A Holiday by Gaslight(38)

Emily preened. “Oh yes, this is just what I had in mind. And the pins only hurt a little.”

“I’m glad. Now bend your head and I’ll give it a good spray.” Sophie fetched the glass atomizer of liquid bandoline. It was made of a clear gum solution, the stickiness of which would keep Emily’s hair in place throughout the ball.

With her sister’s hair done, Sophie could at last retire to her room to attend to her own toilette. Annie quickly arranged her hair and helped her dress.

Sophie’s gown for the Christmas ball was really a combination of two outdated evening dresses the village seamstress had made over to match a plate in the Englishwoman’s Domestic Magazine. The resulting ball gown was a fashionable—and quite daring—creation of wine-colored crêpe over wine-colored silk, with double skirts, tiny fluttering sleeves, and a V-shaped neckline cut low in both front and back.

The whole of it was adorned with sprays of gold flowers, oaken leaves, and gilded acorns. Annie stuck some into Sophie’s hair for good measure.

“You look ever so handsome, miss,” she said, beaming.

Sophie paused a moment to admire herself in the pier glass. “It came out well, didn’t it? It looks almost new.”

“No one could tell who didn’t know.”

Satisfied, Sophie pulled on her gloves, gathered up her little paper fan that doubled as a dance card, and made her way down the hall.

Evening had fallen and the corridors were lit with the soft glow of gaslight, an ever-present reminder of her father’s extravagance. For what must be the hundredth time, she resolved not to think about it. Fretting over their finances would serve no purpose except ruining the ball for her. And why should she do that? The money had already been spent. The guests were here. The food was ordered. And the orchestra was setting up in the ballroom.

There would be ample time to weep over their situation after Christmas.

For now, she would plaster a smile on her face and greet the guests with the rest of her family.

She’d gone no more than a few feet when she saw Ned coming from the opposite direction.

Her heart performed its now familiar somersault.

He was garbed in black and white evening dress, his dark hair combed into meticulous order and his short side-whiskers trimmed close along the hard line of his jaw. He looked elegant and commanding. So much like the severe gentleman who’d courted her in London that she almost forgot how dear he’d become to her.

And then he smiled.

Good heavens.

A flush of pleasure suffused her chest, as warm and glowing as the gaslight that surrounded her. She met him halfway down the hall.

His blue gaze drifted over her. “Sophie.”

“Hello.”

She’d never been more aware of him. Of the way he looked, so tall and handsome. Of the sound of his voice, so much deeper and huskier than usual. Her bosom rose and fell on a self-conscious breath. His gaze dropped and lingered there for a fraction of second. She was sure she blushed. She could feel the heat of it seeping over the wide expanse of exposed flesh at her neck and shoulders.

“Sophie,” he said again. His Adam’s apple bobbed on a swallow. “You look…” But he only shook his head, seemingly lost for words.

“You’ve seen me in evening dress before,” she reminded him, her cheeks burning. “A ball gown isn’t so very different.”

“Isn’t it? It feels a world of difference to me.”

“You approve, I take it.”

“I more than approve. I stand in awe.”

Well.

“Is that your dance card?” He touched a white-gloved finger to the dangling fan at her wrist.

“It is.”

“And how many dances may I claim?”

“How many would you like?”

Ned’s voice deepened. “All of them.”

Sophie’s lips tilted in a bemused smile. “You don’t even know if I’ll make a good partner.”

“I know.” He spoke with unerring confidence. “Shall I put my name down for all of your waltzes?”

“There are four waltzes this evening. And I can dance no more than three dances with any one gentleman.”

“Three, then.”

She nodded and Ned made short work of penciling his name into her dance card. When he’d finished, he looked at her again, the weight of his gaze making her feel a tiny bit flustered. “What is it?”

“You,” he said simply. And then: “I’ve never seen anyone look so vivid under the gaslight.”

“Oh, that.” Sophie gave her skirts a little rustle over her crinoline. “Most colors lose their brilliancy by gaslight. But this particular shade is complemented by it. The gaslight deepens the hue. Makes it warmer and richer, like a full-bodied red wine. Or so my seamstress claims.”

“She’s not wrong. It looks… You look…” He made a noise low in his throat. “I’m not sure I can let you—”

“What?”

But he didn’t seem disposed to answer. Instead, he caught her hand and pulled her into a small alcove off the hall. Once upon a time, it had contained a marble pedestal holding an expensive sculpture. Now, the alcove was empty—and just large enough to fit the both of them standing face to face.

Ned bent his head. “I don’t know if I can let you dance with anyone else. Not without kissing you first.”