“I have nothing to recommend me,” Julia said morosely. “Not even my ball gown.”
“Why did you not go to Mr. Malik and order something new?” Evelyn asked.
“Because,” Julia answered, “his gowns make the wearers look beautiful. And I have no wish to draw attention to myself. Too much attention and I go all to pieces.”
“Oh, Julia.” Anne sighed. “Don’t you long to wear something pretty for once?”
“The only garment I long for is a cloak of invisibility.” Julia looked out at the dancing platform. Couples were slowing as the final notes of a spirited polka came to a close. “That doesn’t mean I don’t wish to dance on occasion.”
“I’ll dance with you,” Stella said.
Julia brightened. “Oh, would you?”
“Of course. But I must lead.”
The orchestra struck up a country dance.
Stella and Julia burst out laughing, and then, arm in arm, bounded onto the dancing platform. They swiftly disappeared into the crowd.
“Good lord,” Anne said. “Is it any wonder they can’t find husbands?”
Evelyn smiled. “They’re having fun.”
“The season isn’t meant to be fun.”
“Don’t you enjoy it?”
“I suppose, on occasion. I enjoy riding, certainly. And I do like my new dress.” Anne smiled. “I never knew that black could look so alluring.”
“You’ll dance every dance, I wager,” Evelyn said.
She wasn’t wrong. Their dance cards quickly filled, and by the time the orchestra struck up the next piece, all four of them were on the floor and in the arms of a gentleman.
Granted, they weren’t the gentlemen any of them would wish.
But Evelyn wasn’t going to allow that to ruin her evening.
It was the dancing that gave her pleasure, not the men. There was a giddiness that came from being in the open air, surrounded by music and all of the colorful lights. It wasn’t romantic. That part of her was reserved for someone else. But she enjoyed it immensely, just as she did any athletic endeavor. And the exuberant polkas, reels, and country dances were nothing if not athletic.
As it grew closer to eleven, the hour allotted for the grand fireworks display, she took a break with Anne alongside the platform. The two of them sipped champagne as they caught their breath.
“I hopped so much during that Scotch reel,” Anne said, “I almost fell out of my bodice.”
Evelyn choked on a laugh. “You did not.”
“It was a very near thing.” Anne touched her low neckline with her fingertips. “I’ve never exposed so much of my bosom in my life. Just look at it!” She giggled along with Evelyn. “No wonder I’ve had so many partners.”
A man uttered a not-so-discreet cough from behind them.
Evelyn and Anne turned to find Mr. Hartford standing there in company with Captain Blunt. Mr. Hartford looked as though he was trying very hard not to laugh.
“My lady. Miss Maltravers.” He bowed. “May I present Captain Blunt as a very worthy partner?”
Unlike Mr. Hartford, Captain Blunt didn’t appear as though he found the situation at all amusing. Indeed, he looked far too grim for such a jolly setting as Cremorne. He offered them a stiff, militaristic bow.
Anne’s throat and bosom suffused with a blush, but her eyes glinted pure fire. “Upon my word, Mr. Hartford. Must you creep up on a person?”
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “Was I creeping? I only meant to ask you to waltz with me.”
As the two of them spoke, Evelyn looked to Captain Blunt. She’d initially thought him old, but in fact, if not for his scarred face, he might have appeared no older than his middle thirties. And it wasn’t only his scar that aged him. It was his eyes. They had a world-weariness about them. A certain coldness, as if he’d rather be anywhere but here.
He must need a wife very badly to endure the rigors of the season. Evelyn could imagine no man less suited to it.
“Miss Maltravers,” he said. “May I have the privilege?”
“You may.” Evelyn set her hand on his proffered arm and allowed him to guide her out onto the dancing platform. She glanced back over her shoulder.
Anne appeared to be giving Mr. Hartford a piece of her mind. He no longer looked as though he was on the verge of laughing. He stood there, absorbing whatever Anne was saying, as solemn as a vicar on Sunday.
Evelyn saw no sign of Stella or Julia. No sign of Lady Arundell or Uncle Harris, either. Shortly after arriving, the two of them had ensconced themselves with a group of other spiritualists, talking and drinking champagne. They’d still been there when Evelyn had last seen them. In truth, their chaperonage left a lot to be desired.
Not that she could complain.
Captain Blunt’s hand settled at her back as he led her into the first steps of a lively polka.
She smiled. Not because she liked him, or because he was a particularly good dancer, but because the music was swelling and the night was alive around her. It gave her a strange feeling of euphoria.
They danced for a long while before Captain Blunt finally deigned to speak.
“Your friend isn’t here this evening, I see,” he said.
“My friend? What friend?”
“Miss Wychwood.”
Evelyn gave him an alert glance. She debated telling him that Julia was, indeed, here, only stopped by the fact that Julia would likely swoon at the very sight of the man. “You take a special interest in Miss Wychwood?”
He didn’t reply. Not directly. “Tell me, does she never speak?”
“With great animation,” Evelyn said. “But not, I fear, in a ballroom.”
His gaze sharpened with raptor-like intensity. “Where?”
“Why do you wish to know?”
His mouth curved in a cold smile. The action pulled on his scar, making his face look positively menacing. “Chalk it up to my detestable curiosity.”
Evelyn stared at him. She wondered if he was as dangerous as he looked. He’d been a hero in the war, hadn’t he? And he read novels. That must count for something. “Miss Wychwood is more comfortable when she’s riding.”
“Ah.”
“Do you ride, sir?” she asked.
His smile vanished. “I was a cavalry officer, ma’am.”
“In the Crimea, I’m told.”