A Darkness Strange and Lovely (Something Strange and Deadly #2)(82)
“I shall introduce you to everyone,” Madame Marineaux continued, clearly enjoying my pleasure, “and then I am certain all the men will be vying for a dance with the pretty American girl.” She hooked her arm into mine, our enormous skirts pressing inward, and gave a long, contented sigh. “I have been so lonely until you came along, Mademoiselle Fitt. It is . . . wonderful to have a companion once more.”
“But . . .” I looked away from the card. “What of the Marquis?” At that name something tickled in the back of my mind, yet when I tried to pinpoint why, the feeling flittered away like a hummingbird.
Madame Marineaux tugged me into a walk, leading me toward an archway. Beyond was an enormous staircase, glowing golden and warm. “I adore the Marquis, but a man is no replacement for one’s female friends. Nor is he a replacement for my m—” Her lips puckered. “My first man.”
“I . . . I am sorry.”
“Do not be! Did I not tell you only two days ago, c’est la vie? And look.” Smiling, she pointed to a bronze statue beside the stairwell. Beneath its elaborate candelabras stood two men in deep conversation. “There is a friend of mine, and”—she flashed her eyebrows at me—“he has a very handsome son who I am certain will wish to escort you to the dance floor.”
After our introduction, the young man, a Monsieur Something-or-other, did escort me. Up and up the stairwell we went. The music grew louder with each step, and my fingers traced along the balustrades. At the first landing the stairs split in two, and the monsieur—who prattled endlessly in
French and did not seem to mind that I neither understood nor listened—veered right.
The moment we reached the second floor, however, we were forced to slow. People were everywhere. Women clad in all shades of a pastel rainbow hung on their black-suited partners. As we waited for the crowds to thin, the young man took my dance card, withdrew a pencil from his waistcoat, and scribbled his name beside the galop. I grinned delightedly as I slipped the dance card’s cord around my wrist. My first dance! And with such a dashing gentleman on my arm . . . except, I felt there was someone else I would rather have on my arm. But for whatever reason, I could not remember who.
I brushed it off, intoxicated by the atmosphere. My escort said something and motioned to our left.
Yet before I could even try to comprehend his French, he was tugging me through a dim doorway and into a round room with a bright sunshine painted on the ceiling. Mirrors adorned the walls, magnifying the light from a gold chandelier and reflecting a flushed, bright-eyed me.
I had just enough time to evaluate if my roses were still in place in my hair (they were) when my escort pulled me through the tiny room and into an alcove crowded with men. They debated in excited
French, hands wild and mustaches wiggling, as completely disinterested in the dancing going on beyond as I was in their debates.
Fortunately, my partner was of the same mind, and we finally managed to wedge ourselves into the ornate ballroom just as the first strains of the galop began.
And moments later, with his gloved hand on my back and his other hand clasping mine, we sashayed onto the dark-wood floors. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, dripping with light and illuminating all the swirling faces. My partner smiled; I smiled.
The dance passed in a blur, and I barely had time to catch my breath before Madame Marineaux had a new young man to meet me—and to sign my dance card. One after another, I waltzed, polkaed, skipped les lanciers, and hopped into another galop. And one after another, my partners’ faces blurred together. . . .
Just as the first bouncing beats of a waltz began, my newest partner drew me into his arms. But then another man shoved through the crowd. He snarled something at the Frenchman, and before I could even process it all, this new young man had me in his arms.
His suit was like all the other gentlemen’s, his patent leather shoes just as gleaming, his white gloves just as crisp, yet something about the way it all came together on Daniel was a thousand times more striking. His hair was slick and combed, but a ruffle at the front meant he’d run his fingers through it anyway.
I observed it all in a flash, and a combination of delight and fear bubbled through me. Though why
I would be afraid of Daniel Sheridan, I did not know, so I let the pleasure take over, and I beamed up at him.
The music began. He shot a look to his left, his brow furrowed, then he tugged me into the waltz.
One, two, three. Step, step, step. “Empress, what the hell are you doin’ here?” His voice was low as if he did not want us overheard.
“It’s a ball, Daniel! I am dancing.” My skirts billowed out as we spun. “And I am so glad you came—you’re a lovely dancer.”
“What?” He scowled, staring at my face. “What is wrong with you, Empress?”
“Nothing!” I smiled even wider, my face hurting. Everything beyond Daniel had blurred into a myriad of colors and sound. All I cared about was this moment—Daniel’s green eyes gazing into mine and his hands guiding me over the floor. “I have never felt better in my entire life, Daniel! And oh, I’m so glad I get to dance with you. I had no idea you could waltz.”
“Why?” he spat, anger brightening his eyes. “Because I’m not a gentleman?”
“Oh, but you are a gentleman. You’re the most handsome gentleman here.”