CHAPTER 9

THE SNOW WAS ALREADY a foot deep by the time the Davencourt carriage turned onto the sweep in front of Cardace House that evening. The glare of the lanterns was muted by the swirling flakes and the guests were hurrying within to escape the bracing cold.

“Our slippers will be soaked,” Juliana grumbled, gingerly accepting Martin’s hand to help her down onto the damp red carpet that led up to the door. “If it were not that this is the most important ball of the season and I am on tenterhooks to see what Lady Cardace has in store for us, I would rather be curled up in the library at home with a cup of got chocolate and a good book!”

Clara shivered as the icy wind found its way beneath her cloak and raised goose bumps on her arms. Her evening gown was so flimsy it felt as though the wind were cutting through it like a knife. She hoped Lady Cardace’s arrangements for her guests included both a hot drink and a roaring fire. There was nothing worse than a cold ballroom in winter.

Lady Cardace was the leading hostess of the Little Season, and invitations to her Snow Ball were the most eagerly sought tickets of the year. Each winter she arranged something truly original and each year the lesser hostesses would copy her, driving Lady Cardace to ever more outrageous forms of entertainment the next time.

“Ah,” Martin said, looking about them as they hastened into the house, “I think this year’s theme is the traditional Christmas. How charming!”

They surrendered their coats to a footman and accepted the hot cup of negus proffered by another servant. Clara gratefully inhaled the richly alcoholic fumes and warmed her hands on the crystal glass. Lady Cardace had exceeded herself this year. Sprays of holly and mistletoe adorned the ballroom walls, the deep green of the leaves contrasting richly with the red and white berries. The ceiling was hung with clouds of white gauze and sparkling snowflakes, a huge glowed behind the grates at each end of the hall, and the orchestra was already striking up for the first dance of the night. From the refreshment room wafted the enticing scent of a richly warming beef soup. Martin immediately headed in that direction to fetch a bowl for each of them.

Despite the festive atmosphere, Clara felt bluedeviled. It was nearing midnight and a surreptitious first—and second—scan of the ballroom told her the Duke of Fleet was not in attendance.

She glanced about her a third time, taking pains to conceal the maneuver. It seemed that every other accredited member of the ton was pressed into Lady Cardace’s mansion. The evening was a dreadful crush. But the only man Clara secretly wanted to be crushed against was absent.

She wished now that she had not written to Sebastian Fleet. She had managed perfectly well without seeing him for the past eighteen months. Now she had stirred up those old feelings once again and a part of her ached for his presence.

“You look as though you have chewed on a piece of lemon peel,” Juliana said, slipping her arm through Clara’s and guiding her toward the rout chairs at the end of the room. “It is Sebastian Fleet, I suppose. You never quite managed to cure yourself of that affliction, did you, Clara?”

Clara bit her lip. She had not realized her preference for Fleet’s company was still so obvious after she had spent so much time and effort in trying to appear indifferent. But Juliana’s eyes were kind so Clara shook her head ruefully and admitted the problem. “I fear not. I have tried, but I cannot help my feelings.”

“Ah, feelings.” Juliana’s lips curved into a smile and Clara knew she was thinking of Martin. “What a blight they can be. No, there is absolutely no point in fighting how you feel.”

“I thought,” Clara said, “that you disapproved of my tendre for the Duke of Fleet?”

“I did,” Juliana said cheerfully. “I do. One cannot approve of Fleet. He is too old for you, he is too experienced and he is too much of a rake.”

Clara sighed. She knew Juliana was right, but in some deep and stubbornly instinctive way she believed that she was the right woman for Sebastian Fleet. She had always believed it, but his rejection of her had made her falter and question her conviction.

“I do not wish you to be hurt, Clara,” Juliana said. “Fleet has had years of practice in keeping intimacy at bay. I understand because I did the same thing myself.”

“And Martin helped you to see that it need not be so,” Clara reasoned.

“That is true. But that does not mean the same thing will happen for you.” Juliana touched her hand briefly. “I am sorry, Clara. I want to help you—to save you the hurt.” She shot a glance over Clara’s shoulder. “Fleet is here now. Do you need a little time?”

Clara cast one swift glance toward the door then shook her head rapidly. “I am very well. I know you only mean to help me, Ju.”

Juliana nodded and squeezed her arm, then they both turned to watch the Duke of Fleet approach. There was a prickly along Clara’s skin, a mixture of fear and anticipation. He looked so autocratic, so easily in command.

Fleet had bumped into Martin in his journey across the room. Clara observed that Martin had managed to forget the refreshments. No doubt he had been distracted by some political discussion and had completely forgotten his original errand. She shook her head slightly.

The two men were coming toward them, deep in conversation. Juliana was beaming with a smile of warm pleasure as her husband approached her and Clara felt a pang of envy that she could not repress. She longed for such intimacy with Sebastian, but that was much more than he was prepared to give her.

Even so, she was scarcely indifferent to him. There was something about the way he moved that made the breath lock in her chest. She could swear her knees were trembling a little.

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