Chapter Fifty-Three
There was a long line of carriages at the Worthingtons’. Violet wanted to leap down and navigate the last hundred yards on foot, but Aster’s sequin-studded dancing shoes were too delicate for that.
She sat restlessly, changing her mind every few seconds. She did want to marry Wintersmith.
No, she didn’t.
She did.
She didn’t.
Finally, a footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps. They descended one by one, trod across a red carpet laid over the gravel, and climbed marble stairs between blazing flambeaux. Music tickled her ears, the opening notes to a quadrille.
The vast ballroom was at the back of the house, opening out onto a terrace and gardens. The room was already thronged with people. Violet turned on her heel, searching eagerly for Wintersmith.
