The ballroom at Farrington House was a galaxy of candlelight and diamonds.
Five crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, each holding a hundred wax candles that cast a warm, golden glow over the room. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfu, hot wax, and hothouse flowers. The sound of a string quartet tuning their instrunts fought against the hum of two hundred aristocrats gossiping.
Rowan Hamilton, the Duke of Ford, stood at the top of the short staircase that led into the ballroom. He wore his black evening coat like a suit of armor. His face was set in a mask of polite boredom.
Beside him stood Delaney.
She felt the eyes of the ton land on them. She felt the whispers start.
"Who is that in the teal?"
"Is that the Duke?"
"She looks familiar..."
Delaney gripped her fan until the ivory ribs dug into her palm through her glove. The teal dress, which had felt so beautiful in the mirror, now felt like a neon sign.
"Breathe," Rowan whispered. He didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes on the crowd. "If you faint, I will have to carry you, and then the rumors will really start."
Delaney let out a shaky breath. "I will not faint, Your Grace. I am rely... assessing the terrain."
"Good," Rowan said. "Because here cos the hosts."
He nodded toward the center of the room. Lord and Lady Farrington were approaching. They were a formidable couple—Lord Farrington was round and red-faced, while Lady Farrington was tall, thin, and dripping in eralds.
"Your Grace!" Lady Farrington called out. Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass. "We are so honored! We feared you would not co!"
Rowan stepped forward. He bowed perfectly. "Lady Farrington. Lord Farrington. How could I refuse? It has been too long."
Delaney stepped back. She lted into the shadow of a large marble pillar. This was her place. She was the observer. She was the gray mouse, disguised in teal feathers.
"And this must be your cousin you wrote about," Lady Farrington said, squinting at Delaney.
"Miss Kingsley," Rowan introduced smoothly. "My aunt’s cousin from the North. A very distant relative."
Delaney curtsied. "My Lady."
"Chard," Lady Farrington said dismissively. She turned her attention back to the prize. "But co, Your Grace. There is soone you must et. She has just returned from Paris, and she is dying to see you."
Lady Farrington stepped aside.
Behind her stood a young woman.
Rowan looked. Delaney looked from the shadows.
It was Lady Celine.
She was stunning. There was no other word for it. She had hair the color of spun gold, piled high and woven with pearls. Her eyes were a clear, sky blue. Her dress was a pale, shimring pink that made her look like a rose in bloom. She stood with perfect posture, her hands folded demurely before her. She was the picture of innocence and elegance.
"Your Grace," Lady Celine said. She sank into a curtsy that was graceful and low. "It is a pleasure to see you again."
Rowan blinked.
He looked at her. He ntally checked Delaney’s list.
Beauty? Yes. She was flawless.
Title? Yes. Earl’s daughter.
Dignity? Yes. She wasn’t giggling. She wasn’t fainting.
"Lady Celine," Rowan said. He took her hand and bowed over it. "Paris has clearly agreed with you."
"rci," Celine replied. Her voice was soft and musical. "Paris was wonderful, but London is ho."
French.
Rowan stiffened slightly. She spoke French. She was beautiful. She was dignified.
She was the list.
From the shadows, Delaney watched the scene unfold. She saw the way the light caught Celine’s hair. She saw the polite, appreciative smile on Rowan’s face. She saw how they looked standing together—the tall, golden Duke and the golden, perfect Lady.
They looked like a wedding cake topper.
"Finally," Delaney whispered to herself. Her throat felt tight. "The perfect woman for him."
She should have felt triumphant. This was the goal. This was the sixty thousand pounds. She had found the candidate who matched every impossible criteria Rowan had set.
But she didn’t feel triumphant. She felt a sharp, cold pang in her chest, right behind her corset. It felt like loss.
The orchestra conductor tapped his baton against the music stand. The chatter in the room died down.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
The strains of a waltz began to float through the air.
It was the first dance. The most important dance of the evening.
Lady Celine looked up at Rowan. She smiled. It was a confident smile. She held up her dance card. It was a small, white card attached to her wrist by a silk ribbon.
"I am afraid my card is dreadfully empty, Your Grace," Celine said playfully. "I have not promised the first waltz to anyone yet."
It was a bold move. She was asking him.
Rowan hesitated.
He looked at Celine. She was perfect. She was exactly what he said he wanted. But his feet didn’t want to move. He felt a sudden urge to make an excuse.
He looked over Celine’s shoulder. He looked into the shadows behind the pillar.
He found Delaney.
She was standing there, clutching her fan. Her teal dress was dark against the pale marble. Her face was unreadable.
Rowan looked at her with a question in his eyes. Save , his eyes said. Get out of this.
Delaney saw the look. She saw his hesitation.
For a second, she wanted to shake her head. She wanted to signal ’Retreat.’ She wanted to grab his arm and drag him out to the carriage and argue with him all the way ho.
But she touched the three tins in her mind. She rembered the debt.
Delaney took a deep breath. She raised her hand slightly.
She gestured toward the dance floor. Go.
It was a command. It was the Matchmaker doing her job.
Rowan saw the gesture. He felt a heavy weight settle in his stomach. She was sending him away. She was pushing him toward the perfection he claid to want.
He turned back to Celine. He forced a smile.
"It would be an honor," Rowan said, "to have the first dance with you."
Celine bead. "The honor is mine."
Rowan offered his arm. Celine took it. Together, they walked onto the empty dance floor.
The crowd parted for them. They were the Golden Couple.
Rowan placed his hand on Celine’s waist. Her waist was tiny. He took her other hand.
They began to move.
Step, slide, turn. Step, slide, turn.
They spun around the room. Celine was a wonderful dancer. She was light as a feather. She followed his lead perfectly. She didn’t step on his toes. She didn’t stumble.
Delaney watched from the pillar.
She watched his hand on Celine’s pink silk waist. She watched them whisper. She watched the crowd admire them.
"Job done," Delaney whispered. "Step one is complete."
But watching them spin in the golden light, she realized sothing terrifying. She couldn’t stand it. She couldn’t watch. It felt out of place.
User Comments
0 comments from readers