The quintet's instruments hummed softly as they warmed their strings for the dance. The setting of the Easton ball was elegant indeed. The lady of Landly house had seen every detail to perfection, from the wood floors opened completely for dancing to the spacious supper room for dining in between.
Guests were seated or standing around, showing off their most elegant finery. Mrs. Fitzwilliam herself was arrayed in feathers and pearls as she escorted a rather timid granddaughter amongst the company–who was not yet "out" but invited due to the goodness of Lady Easton.
At the fashionably late hour of half-past time, the Stuart carriage drove through the entrance of Landly. Inside, Flora sat calm and cool, preparing herself for the evening yet to come.
Dear Lord, I know it seems silly, but make me graceful tonight. Do not let me fail myself.
Crossing the threshold, they were announced to Lady Easton and her son, who were greeting their guests in the ballroom doorway. Flora tucked her fan close to her gown and held her head high as she followed Sir Edward in his formal coat.
"Sir Edward, how lovely to see you," Lady Easton received her guest's bow with a warm smile. "You have not come to see us as often, now that my son has taken our affairs in hand; a terrible shame it is to be absent our dear friend these days."
"But I would have it no other way, Ma'am," Sir Edward answered. He offered a bow to Roger, who shook hands with him and added to his mother's kindness.
Lady Easton's gaze was drawn to Sir Edward's daughter, her eyes brightening with admiration at the sight of Flora in the doorway.
"Why, Miss Stuart," she said, her voice soft. "How lovely you look tonight!"
The white dress swept the floor in a short but elegant train, the folds of the skirt winding in a becoming fashion to the waistline. Here and there, it was embroidered with silvery threads designed to catch the light. But the overwhelming impression was the simple sheen of white.
A crown of red hair curled into small, fine locks was decorated with miniature flowers made from petals of silk and pearl beads. A single ornament hung from her neck: a miniature gold star suspended from a chain.
"You are too kind, Ma'am," Flora answered, with a gentle curtsey. She turned towards Roger next, with a smile carefully practiced to leave no trace of her true emotions.
He was silent as he studied her appearance for a moment, his lips slightly parted as if to speak. His glance had fallen on her necklace, giving her the brief hope that he recognized it.
"I must share in my mother's compliment," he said, slowly. "Your appearance is ... almost beyond words. It is a very becoming gown that you wear, Miss Stuart."
"I'm afraid it's far more grown-up than the grass-stained frocks you remember from my youth," she answered, in a teasing voice. "Perhaps I am too different now?"
"No," he answered. "You are much the same as ever, I believe."
She felt the color vanish from her cheeks momentarily at the warmth in his voice; but she curved her lips into a demure smile in response.
"I have always said myself that a simple white dress is the most elegant," said Sir Edward, with a touch of pride. "Lady Gladys, when she was alive, favored white muslin over all other choices."
Two days before, Sir Edward had groaned over the extravagant cost of the fabric and Flora's decision to impetuously spend her savings on such a gown. Even the mention of the modest revenue from the book had not reconciled him the way the admiration of their respected friends did.
"I scarce believe that any young man can resist asking you to dance tonight, my dear" said their hostess. "You must take care not to tire with so many partners waiting for acceptance." This was followed by a warm laugh from Lady Easton at the expense of her young guest's blushing cheeks.
The arrival of more guests necessarily ended their conversation, so Flora and her father proceeded to join the others already present. Despite her longing, Flora resisted making the mistake of glancing over her shoulder to see if he was watching. Instead, she claimed the arm of Lucy Easton, who was eagerly approaching.
"You look so elegant," Lucy whispered. Although her own dress was worth far more in terms of fabric cost and style. "I have simply despaired of my hair tonight, for all the ringlets grew tangled when my maid dressed them."
"And no one shall ever know, for it is by far the most elegant hairstyle I see here," Flora answered, with a smile. Her friend steered her towards the middle Miss Phillips and Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who were deep in conversation near the fire.
"There is Miss Harwick," said Lucy. "Is not her gown very fine?"
Flora followed her gaze to the other side of the room, where Hetta and her mother were seated on a sofa with Mrs. Russell.
Hetta's gown was a showy display of vibrant blue, accented with an overlay of sheer green fabric that reminded Flora of the shades of a peacock's feathers. Her elegant gold curls were wound together and pinned with costly ornaments and a few feathers of metallic sheen.
She was indeed a peacock–an overdressed one in a roomful of startling fabrics. While the outfit was the most vibrant present, it was surrounded by other colorful and shiny garments. With a small laugh of relief, Flora congratulated herself on her own calculated decision.
"It is very elegant, isn't it?" said Flora. "I believe, upon consideration, blue is Miss Harwick's color."
"Is it not too much, do you think?" pressed Lucy. "Is she not breaking the Advice for Young Ladies, which says that it is possible to be overdressed for the occasion?"
"If only Miss Harwick had read the little book," Flora said, "she might agree." As they joined their friends near the mantelpiece.
"How splendid you both look!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "And the very gown is here which I desired Miss Phillips to see–for her sister, the elder one, is to be married and they are quite at a loss as to what her cousin should wear who is not of the bridal party. White is best for the young, you know," she confided to Lucy.
Flora suppressed a laugh over her aunt's impulsive remarks as the debate on fabric and color for wedding attendees continued. Her gaze caught sight of Roger and Hetta conversing across the room, Hetta's eyes trained upon him in modest attentiveness.
It was a test of her willpower to refrain from letting her own face grow troubled. But she was saved by a distraction in the form of Colonel Miles approaching. A welcome sight, since she had not seen her great-uncle in the two weeks which followed their visit to Brawley Court.
"Well, here we are–my pretty young niece and my fair sister," he declared, surveying her and Mrs. Fitzwilliam with a grin. "I suppose that you are giving advice to the young ladies on how to conquer hearts tonight, eh, Charlotte?" he asked. "Although I suspect none of them need the help."
"It is too good to see you," said Flora. "Are you both well in town?"
"Indeed we are, for already Mrs. Miles is in the humor to give a dinner party," he answered. "So your family must be prepared for an invitation soon."
His wife joined him in pressing their niece with regards to the best date for such a party, their conversation lively enough that Flora lost sight of Roger. She spotted Hetta making her way towards Lady Easton, who was mingling with their guests. But only a glimpse of her hostess was visible and no sign of her son at all.
"You must come and see us before long," Mrs. Miles said. "The house is charming, although the dining room is in such need of improvement." The Miles's did not own a townhouse, instead renting one yearly for the London season.
The musicians struck up their notes again, in a signal that the dance was about to begin. Lucy Easton was claimed by a young gentleman, as were the Miss Phillipses, save the eldest, now-engaged daughter.
Flora was still engaged in conversation with her relatives when a strange smile appeared on Mrs. Miles's face.
"I do believe that a young gentleman is going to ask you for a dance, Flora," she said, in a low voice. "He has been watching you with some interest ever since you entered the room."
Something in the good lady's voice made Flora turn around. Behind her, Roger Easton approached. He offered her a short bow.
"Are you engaged for this dance, Miss Stuart?" he asked.
"I am not," she answered. Her heart was pounding, although she controlled her expression.
He held out his hand. "Then would you do me the honor?"
Without speaking, she took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the open floor. The opening notes played as the dancers took their positions for a reel. Across from him, Flora held her breath as they faced each other.
The dance began: the two lines of partners moved slowly forward. Although they were not facing each other at the moment, she was aware that he was glancing at her with each movement, as if planning to speak. Despite her gloved hands, she felt the same thrill as when they touched before. When the dust of Donnelly Hall's forgotten ballroom swirled beneath the skirts of her yellow dress.
She addressed him in casual tones, forcing herself to speak. "Is this party to your liking, Lord Easton? For your mother claimed this occasion to celebrate your return."
He smiled. "I can think of no better pursuit in London than dancing. For I suppose I associate the city with the Season, as if the two are never apart."
"That is why so many of us long for the world outside London," she answered. "I suppose you have had a taste of it well beyond our modest borders by now." She meant it as a compliment to his family's interests, but he interpreted it differently.
"I hope to never be away from its borders again," he answered, with a laugh. "I believe it is time to find another pursuit in life than merely overseeing my father's income."
They moved further apart, making further conversation impossible momentarily. His words had a deeper meaning which Flora recognized immediately. Her heart beat quickly at the notion of what he might say next.
"Whatever do you mean?" she asked him, when they were close again. Their stance and touching fingers allowed her full view of his face. "Unless it be the opening of Donnelly Hall again, perhaps? Or is it something more serious?" she surmised, with a teasing smile.
He blushed, with a boyish look that reminded her of his childhood self. "Perhaps it is the same endeavor of every eligible young man in England, Miss Stuart. The most delicate pursuit of the heart."
"Possessing greater consequences, you mean," she answered. "For not all such pursuits end happily, as many friends have shown us."
Her tone was playful, but his face grew somber in response. His eyes glanced away from her and she wished passionately to follow his gaze and see where it led. To Miss Harwick? Or to the room in general? To watch him too eagerly would give the wrong impression.
The couples wove their way through the dance's lines, until each partner was face to face again. Roger's gaze no longer roamed, but was fixed on hers with a solemn expression.
"Surely you know the answer to the question, Miss Stuart," he said. "With all your cleverness. How a gentleman may know if a young lady might encourage his attention for any reasons other than love, before he speaks the words to her?"
His voice and eyes were earnest. There was an urgency in his touch that bound her to answer him, although she knew not how to interpret the question yet. When his eyes broke from hers, she felt certain they rested upon Hetta's form among the crowd.
Was he speaking of Miss Harwick, the rumors of her broken attachment? Or perhaps he had heard something of her rash engagement–of the shepherd boy banished from his village. His eyes gave her no clues in their depths, even when they met hers.
She weighed her response carefully. "I believe that many young ladies have made that unfortunate mistake," she answered. "They allowed a gentleman to misinterpret their feelings for the sake of an attachment."
"The temptation of what is offered is sometimes greater than their heart's emotion, then?" said Roger. They turned slowly in the dance, the distance between them slight. Too slight for Flora, whose fingers were trembling within his grasp.
"Fortunately, these gentleman have often friends who intervene on their behalf. Who caution them to see what is in a woman's heart by her words and actions, both in public and private," she continued. "A sincere heart will be evident in her character; and try as she might, she cannot hide a true attachment for long."
Her cheeks, she knew, were turning crimson as she spoke those words. She prayed that her own attachment could remain hidden beneath his eyes as her resolve melted away.
"Such gentlemen are fortunate indeed," he answered, after a moment's silence.
They did not speak again. They remained frozen in their pose, hands joined as their eyes met in a steady gaze. The mixture of tenderness and gratitude on Roger's face played havoc with her composure as she forced herself to smile.
The notes of the music throbbed and faded slowly away. The couples melted away from the floor.
Roger bowed to her. "Thank you for the honor, Miss Stuart." He lowered his voice as he spoke again. "And for your advice." With a smile, he escorted her from the open floor to her waiting friends.
"Capital, Lord Easton!" said Colonel Miles. "I did not know you were such a fine dancer. Perhaps the Continent has had its influence over the young boy I once knew, eh?"
He returned Roger's bow. The young man lingered for a moment, glancing at Flora with an expression she could not interpret.
"Miss Stuart," he said. With a bow, he took his leave of their party. She saw him join Lucy, no doubt to claim her for a dance.
Perhaps his glance was to silence her on the subject of their conversation–or was it to confirm her understanding? Flora hid her confusion behind a smile, her mind too busy to respond to the question posed by her aunt or the compliment paid by Miss Catherine Barton, who stood nearby.
As the colonel and his wife moved to join other friends, the figure of Hetta Harwick came into Flora's view. Her smile was disdainful, her fingers toying with a folded fan of gold and green.
"What a charming performance on the floor, Miss Stuart," she said. Her voice was soft, to prevent others from taking notice. "Do you think he was persuaded also? For I found your staring eyes and blushes quite captivating from the crowd."
"I really have no notion of what you mean," Flora answered. Her face flushed with anger as she raised her chin higher. "Lord Easton and I spoke of nothing which the company in general could not have overheard without question." While this was not entirely true, she would not be persuaded to reveal otherwise.
Hetta's smile grew more gentle. "I think you are under the impression that such a conquest is possible," she said. "But I assure you that it is not. And such pursuits are well out of your reach, even if you fall back on your book of little rules."
With a sly smile, she turned and made her way through the crowd. Flora watched her go, feeling triumphant since such a warning was useless. Her purpose was not to conquer his heart but his head. She had drawn Roger's attention and obtained his confidence before he spoke to Hetta of love; that was all she cared about.
Despite her satisfaction, her heart stirred at the thought of his freedom. She reproached herself for the thought. After saving him from an imprudent attachment, what right had her own feelings to desire him to form another one?
"My, how flushed you are!" said Miss Catherine. "The floor is quite crowded tonight, is it not? I was crushed against my partner more than once by Mrs. Russell tonight and felt faint as a result."
Flora opened her fan and fluttered it to create a breeze for both of them. She spotted Roger again, preparing to lead his sister onto the floor for the next dance.
The first doubt assailed her mind as to whether she was mistaken about his words. Was perhaps his intention not with regards to Miss Harwick's beauty, but to someone else's? No– surely it was Hetta that he had been thinking of, as they turned together on the ballroom floor.
Had she warned him in time? Had he realized the meaning of her advice? She hoped that he had, as she watched him and Lucy form a couple side-by-side with Hetta and her partner.
The rest of the evening passed in a whirl of dances, her hand pressed by many a gentleman present. While Roger danced with Hetta and showed evident admiration for her, not once did he pay her marked attentions, nor did they disappear into a corner for a private exchange that suggested love or attachment. The girl whose hand he claimed the most was his sister's.
And though Flora dare not admit it, her own was claimed by him almost as often.
"Was it not a pleasant party?" exclaimed Lucy, clutching Flora's hand sleepily at the close. "You were the most lovely sight tonight, Flora! How the young men stared–they could not get over the clever Miss Stuart who was so charming!"
At half past two, Flora's face was red from dancing, her feet sore from treading the dance floor again and again. The memory of Roger's admiring glance seemed fresh again, here in the doorway with Lucy as she waited for her father's carriage.
"As the prettiest girl present, you pay far too many compliments to others," she scolded her friend. But Lucy shook her head.
"Even Roger said that you were the most charming girl here tonight," she said. "Now, is that not much improved from his teasing you about climbing the orchard trees?"
Flora smiled in reply, although her eyes were busy with the sight of Hetta taking her leave of Lady Easton. Even after hours of dancing, her complexion and hair were still perfect, the train of her dress elegant as it trailed the floor.
Had it not been for her pride and extravagance in dress, Hetta would have easily been the most noticeable girl present. No doubt she would take care not to make the mistake again, if she could find another opportunity of pursuing Roger openly.
With a sigh, she gave Lucy's hand a gentle squeeze. "It was kind of him to say," she answered.