Chapter Three: Dance Cards and Dangerous Charms
1046 Words
The Everly Ballroom was a palace of light.
High arched ceilings gleamed with ivory plasterwork, painted with cherubs and roses that floated in golden clouds. Tall mirrors framed every wall, catching candlelight and conversation like gossip trapped in glass. A quartet played beneath a domed alcove, their bows rising and falling in perfect, glittering rhythm.
Lady Harrowgate gasped, clapping her gloved hands. “Oh, look at the arrangements! Real lilies. Imported from France, no doubt. Evie, stand straighter.”
Eveline obliged, though she scarcely heard her mother. She was too busy drinking in the room — a waltz of color and fragrance. Women in sweeping gowns that resembled tea roses and peonies. Gentlemen in black and navy, all sharp lines and over-polished boots. There was laughter, heat, and a soft undercurrent of perfume and intrigue.
She smoothed the folds of her gown — a dusky rose satin trimmed in pearl beadwork, with delicate silver stitching that shimmered like frost in candlelight. Her sleeves fell off the shoulder in a gentle slope, and her dark hair had been twisted into a crown of braids, pinned with tiny crystal stars. Her bright hazel/green eyes twinkled as she took in the general splendor.
“You look like a constellation come to earth,” Lottie whispered, linking arms with her. “And I hate you for it.”
“You look like a wish that got granted too quickly,” Eveline replied with a grin, admiring Lottie’s butter-yellow gown, complete with an enormous ribbon at the back. Her blonde hair pinned with little white flowers throughout. “And I love you for it.”
From across the ballroom, heads began to turn. Eveline was used to this. The moment she arrived anywhere, she became a magnet for glances — curious, admiring, envious. Sometimes, she imagined she could hear the unspoken things they thought: That’s Miss Harrowgate. The Marquess’s eldest daughter. The opinionated one.
“Prepare yourself,” Lottie murmured. “Lord Whitcombe, six o’clock.”
Eveline followed her gaze just in time to see the dashing, angular form of Lord Whitcombe striding toward them with a purposeful gleam in his sea-blue eyes. He bowed elegantly, teeth flashing in what was probably meant to be a disarming smile.
“Miss Harrowgate,” he said, offering his hand. “Might I trouble you for the second waltz?”
She hesitated — not because she didn’t want to dance, but because she’d barely taken a breath since arriving.
“Of course,” she replied, and offered her card.
He made a show of consulting it, though she had written no names yet. She watched his long fingers scrawl his name down with neat flourish. Then again.
“Second and...?” she asked, raising a brow.
He smiled modestly. “I may have secured the twelfth as well.”
“The final dance?”
He handed the card back to her. “A gentleman must hope.”
Before she could protest — or remark at the sheer confidence — he bowed again and moved away, disappearing into the glimmering crowd.
“Well then,” Lottie said, leaning close. “You’ve been kidnapped.”
“He took two slots.”
“And the last one, no less! That’s practically a declaration of intent.”
“Intent to trap me in polite conversation for an hour?”
“Intent to marry you, you ridiculous fairy.”
Eveline blushed and waved her fan faster. “Come. Let’s walk. I need a raspberry tart before the pandemonium starts.”
They wove through the ballroom, avoiding eye contact with any chaperones eager to speak of the weather, and passing a trio of young debutantes whispering behind lace fans.
“Any sign of him?” Lottie said, scanning the far ends of the room. “I have yet to see Mr. Everly, I’ve have seen his mother. He may still be hiding in the conservatory. Or behind a large fern.”
“I hope he’s not with Lady Beckworth,” Eveline murmured. “She cornered him last season and lectured him on cheese.”
They passed a floral archway and were turning toward the main hall when they nearly collided with a small, regal-looking woman in purple silk, flanked by a tall, imposing young man.
“Oh! I beg your pardon, ma’am” Eveline said quickly, stepping back.
The woman inclined her head. “Not at all, my dear. “No harm done, my dear. I believe I startled you more than you me.”
She had a sharp, elegant face, with silver hair coiled in a braid that glimmered like moonlight. Her brooch, fastened at the base of her throat, was shaped like a serpent devouring its own tail — its jeweled eyes tiny pinpricks of garnet. There was something deliberate in her stillness, like a portrait that had chosen to come to life. Her eyes, though pleasant, held a flicker of something unreadable — not unkind, but undeniably watchful.
She continued “The fault lies with the room for not widening itself accordingly.”
There was a faint smile in her words, though her expression did not shift.
“Well, excuse us,” Eveline said with a light smile, curtsying slightly.
Eveline took Lottie’s arm again. The pair of girls walked on toward the main hall, skirts swaying, shoes clicking softly over the polished floor.
But just before they passed through the archway into the central ballroom, Eveline felt something. She turned her head.
The tall young man at old lady’s side — dark-haired, immaculately dressed in old-fashioned charcoal — was still watching her.
Not in the careless way a gentleman admires a passing gown or figure. His gaze was fixed, direct, as though seeing through the sparkle and laughter, past the rose-colored dress and gloved poise — as if he had recognized something he thought lost long ago.
Their eyes met, just for a heartbeat.
It should have felt presumptuous. Disrespectful, even. But it didn’t.
It felt... familiar.
A hush rose in Eveline’s chest — not fear, but the ache of a note struck long ago, still echoing.
He did not look away.
Only when Lottie tugged on her arm did she turn back toward the crowd and the music and the world she thought she knew.
- Writer
