These Vicious Masks: A Swoon Novel(4)
I gave a small, quiet cheer as he worked up the momentum to ask her for a dance, and her eyes lit as she nodded yes. Or at the least, I supposed she did. A large leaf was currently obscuring a quarter of the scene. She took his hand, while many disappointed faces watched her glide into the center of the room for the next song.
I sighed and patted the plant. Healthy, green, and stout as it might be, it was not the best company. If only Catherine weren’t galloping across Moroccan plains or attending a risqué Parisian salon. My only other choice was to rejoin my mother and listen to fascinating facts about every eligible man passing by. (Apparently, Mr. Egbert collects gentleman’s bootlaces! The wonder of it all.)
I peered glumly through the foliage at Rose and Robert, twirling on the dance floor. They seemed marvelously happy, and I had to question my own dissatisfaction. Was I simply too disagreeable, as Mother claimed? Would I grow just as bored of the Continent? And why was there a giant man staring through the window?
Him. The one who had lifted the carriage. I hastened toward the wall, maneuvering around conversations to afford myself a better angle, but when I reached the next window, he was nowhere to be seen. Nothing outside but night falling over Sir Winston’s estate. I didn’t know whether I wanted it to be him or my boredom manifesting itself as madness again. Hoping for any sort of answer, I spun back around for the first window and collided directly with a sleek black suit, and the gentleman in it.
“Dear me. I had no idea my absence would cause such distress.”
Pulling back, I could see he also carried a surprisingly unspilled wineglass, despite the collision. He was just my height, but the confident way he held his square chin made him seem taller. Yes, it was certainly him. Mr. Nicholas Kent.
“What on earth are you doing here?” The question left my lips before I could decide if it was too blunt.
“I wanted to see the reaction my arrival would get, and I must say, it did not disappoint,” he said with a smile.
I couldn’t suppress the jolt of pleasure. Mr. Kent was one of the few people who managed to make these social functions tolerable. I hadn’t expected him to make the trip all the way to Bramhurst. My plan to find no enjoyment in the evening was suddenly in danger of failing. “You’ve come all the way from London just for a joke, then?” I asked. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“No, no, my reason is of much greater importance. The entire city is in chaos. Buildings collapsing, streets flooding, the population plague-stricken, the Thames ablaze. But it was when an orphan boy I rescued from the rubble asked me, with his dying breath, ‘Why did this all have to happen, sir? Why did Miss Wyndham leave?’ that I solemnly promised to bring you back and restore peace.”
“You must have spent quite some time on your long train ride thinking that up.”
“Not exactly. The greater part was spent forming and rehearsing a plan of convincing you to dance with me.”
“Oh, I cannot wait for this. Let’s have it.”
He turned around, drained his drink, took an exaggerated breath, and then whirled back, eyes filled with false surprise to find me still here. “Ah, Miss Wyndham, hello, would you like to dance?”
“No, not really.”
“Hmm. Then let me ask you this: If someone went through the trouble to compose you a letter and you were to receive it in front of them, would you callously toss it out without reading?”
I shook my head, playing along. “No, of course not, that would be shockingly rude.”
He set his empty glass on a passing footman’s tray. “Then is that not the same impolite behavior as refusing to dance to this beautiful music that was composed and is now being performed expressly for your waltzing pleasure?”
“There are plenty of dancers. I can’t possibly be offending anyone.”
“What about my coming all this way?”
“So you’re offended?”
“Incredibly. If you refuse, I’ll be forced to dance alone,” he said, holding up his arms as if he were leading an invisible partner. “It will be dreadfully embarrassing, and it will be your fault.”
I snorted. “Threats are only going to make me refuse you more.”
His hands dropped to his side, and he let out a sigh. “Very well. What would you do if you could do anything at this ball?”
“I’d eat cake.”
“Unless you eat upwards of two hundred cakes, that particular activity will not occupy your entire night.”
My mind shuffled through all the possibilities—cards, suitors, copious amounts of wine—but nothing appealed. This was exactly why I avoided every ball I could.
“I don’t know,” I admitted.
“Then I present you with two choices. We stand here, observing our dull surroundings, racking our minds for ideas. Or,” he said, putting his hand out, “we do our thinking while spinning in circles and forgetting where we are.”
“As persuasive an argument as any,” I said, surrendering my hand. He clasped it for an inordinate length of time before putting it on his arm, and I didn’t mind where he led me. As we moved toward the dance floor, a new song hummed to life, and Mr. Kent, unable to restrain his smile, pulled me into a waltz.
With gentle pressure on my waist, he guided me in slow circles, weaving us through the dizzying stream of couples, our every step and turn on point with the beat. My head felt light, almost giddy with the rush of motion. His light brown eyes met mine, and they seemed to dance along with us.