Chapter Text
A meat market. That’s what this was. There were some differences, of course. Lack of blood and the ridiculous abundance of fresh flowers made it much more tolerable on the senses. Her brother Pierre always had a weak spot for the roses that their mother had loved so much and it was one of the areas in which he hadn’t spared any expense in this debut ball for his daughter. The yelling of prices was also missing, although she could practically see pound signs shining in the eyes of the young men as they scanned the room in their search for the young women who had the most famous family names and fortunes.
Madeleine glanced over to where her niece Cassandra was dancing with one of those young men. Her naturally rosy cheeks were flushed an even darker shade than normal and she appeared to be having a wonderful time. Madeline sighed and wandered over to a vacant settee that was situated in a small alcove off the ballroom. She had never been the type of person who enjoyed these lavish parties, not even when she was Cassie’s age and they had been given in her honor. Tolerated them was more accurate. It wasn’t that she was afraid of people or painfully shy; she simply preferred to be in company with smaller groups of people, people with lively minds and interesting conversation.
She took a quick look around the room in order to ascertain that she wasn’t being watched and then slipped off her shoes, extended her feet from the hem of her light blue silk and gleefully wiggled her toes.
“You realize that I’ve seen your ankles and must now propose marriage, don’t you?”
Oh, bother. How had she not seen him? The voice washed over her like a delightful cascade of warm water in a bath.
Would he always have that effect on her? Surely it would fade at some point.
But it hadn’t.
Not for years.
Not since the first time she met him and he was introduced to her as the brother of Pierre’s fiancée. And that’s how he had always treated her since that first day, how he would no doubt always treat her; as if he were her brother. She had been an awkward girl of thirteen, too tall but not too pretty (at least in her own mind) and he a lithe no longer a boy but not quite a man of eighteen. Now, all these years later, he still possessed that boyish charm that had left her giddy on the first day, she who was far too sensible for anything of that nature. He wasn’t like the other boys his age: boys who were educated but stupid, boys who had material advantage but were intellectual paupers. He was perceptive enough to almost immediately recognize that she wasn’t like the other girls her age, girls who were brought up with the single aspiration of making a good match and were conditioned to appear as simpletons. She was educated; their mother had seen to that issue, bringing in the best tutors and governess that their money could procure. Tom would never forget the first time he heard her arguing with her governess in Latin or the first time she settled a dispute between him and Pierre by correctly quoting the passage from Moore’s Utopia that neither of them could quite get right.
At the sound of his voice, she let a wide smile spread across her face, putting on the usual mask that she had learned to employ the last few years when he was around. She started putting it on when she realized that he was eventually going to be married one day and since it most definitely wouldn’t be to her, she told herself it was time to stop dreaming.
“You would be of all men most fortunate, as I am quite a prize or so my financial advisor informs me. How soon would you like to meet with him?”
His laugh. It was almost as devastating as the voice.
The formal eveningwear made him look even more handsome than usual, the abundant candlelight glowing off his dark blond curls. Lowering his tall lean body down to the soft cushions and sitting beside her, he reached over and plucked the lacy fan from her hand and began to wave it with exaggerated vigor.
“It is infernally warm in here. Did your brother have to invite every person in London?”
“I don’t know,” she half scowled, yanking the fan back and smacking his hand with it, “you’ll have to make inquiries with your sister.”
Those intoxicating blue eyes widened at her actions and a smile flashed across his face before an amused frown replaced it.
“Is this the manner in which you intend to treat your husband? With such violent and disrespectful tendencies? Regardless of the size of your fortune, it would by no means outweigh such treatment.”
He brought up a hand to his heart and his eyes narrowed. “Even I, longsuffering though I am and previously accustomed to your stubbornness, would be forced to take you in hand.”
She’d never heard that particular tone in his voice. The insufferable flirt. Why did he have to tease her like this? It made everything so much worse.
“I spoke in jest, dearest Tommy,” she replied, leaning down to slip on her shoes. “I retract my offer for you to meet with my financial advisor. This prize will remain on the shelf so as not to be marred by your soiled hands.”
It was meant as a joke. Wasn’t it? There was that broken engagement, the circumstances that she never could quite get a satisfactory answer about. There had always been rumors of his involvement with women, although she had never seen him treat a lady with anything less than complete consideration and gentleness. Except with her. With her, the gentleness was still there, but it was colored with that familiar ease, as if he could do and say anything and wasn’t worried about following social custom. She liked that. Didn’t she?
These confusing questions were suddenly swirling in her mind; but they were quieted when she looked up and saw his face.
He looked hurt.
Hurt?
No, not just hurt.
Wounded.
Terribly wounded.
Her mouth fell open in surprise and embarrassment.
“Tom, I-“
He moved with such grace and speed, she almost didn’t even see it. Slender fingers were pressed lightly to her lips and she was silenced before she could finish the sentence.
Her heart began to pound wildly when he leaned forward and his eyes narrowed as they focused on the place where his skin was touching hers. Her lips were slightly parted and he felt the warmth of her breath pass through them and brush his fingers. The dance had ended and for a few seconds, the room was almost quiet as the music stopped.
His index finger traced the plump softness of her top lip as the pad of his thumb was drawn slowly along the line of her jaw, his own lips nearly pursed together and his face filled with something that was akin to fevered concentration. His other hand was caressing one of her elbows, right above where her long white glove ended.
Someone was going to see them. Someone was going to see him touching her like this. At a ball. In public. In her brother’s home.
And she didn’t care.
Neither did he, apparently, because he turned his hand and his knuckles were softly sweeping across her cheek.
He seemed to come to himself when he finally lifted his gaze from her lips. The intensity that was in his eyes made her gasp. She was horrified to hear herself whimper at the loss of contact when his hand fell from her face just as the next dance began. He abruptly rose from the settee. The terrible coldness in his tone brought tears to her eyes, although he was speaking low and his face was neutral.
“Forgive me for putting my unworthy soiled hands on such a prize. It won’t happen again.”
He bowed with characteristic grace and then turned and walked away, leaving her on the settee, alone…and unclaimed.