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CHRISTMAS MUSIC FILLED the ballroom, and Portia’s stomach toppled downward. She’d never associated Christmas with anything terrible, but now her mouth dried curiously, and she doubted it could be tempted by the cinnamon-and-clove crammed cocktails guests carried in their gloved hands.
How had she once enjoyed these Christmas songs? But then, before she hadn’t known about her father’s will. Before everything had been pleasant and perfect.
The musicians played with their customary precision, and she glanced at the grim-faced matchmaking mamas who lined the ballroom walls, wishing she’d taken her role of finding a husband with the same diligence and determination they’d espoused.
She needed a husband.
Now.
Naturally, she couldn’t simply stumble into a potential husband. That was the sort of thing that might happen in her daydreams. They didn’t happen in true life. If such good fortune ever happened in real life, Portia was certain such instances were confined to people sporting immaculate beauty, who drew men toward them with an efficiency only matched by candlelight that compelled various small-brained insects.
Perhaps her attire lacked the fashionable finesse of other debutantes, and perhaps she hadn’t spent her childhood playing with the men when they were both in leading strings. Her father hadn’t been prone to sociability, and she’d never had the bevy of cousins and second cousins that others took for granted. Still, Portia was reasonably intelligent. She would be able to manage a household, and she preferred to not spend the rest of her life in a house filled with servants who disparaged her. Even if she didn’t possess the sort of great beauty that made other women throw their hands up in jealousy, she couldn’t give up hope. A marriage was possible; it had to be.
She’d simply taken her first season too casually. She’d been too grateful to see her friends again, to be able to chat with them about a variety of topics, and no longer find her only socialization from stilted conversations at Sir Vincent’s long dining room table.
People bustled about Portia, and she strained to see over the feathered turbans that made even the shortest women suddenly tall and the broad-shouldered and broad-bellied men who laughed comfortably around the punch tables.
She stared at the smattering of men. She recognized Lord Edwards and smiled. The man’s face sobered, and he turned away abruptly.
She blinked.
Well, that didn’t necessarily mean anything bad. That simply meant he might have had an unpleasant thought. Not about her, of course. Perhaps about the recent Siege of Tripolitsa. That had involved many deaths. Certainly, that warranted a pensive frown. One could hardly smile if one were thinking about eight thousand civilians being massacred.
Of course, that had ended in September.
And Greece was far away.
Still, the facts remained distressing.
If he was thinking of them.
Perhaps there was another man she recognized. How could she imagine she might find someone to marry her? She glanced at various men who had accompanied her on the dance floor for reels and waltzes, but none even smiled in recognition. Her yellow dress seemed garish against the white dresses that filled the ballroom. The ruffles on the hem scarcely competed with the elaborate green and red patterns that adorned the hems on other women’s gowns.
Then she spotted Mr. Daniels. She’d danced with him on multiple occasion, and she raised her hand tentatively in a wave.
He blinked and looked around.
Women weren’t supposed to gesture to men. She knew that. Still, no one else was asking her to dance, and time was of the essence. Besides, Mr. Daniels had always seemed agreeable. Perhaps he talked about pigs with unwarranted enthusiasm, seeming to never have outgrown a childhood delight in the livestock he’d spied neighbor tenants caring for, but that was hardly a reason not to marry someone.
He approached her with some trepidation, but she pasted a bright smile on her face.
“I thought you might like to dance,” she said.
He drew his forehead together. “That was going to be my line.”
Fiddle-faddle.
“Great minds think alike.” She forced herself to retain a wide, nonchalant smile, though the effort seemed curiously difficult.
Her stomach fluttered curiously.
Perhaps this is love.
She was certain she’d heard about fluttering stomachs in books. Or were those fluttering hearts? She had the dreadful sense the latter was more likely. Still, perhaps Mr. Daniels simply made her stomach flutter. Perhaps that’s what would make them unique from other couples.
The music changed, and couples formed a minuet. Mr. Daniels extended his arm to her, and she took it. He led her to a group of dancers who were forming a long line. It would be rather more convenient if a waltz were playing.
The music took on a more jovial tone, and she began to form the patterns.
“How are you?” she asked.
Mr. Daniels’ eyebrows rose, as if startled she was addressing him. “Er—fine.”
Silence ensued, then they separated to form circles with other dancers.
“Anything on your mind?” she asked when they rejoined.
“Pigs.”
“Ah. Most—er—good preoccupation.”
“You think so?” He eyed her curiously. “Most women find them dull.”
She gave him a strained smile. “They—er—seemed interesting when you described them to me last time we met.”
“Ah.”
“In truth, I didn’t find them terribly interesting,” she said, conscious she didn’t want to give him the wrong impression. There was no use beginning a marriage under a lie. She was certain of that.
He blinked, and irritation floated over his face.
“I didn’t mean to offend—” she began, but the music shifted, and they once again danced in a circle with other partners.
When they rejoined, she flashed him an apologetic smile. “I only meant I can see why you might find them interesting.”
“Because you think my mind lacks intellect?” he asked.
“No, of course not.”
He pouted. “You wouldn’t be the first person to think that.”
This wasn’t going well. Still, she could hardly give up broaching the topic now, lest she spend the next few decades regretting the interaction. “In truth, there’s something else on my mind.”
He was silent.
“You’re supposed to ask me what,” she prompted.
“What?” he asked, his face still sullen.
Her heartbeat soared, but she forced herself to respond. “Marriage!”
His eyes widened.
“Specifically, marriage to you,” Portia added hastily. There was no point having a theoretical conversation on the benefits of matrimony. This was a time for action.
Mr. Daniels’ eyes widened further, and his eyebrows darted up. “You can’t be serious. Only the most desperate woman would concoct such a plan.”
“But I am,” she said quickly. “We can marry in a fortnight if we do the banns now.”
“You must be mad to think I would agree to such a plan.” For some reason, his gaze darted to her belly.
She blinked. “But I have money. And I’ll lose it if—”
He halted dancing, and other couples collided into them.
“Forgot how to dance, Daniels?” one man asked with a wink.
Mr. Daniels’s face grew purple.
Oh, no.
“Of course not.” He pointed at her, and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably again. She decided stomach fluttering was a bad thing. “Miss Tate just suggested marriage. In two weeks.”
Portia stiffened, and her skin heated, as if Mr. Daniels had casually thrown her into the greenery-adorned fireplace. Mr. Daniels had said those words very loudly.
“Good Lord,” another man said and shot a suspicious look at the woman he was dancing with, as if to assess the likelihood she might also suggest they entwine their lives together for the next half-century or so.
Females stared at her reproachfully, and Portia hurried away. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced her chin up.
“My dear.” A deep voice she recognized at once startled her. She turned toward Sir Vincent. “Would you care to dance?”
Portia didn’t want to dance. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the dancers. She wanted to disappear entirely.
“Perhaps not,” she said.
Sir Vincent narrowed his gaze.
“I—er—I think I see my friend,” Portia said hastily.
“Indeed?” Sir Vincent’s forehead wrinkled.
Fiddle-faddle.
Perhaps he was also thinking about how all of her friends had married.
“Which one?” he asked, his words coming out slowly, as if performing advanced mathematics to discover an unknown friend.
“Daisy,” she said, hoping she wouldn’t cry in front of him.
He widened his eyes. “Here? But she’s in a chair...”
Portia flushed. Daisy might be the most loquacious of her friends, but she didn’t walk, a fact that made her an unlikely guest at balls. Few hostesses extended invitations to her, perhaps in the mistaken belief Daisy might feel embarrassed or unhappy at any reminder she could not take part in the chief component of balls: dancing.
“Precisely,” Portia lied. “So you see, she’s quite short. You can’t see her past the other guests.”
Sir Vincent gave her a dubious nod, thankfully not inquiring why Portia could see her and not him, and Portia dashed away.
She fled the ballroom. Footsteps followed her, and Portia quickly opened the door to another room. She found a candle and candlestick to her right and lit it with a match. Good Portia would never have done this, but there was no sense being Good Portia anymore.