No Conventional Miss. Eleanor Webster
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would it be like to be loved like that?
For a fleeting, disturbing second, the image of the Viscount Wyburn flickered before her inner eye.
Rilla pushed this aside. She would do better to focus on her sister who, Rilla realised, was looking a bit too ethereal.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Nervous,’ Imogene admitted. ‘I fear I will forget all Mr Arnold’s instructions and fall over my feet.’
Mr Arnold was their dance instructor, a portly gentleman with plump puce-coloured cheeks.
‘You have never fallen over your feet in your life,’ Rilla said.
‘I have never gone to a dance of this size and I have never felt so nervous. Besides, Mr Arnold said it was so important that a débutante is proficient in all the steps.’
‘Mr Arnold can’t even see his feet and I am certain he wears a corset so I refuse to take his word as law.’
‘A lady is not supposed to discuss a gentleman’s undergarments.’
‘Then I will resist the temptation to discuss undergarments tonight,’ Rilla said, putting an arm about her sister’s shoulders.
Imogene smiled wanly. She looked so young and vulnerable, her eyes large within her heart-shaped face. It reminded Rilla of their childhood when the two years between them had been a lifetime.
‘Everyone will be enchanted by you,’ Rilla said gently. ‘Why wouldn’t they be? You’re beautiful and witty.’
‘I feel like I did at Lady Lockhart’s piano recital when I was ten.’
‘You played perfectly. I was the one who ruined everything by dropping a spider down Jack St John’s collar. You were meant for this night.’
‘You are good for me,’ Imogene said. ‘Mother always knew what to say at times like this.’
Rilla nodded, touching the gold locket about her neck. It was smooth and warmed by her skin. ‘I miss her, too.’
‘This was her dream for us.’
‘For you. She wanted you to have a choice and to find someone you could love.’
‘She met Father during her first Season.’ Imogene carefully rearranged one of the blonde curls framing her face. ‘Rilla?’
‘Hmm?’
‘When...when you have your feelings, do you ever see her?’
Rilla stilled, except for her fingers, which continued to twist the thin gold chain at her neck. Imogene seldom spoke of her ‘moments’ and never without fear or loathing. ‘No.’
Imogene nodded, turning to pick up her reticule.
‘But,’ Rilla added softly, ‘I think that is good. I think it means she is at peace.’
Imogene shivered. ‘I wish you had grown out of your moments like we all hoped. Then you could fall in love and marry. ‘
‘I am much too ornery to marry, even if I did not fear that any husband might commit me to Bedlam. Besides,’ Rilla added, determined to lighten the mood. ‘I have my Greeks and butter churn for company.’
‘Do not discuss Greeks or your churn tonight.’
‘No Greeks, churns or undergarments. I will discuss only Romans and my automated cake mixer. Come on.’ Rilla swung her arm around her sister’s waist. ‘Enough serious talk. Your dream awaits. And you are going to be fabulous.’
* * *
Three hours later, Rilla stood in the Thorntons’ ballroom. Dancing required more stamina than tree climbing. Her feet hurt, her head pounded and her face ached from smiling.
Although she was enjoying the dance. It was rather wonderful, like entering a separate world of golden light, music and magic—Oberon’s palace, peopled with fairies.
And there she had no shortage of partners. Indeed, she had only sat out two dances and had not yet chatted with any of her new London acquaintances or, more importantly, her neighbour and best friend Julie St John, freshly arrived from the country.
Perhaps she could find her now. Rilla scanned the ballroom. A familiar face would be so reassuring. Plus Julie had been out for three Seasons and would doubtless have all manner of suggestions. Hopefully, one of which might include a cure for blisters.
And then she saw him.
Wyburn.
All thoughts of Julie scattered from her mind.
Wyburn stood a few feet from the entrance. Her body stiffened and she knew, in that second, she had been unconsciously waiting for him. She felt a peculiar mix of hot and cold, and heard the quickened thump of her heart.
His very darkness made him different.
He stood tall, surveying the ballroom with an indolent gaze. Dark hair, dark straight brows and dark jacket made the others seem overdressed like brightly costumed actors.
She touched her hair. Then dropped her hand. She refused to primp. She would not even acknowledge that peculiar bubble of pleasure that he would see her here and in this dress.
But gracious, it was hot. She fanned herself. He had moved from the step and was now chatting with several gentlemen. Lady Wyburn had stated that he would ask both herself and Imogene to dance, as they were her protégées.
Except Rilla didn’t want to dance with him. She hadn’t seen him since Rotten Row and, as always, he made her feel like she had two left feet.
And yet to not dance with him would also be peculiarly dampening to the spirits.
She frowned. Since when had she become such a ninnyhammer? A person able to understand the laws of physics should certainly be capable of deciding with whom she wanted to dance.
Perhaps she should consider a suitable design for an automated fan which might be suspended from the ceiling—a much better use of brain power than the tracking of Lord Wyburn’s movements.
Not that he seemed in any great hurry to perform his duty towards his stepmother’s protégées. He was now escorting a large young lady in pink silk to the dance floor.
He’d likely regret that choice. The lady in pink did not appear light on her feet.
And then, in that split second of amused derision, it came.
The horrid, familiar, unwanted cold struck. It spread from the centre of her body down into her limbs. The candelabra and brightly coloured dancers dimmed. The purple-and-pink bouquets swirled and the music muted, as though coming from some great distance.
In its stead she heard a soft, sad whisper.
‘Help him.’
Rilla twisted left and right, but saw only the rubber plant and the blank wall behind it. Goosebumps prickled. Her hand tightened on her fan so that its hard edges pressed almost painfully against her palm.
I will not faint. Or cause a scene. Not here. Not now.
The words repeated in her mind like a mantra or the thumping of indigenous drums. I will not faint. I will not faint.
‘Rilla! Are you all right?’
A tall figure in ruffled green stood before her.
‘Julie,’ Rilla said, her voice oddly distant to her own ears.
‘Are you ill?’
The sweet cloying scent of lavender filled her nostrils.
‘Lavender. I smell— Are you—wearing—lavender?’ she asked, the simple question difficult to phrase.
‘No, I don’t like the smell. But, Rilla, what is it? You look awful.’