Waltzing with the Wallflower (Waltzing with the Wallflower #1)(9)

She scanned the room for Lord Hawthorne the moment she entered, but he was nowhere to be found. Traitor.

Many guests had already arrived, and everyone seemed to be staring at her. Her aunt and uncle strode away from her to greet their friends, leaving her standing alone without a thought for her fears. Her breath caught in her throat, and before she knew what she was doing, she gravitated toward the corner were the plants were, trying desperately to shrink into the background. So much for a friend to offer his support.

Her hands trembled against her will as she reached into her reticule to withdraw her fan. Focusing her attention fully on her task, praying silently the night would end soon. A suave tenor voice interrupted her phylacteries. “Find what you’re looking for, my lady?” Her head jerked up with a start.

“Good evening, Lady Cordelia.” Sir Wilde stood beside her with an odd smirk spread across his face.

“Sir Wilde,” she greeted him and swallowed back her nervousness. Lord Hawthorne had instructed her on the fine art of conversation, how to smile but remain aloof, how to feign interest. Every bit of his direction flew right out of her mind in that moment and the fear paralyzed her.

“How are you this evening?” he asked his eyes focused intently on her.

“Fine, thank you.”

“How do you find Almack’s?”

“It’s lovely.” He stared at her for a moment, as if he expected her to elaborate. She searched her mind for something else to say. Anything else to say. But it was blank. Her tongue felt like sand in her mouth. She could feel the blush burning her eyes, face threatening to give away her mortification, so she looked down at her reticule.

“Would you like some lemonade, Lady Cordelia?” he finally asked. She nodded. He offered his arm. Taking it, she thanked God she was able to manage to walk in a straight line as he led her to the opposite end of the large assembly hall. "I want to give you fair warning. The lemonade is watered down and by the time you drink it, I fear, very warm indeed, but it should ease some of your nerves." Sir Wilde gave her a blinding smile then reached for two cups of the liquid.

Shaking, she took the cup in her hand and ventured a long sip. In horror, she realized it was ready to come back up the instant she swallowed the vile contents.

"What is this?" she sputtered without thought.

Sir Wilde laughed, drawing more attention than she would have liked, before answering, "In my defense I did give you fair warning, did I not?"

She smiled. "I suppose so."

Sir Wilde grinned from ear to ear. "I believe it is that time, my lady."

"What time?" she asked, confused and still lamenting over the fact that her taste buds would never again be the same.

"Time to dance and set tongues to wagging. After you, my dear."

She could hardly say no. His manners, even his way of speaking, put her completely at ease. Unlike Hawthorne, there was nothing smooth or calculating about his presence. In fact, she imagined he would make a great ally if it was possible for her to speak at least once in his presence.

He led her to the floor for a quadrille and grinned when she managed a small smile.

People glanced their way, but all in all, no outrageous staring occurred. Finally at ease, she was able to enjoy the dancing for what it was. Simple dancing, meant to be fun and exhilarating. She hardly noticed when it ended.

That is until she felt a warm presence behind her and saw Sir Wilde’s eyes gleam with pleasure.

"Ah, Ambrose, it is about time you show up."

Should she turn around? Acknowledge him? Laugh? For his presence was too much for her, too confident, too charismatic. He said he wanted friendship but it didn’t seem... right.

“Thank you for taking care of Lady Cordelia for me, Wilde. I believe I can handle things from here.” The twinkle in his eyes as he held his arm out to her sent the heat burning into her ear lobes again. The sensation of eyes boring into her back seemed to scorch through her light blue gown.

He turned to her and bowed over her hand. “Good evening, my lady,” he offered with a wide bright grin, then brushed his lips across her gloved fingers.

“My lord,” she answered, focusing her gaze on her own hands.

“Shall we take a turn around the room?”

Cordelia glanced back to her corner, her safe harbor, hidden behind the potted plants. She longed to return there. Anything rather than putting herself on display with the most watched gentleman in the hall. She could feel her body slump inwardly, trying to make herself smaller and hence, less noticeable.

Hawthorne offered her his arm again, and she took it. She had no alternative but to trust him, though it took every fiber of her being to keep herself from running screaming from the hall, the club, the city, the country—all the way back to France, safe in Madame Tremaine’s dress shop, where she understood the social expectations. Design. Cut. Sew. Create beauty.

No need to speak to anyone.

“My lady,” he addressed the Countess of Jersey, “may I present Lady Cordelia, the niece of Lord and Lady Trowbridge.”

Cordelia curtsied without incident. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. The woman held her glasses to her eyes and scrutinized Cordelia carefully.

Hawthorne nudged her ribs almost imperceptibly. “How do you do, my lady?” she offered with a genuine sweet smile.

“Lovely, my dear. Hawthorne, are you going to ask the lady to dance?” Lady Jersey asked after finishing her perusal of Cordelia and apparently finding her acceptable.