forward and, in his booming voice, proclaimed, “Mrs. Daphne Fennelworth and Miss Persephone Blake.”
It was the same as before. The crowd parted and he caught his first glimpse of her. The deep pink silk was a perfect foil for her alabaster skin. Her blonde hair had been piled high in an elegant chignon with curls coaxed to gently frame her face. And yet, as beautiful as she was, something was not quite right. It was obvious from her posture and from the forced quality to her smile. Concerned, he made his way toward the pair of them just as the musicians struck up the first dance. It was a country reel, something he had no interest in. He wanted to claim her waltzes. Both of them. It would be a declaration of his intent to marry her that all in society would be able to recognize.
As he neared them, he noted that her sister was equally perturbed though she did appear to be much better at hiding it. “Miss Blake, I’m so happy that you could be here tonight,” he said. “And Mrs. Fennelworth.” It was as warm a greeting as he could manage for her.
She clearly caught the snub as her eyes flashed daggers at him. “Mr. Dunne, so nice to see you in a social setting… behaving according to the edicts of polite society. Our inability to adhere to rules is, after all, the reason Adam and Eve were ejected from the garden. But you know all about gardens, don’t you?”
“That’s quite enough, Daphne,” Persephone stated coolly. “It is a pleasure to see you always, Mr. Dunne.”
“I wondered, Miss Blake, if I might have the pleasure of your first waltz. And your second,” he said. It was bold.
“You do understand what that means?” Daphne interjected. “You know what people will say!”
“I am well aware of the significance, Mrs. Fennelworth… that is rather the point,” Algernon replied. “I believe that I have been making my intentions quite clear all along. Well, Miss Blake?”
She held out her dance card with a hand that trembled. “You may mark yourself down for any dance you wish.”
Algernon took the tiny pencil on its little silver chain and placed his initials on it twice. “I’d take them all if I were permitted, but I think it would create quite the stir.”
“I don’t care,” Persephone replied. “Not in the least.”
“Come,” he said, offering her his arm, “Let me present you to Olivia and Viscount Holland. I don’t believe you’ve met him.”
When she placed her hand on his arm, he led her away towards the short receiving line for Olivia and Burke. As they walked on, he could feel the weight of Daphne Fennelworth’s glare. Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he caught her with daggers in her eyes. But they weren’t directed at him. No. Her ire was directed entirely at her sister.
“I think your sister is very displeased,” he pointed out.
“I’ve come to realize that Daphne lives in a state of displeasure,” Persephone replied. “She is incapable of happiness, I think.”
Algernon sighed as he admitted, “I honestly do not know enough about her to hazard a guess what motivates her or what her emotional state is. I’ve done my utmost to avoid her for years.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m much more concerned about my own emotional state… and yours.”
His lips quirked upward. “A waltz or two and then we will discuss it.”
Daphne watched them walk away and her temper was burning inside her. It was like a living thing, flames licking at her, driving her anger and resentment to new heights. And it was that anger and resentment that drove her to do something others would have considered unthinkable, or at the very least, unconscionable.
With a sweep of her skirts, she maneuvered her way through the ballroom and toward a small bench near enough to Lady Sheffield and her handsome duke that she could overhear their conversation. She bided her time, waiting patiently, until at last, he offered to go and fetch Lady Sheffield a glass of punch. As soon as he walked away, Daphne rose, “Pardon me, but you are Lady Sheffield, are you not?”
The woman looked at her, blinking rapidly in surprise at her boldness. “I am, indeed, though I fear we have not been introduced.”
“No, we have not,” Daphne offered, manufacturing an expression of faux contrition. “Under any other circumstance, I would never dream of importuning you this way, but I fear it is a dire situation. Dire, indeed.”
Lady Sheffield’s brow furrowed