The Demure Miss Manning. Amanda McCabeЧитать онлайн книгу.
had been thrilled at the unexpected sight of him and had longed to call out to him, yet something about his very stillness, his solitary state, had held her back. But then he looked up and saw her, and a smile touched his face. There was only time for him to nod and tip his hat to her, and for her to raise her hand in answer. Then he was lost to sight.
It was that look on his face at that moment that haunted Mary now. That expression of stark—loneliness. It was a feeling she knew very well.
‘What do you think, Miss Manning?’ the maid said, pulling Mary from her daydreams.
She opened her eyes to look again into the looking glass. She was quite startled by what she saw.
The maid had tried something new with her hair, a twist of braids and curls with the roses and a few pearl pins, and it seemed quite transformative. Her cheeks seemed pinker, her eyes shining.
‘You are quite a marvel,’ she told the maid, twisting her head to get another view. ‘I don’t look like myself at all.’
The girl laughed. ‘Of course you do, Miss Manning! You just look extra-happy today, if I can be so bold to say so. It must be a very grand ball you’re going to tonight.’
‘It is indeed grand,’ Mary said, but she knew very well it wasn’t the prospect of the ball that made her cheeks so pink. She had been to magnificent courtly festivities in St Petersburg, all gilt and pageantry, and they had never filled her with such a tingling excitement of anticipation. It was Lord Sebastian.
There. She had quite admitted it to herself. She was excited to see Lord Sebastian.
Mary laughed, feeling rather giddy.
‘Come on, miss, let’s get you into your gown now,’ the maid said.
Mary nodded, and pushed herself back from her dressing table. Her gaze caught on the miniature portrait of her mother she kept there on a gold stand. Maria Manning had been a true beauty, with a pale oval face and laughing dark eyes, her black hair twined atop her head beneath the intricate lace of her mantilla. Maria’s smile seemed to urge her daughter to go dance at the ball, to be bold for the first time in her life. To follow in her mother’s passionate Iberian footsteps.
Mary remembered the story of her parents’ meeting, of how her father had seen her mother at a ball and they had fallen instantly in love. Mary had always loved hearing those tales and deep down in her most secret heart she had wondered how such a love must feel. As she grew up and saw more of the world, she had known how rare feelings like that really were. She had known she would never find such a thing for herself and would have to be content with a match made of friendship. With a useful, contented marriage.
Now—now it felt almost as if the sun had burst out from behind grey clouds, all surprising and brilliant and glorious. A man like Sebastian Barrett was in the world!
Surely even if he never spoke to her again, that would be enough to give her hope.
But she did hope he would talk to her.
Mary smiled back at her mother and hurried over to let the maid help her into her gown. It was a new creation, straight from the most sought-after modiste in London. Lady Louisa had been quite envious when she heard Mary was to have her new gown in time for the Thwaite ball, but for Mary it had been only one more correct thing to do. She had to look right as her father’s hostess.
But now she was very glad she had the new dress. It was much lighter than the heavily embroidered court gowns she had had to wear in St Petersburg, a fluttering, pale-pink silk trimmed with white lace frills and tiny satin rosebuds. The short, puffed sleeves barely skimmed the edges of her shoulders and white satin ribbons fluttered at the high waist. There was even a matching pair of pink-silk slippers, trimmed at the toes with more roses.
Mary couldn’t resist a little spin to make the skirts froth up, making the maid laugh. She felt as light and pink and rosy as the gown itself.
She just hoped Lord Sebastian would like it.
* * *
‘Mary! Mary, over here!’ Lady Louisa called out. Mary glimpsed her friend waving over the heads of the throng crowding into the hall of the Duchess of Thwaite’s house, waiting to make their way up the stairs to the ballroom.
Mary waved back, but she couldn’t yet push her way through the people pressed around her. Her father held her arm as they had alighted from the carriage, but he was soon called away by some of his diplomatic colleagues. Louisa reached Mary first and drew her behind her to the stairs.
‘It’s all so exciting, Mary,’ Lady Louisa cried, fluffing up her pale-yellow skirts and her bouncing blonde curls. ‘I saw Lord Andrewson and his sister go into the ballroom. He sent me flowers earlier, so surely he will ask me to dance! He is so very handsome. Who do you want to dance with the very most?’
Mary felt her cheeks turn warm and she looked away. ‘Oh—I hardly know.’
But she needn’t have feared she would give away her own wild hopes, for Louisa was quickly on to something else, commenting on the gowns of the ladies in the hall below them. Mary only had to smile and nod in reply, which gave her time to peer over the gilded railings to the people just crowding in through the front doors, studying the faces of the newcomers.
Everyone in London society hoped for an invitation to the Thwaite ball and everyone seemed to have appeared for it. The newest, loveliest gowns and finest jewels shimmered in the candlelight. But there was no brilliant flash of a red coat among them. Mary turned away, her smile sinking with a touch of disappointment.
At last they could push their way through the open doors into the duchess’s famous ballroom, one of the largest in London. The duchess was also known for having the finest florists and musicians. The long, rectangular room, all gold and white, with a domed ceiling painted with a scene of frolicking gods and cupids against an azure sky, was beautifully decorated with loops of ivy entwined with white roses and gold ribbons. More ivy wreaths hung on the gold silk-covered walls. Tall glass doors that led on to an open terrace were invitingly ajar.
From a gallery high above, covered with more greenery and roses, an orchestra tuned up for the dancing. Couples made their way on to the patterned parquet floor, laughing and flirting. The sound of happy chatter rose and tangled all around them, so it was impossible to make out a coherent word.
Mary went up on her toes, trying to study the crowd, but just as on the stairs the press and movement were too much to make out anything more than a vivid, shifting kaleidoscope of whites, pinks, blues and yellows, mixed with the dark tones of the men’s tailored coats.
She caught a glimpse of her father, standing across the room with the prime minister and a clutch of other politicians. Their faces looked most solemn in the middle of all the merriment. Mary knew he wouldn’t need her for some time.
Lady Louisa was quickly claimed for the first dance by her coveted Lord Andrewson. Mary made her way to one of the small gilt-and-satin chairs lined up along the walls, finding a place to sit amid the gossiping chaperons. From there, she had a view of the ballroom doors, where all the new arrivals had to stop.
She was quickly beginning to feel rather foolish, though, waiting for a man who might not even appear.
The musicians launched into the first dance. Mary opened and closed her lace fan, trying to concentrate on the dancers, the beautiful swirl of the ladies’ pastel gowns and flashing jewels, the men’s fine coats. She tried to distract herself and think of things besides Sebastian Barrett, as she should do at a ball. But nothing quite seemed to work. She felt most unaccountably—fidgety.
She glanced at a tall, ornate clock against the far wall and realised it really was quite early. Many partygoers wouldn’t have even finished their dinners yet. She saw Louisa whirl past and gave her a little wave.
Just beyond the dance floor, Mary caught a glimpse of Sebastian Barrett’s friends, the ones he had been with at Lady Alnworth’s: Lord Paul Gilesworth, Lord James Sackville and Mr Nicholas Warren. Much to her surprise, they