
. Indeed, she suspected that Amy and perhaps even Trevenan had had a hand in the number of partners who had presented themselves to her before each dance. But more than one young man, like Mr. Sutcliffe, had asked for a second dance after the conclusion of the first, which Aurelia dared to think might actually have something to do with
her
.

Better still, she had yet to glimpse on anyone’s face the revulsion she had once dreaded to find. She had seen surprise from her partners, even a touch of pity, when they beheld her scar, but no disgust. None had averted his gaze or angled his head so as to avoid looking at it, or her. Most remarkable of all, the pity had faded once she had demonstrated her own determination to enjoy the evening. Faded and given way to respect, a triumph far sweeter than the most extravagant of compliments.

She glanced down at her card and felt a sudden frisson when she saw the name beside the next dance. But of course Trevenan had committed himself to one dance with her; they were to be brother and sister, after all. And if one secret part of her still experienced a wistful ache at knowing they could not be more to one another, she had that part well under control.

And here they came, Trevenan and her sister. The twins exchanged fond glances—as ever, not needing words to convey how they felt at this moment. But as Amy and Trevenan neared, a feminine murmur grew behind Aurelia, sharpening into disastrous clarity at the exact moment the musicians paused to tune their instruments and a lull descended upon the room.

“—those twins! Beauty and the Beast…”

“Oh, hush!”

From that horrified whisper and the awkward silence that followed, Aurelia knew exactly of whom they had been speaking. Impossible
not
to know. Amy’s eyes widened, then blazed, and her cheeks flew two scarlet flags. She, too, had heard.

Aurelia’s heart seemed to stutter to a stop, the cold of utter shock stealing through her veins. The first unkindness. The first breath of malice since her return…

And the moment she discovered what she was made of. Whether she was indeed the queen—or merely the little mouse.

She lifted her chin and gave the approaching couple her most dazzling smile. “Ah, there you are, dearest,” she greeted her twin, pitching her voice just loudly enough to be heard in that whispering corner. “Did you enjoy the waltz?”

Amy rallied at once. “Indeed, I did. Thank you, my lord,” she added to her fiancé.

Trevenan raised Amy’s hand to his lips. “The pleasure is mine—to be partnered with
two
such lovely women. Are you ready for our dance, Miss Aurelia? I’ve been looking forward to it.”

“As have I, Lord Trevenan. And as this is to be rather a lengthy dance,” she took care to emphasize the word
lengthy
, “perhaps you might tell me more about Cornwall during the set?”

“Delighted to oblige.” He proffered his arm and Aurelia took it, stepping out onto the floor without a backward glance at the now-glowering wallflowers. And to think she’d felt rather sorry for them before—clearly a waste of sympathy!

“Brava, Miss Aurelia,” Trevenan said softly as he led her to their place in a newly formed set. Amy’s partner, a Mr. Ashby, was doing likewise on another part of the floor.

Aurelia attempted Claudine’s Gallic shrug, hoping she looked even half as nonchalant. “I’m done with hiding in corners. Or cowering in fear of an unkind word.”

“They’re envious, you know.”

“Because I’ve managed to find some partners, despite my limp and scar?”

“Because you’ve made those things irrelevant. Don’t undervalue yourself—or the pleasure you’ve given to your partners tonight.”

Startled, she glanced up at him and saw that he was in earnest, his dark eyes intense as he returned her gaze. She felt herself flush and hoped that the heat of the ballroom could account for her change in color. Before she could sink deeper into confusion, the music came to her aid.

Five figures in a Lancers Quadrille. Years ago, as a schoolgirl just learning to dance, that knowledge had filled her with dismay. Now, however, she was relieved to have so many steps on which to focus. She remembered to smile as she danced, and after the successful completion of the second figure, the smile felt more genuine and less forced. She caught Trevenan’s eye then, and felt her heart give an odd little jump when he smiled back and half-closed his eye in a wink.
Concentrate
, she reminded herself sternly as the third figure began.

Trevenan acquitted himself well in the quadrille, and during the moments they came together, he even managed to impart a few details about Cornwall—mainly regarding the north coast: its towering cliffs and many echoing caves, the latter carved out by the relentless wash of the sea, so beautiful and turbulent. It did sound magnificent, Aurelia thought, if not much like Newport, and she looked forward to the day when she and Amy would see it for themselves.

The dance now concluded, Trevenan escorted her from the floor, leading her to a different corner of the room this time. She was just about to thank him for his consideration when another unwelcome voice assailed her ears.

“Aurelia! How lovely to see you! I
told
you the Newbolds were still in London, Charlie.”

Aurelia stilled, waiting for the sudden humming in her ears to subside. Under her hand, the muscles of Trevenan’s arm went hard as iron as the earl also registered the identity of the person addressing her. Surely some cosmic irony must be at work that she should have to face
this
trial tonight as well. But at least she was not facing it alone.

Affixing a bright, inconsequential smile to her face, she turned around—and there they were. Sally attired in a frilly, girlish white gown, and her brother standing stiffly beside her.

He looked older, Aurelia thought, broader in the chest and shoulders, his face more defined and less boyishly soft. But then, it had been three years—nearly four, now.

She regarded them with a serenity she was far from feeling. “Mr. Vandermere. Miss Vandermere. Good evening to you both.” To her relief, her voice sounded almost normal.

Charlie’s throat worked as he swallowed; he looked nervous, and she could not be sorry for it. “Miss Aurelia. Good evening. And to you, sir?” He glanced uncertainly at Trevenan.

“This is the Earl of Trevenan, Amy’s betrothed,” Aurelia replied. “My lord, you have already met Miss Vandermere. This is her brother, Charles Vandermere.”

“Of course.” Trevenan inclined his head with a haughty air not at all like his usual demeanor. “Sir. Miss Vandermere.” His tone thawed only fractionally when he addressed Sally, who appeared too awed by his position to be offended by his coolness. “You must excuse us. I am taking Miss Aurelia for some refreshment. Good evening.”

Amused in spite of herself, Aurelia let herself be swept off on his arm.

“Well played, my lord,” she murmured, once she was certain they were out of earshot. “I’ve never seen such airs and graces. You sounded positively imperial.”

“I’ve never seen such unruffled calm,” he countered. “My dear, are you sure his presence here has not distressed you?”

Aurelia sighed. “I own, I wasn’t best pleased to encounter him tonight. But with the Vandermeres in London, I suppose it was only a matter of time before we ran into each other. I’m just—relieved that I was able to carry off the meeting with some degree of assurance.”

“You have carried off
everything
tonight with the assurance of a princess.”

Incredibly, she felt her lips quirk in a smile. “Or a queen?”

“A very empress,” he told her, smiling back.

“Thank you.” Aurelia took a deep breath. “Now I can concentrate on this evening, and the rest of our stay in London, without worrying about whether I’ll meet him again or not. Though perhaps we should find and warn Amy that he’s here. Otherwise she might commit a breach of etiquette and call him ‘Stupid Charlie’ to his face!”

“From what I’ve learned of your sister, she might consider that almost worth the social opprobrium,” Trevenan remarked.

Aurelia rolled her eyes. “Well,
I
don’t!” she declared, and glanced about for her twin.

***

At the conclusion of the quadrille, Mr. Ashby led Amy toward a corner occupied mainly by older ladies whose dancing days appeared to be behind them. She felt at once relieved and regretful. A part of her would have enjoyed putting the fear of God into those spiteful cats who’d mocked her twin. But for the sake of propriety, she supposed she was better where she was.

Mr. Ashby bowed and withdrew to claim his partner for the next dance—a galop, Amy noted, on consulting her card. She had no partner listed, but after the intricacies of the Lancers, she was glad enough to sit out this set and catch her breath. Fanning herself, she glanced about the ballroom, then stiffened when she caught sight of Mr. Sheridan, less than twenty feet away, in deep conversation with a stunningly beautiful woman gowned in peacock-blue.

And not just any woman, Amy discovered on further inspection, but Sybilla Crowley—the dashing widow of an elderly but wealthy baronet. She’d emerged from mourning late last summer, opulent as a full-blown rose, with her lush figure, auburn hair, and vivid blue-green eyes. Lady Crowley had also received numerous mentions in
The
London
Lady
and
Town
Talk
, two widely read Society magazines. The most exclusive establishments vied for her patronage, and her photograph was to be found, with that of other professional beauties, in almost every print shop in London. Not since Lillie Langtry had a woman enjoyed such a meteoric rise to prominence, and Amy had been heartily sick of her by the time the Season ended. Lady Crowley had gone to winter on the Riviera, and in her absence, other fashionable wives and widows had succeeded her in the limelight, though she now seemed intent on reclaiming her place there.

And from the admiring look on Mr. Sheridan’s face, she was succeeding. Even as Amy watched, Lady Crowley tossed her head back to laugh, then tapped him on the shoulder with her fan, a gesture at once playful and intimate, as if she were accustomed to taking such liberties.

Amy caught her breath as the artist gave Lady Crowley a lazy smile, then took her hand and raised it to his lips. She smiled back with almost feline satisfaction and leaned in a little closer, until their bodies were mere inches apart. Sheridan then tucked Lady Crowley’s hand into the crook of his arm, and they strolled away together—not toward the dance floor, but toward the French windows that opened onto the terrace. Moments later, they disappeared from sight.

Face suddenly aflame, Amy looked away. So Mr. Sheridan and Lady Crowley knew each other. But she would eat her best hat if their association was as innocent as the childhood friendship he supposedly shared with Lady Warrender. She racked her brain furiously, trying to recall if gossip had ever linked these two, in the past or the present, and for how long. How had they met? Had Mr. Sheridan painted Lady Crowley’s portrait, perhaps, or had she sought him out for some other purpose? He had so many aristocratic connections, after all.

Not that it mattered, Amy told herself. She was aware of the rumors surrounding Mr. Sheridan; for all she knew, he could have had affairs with half the women in attendance tonight. What possible difference could it make to her? But the knowledge brought a sharp, unpleasant stab of…disappointment? Really, after all his remarks about preferring the unusual to the obvious in regards to beauty, she’d have expected him to have better taste! And to think she’d been feeling almost kindly toward him, after hearing about Elizabeth Martin’s untimely death. That had to have affected him, given the closeness of their families.

Amy shook her head, trying to recapture that more charitable mood. She’d resolved to get on with Sheridan better for James’s sake, and for the sake of the portrait. And, after all, it was his own business with whom he chose to flirt. Turning her attention back to the dancers, she saw her sister and Trevenan approaching, moving a little more quickly than was usual in a ballroom.

Something was definitely off, Amy sensed at once. Concerned, she went to meet them, skirting the perimeter of the dance floor. “Relia, is everything all right?” she asked in a low voice when they were face to face.

“Fine.” Aurelia hesitated and exchanged a quick glance with Trevenan. “But we thought you should know—Sally Vandermere is here tonight, with Charlie. There’s no need to worry, dearest,” she added hastily at Amy’s involuntary hiss of fury. “I’ve already seen and spoken to them—and I can assure you, the sky did not fall.”