The Secret Wallflower Society - Jillian Eaton Page 0,21
crowd of the ton’s elite. It was a circle she’d rarely, if ever, traveled in, but she still recognized a few faces, most of them peers. There was more wealth in Lord and Lady Galveston’s ballroom than there was in all of England combined, and it was intimidating to be in the presence of High Society royalty, particularly since she knew she shouldn’t have been there.
“Those weren’t real invitations, were they?” she whispered to Helena.
Plucking two glasses of bubbling champagne from the tray of a passing server, the countess kept one for herself and handed the other to Calliope. “They were very real,” she said before she took a long sip. Humor danced in the corners of her eyes. “They just weren’t ours.”
“I didn’t steal anything,” Helena said with a defensive toss of her head. Like Calliope, her hair had been pulled up and secured with dozens of pins that were artfully hidden amidst a fiery tumble of curls.
Unlike Calliope, her dress was gold instead of pink, and her capped sleeves were so slight as to be nonexistent, giving the illusion of a shoulderless gown that was already attracting attention, most of it masculine
“I simply…borrowed them. We’ll be fine,” she insisted when Calliope started looking for the closest exit. “There’s so many people no one is going to notice two more. Now let’s get you seen. Our plan isn’t going to work if we stay hidden in the corner all night.”
Calliope started to point out that Helena’s two statements contradicted one another, but with a startled squeak she found herself being yanked towards the middle of the floor. They raised a few eyebrows as they darted past, but Calliope’s racing heart began to slow when she saw she and Helena weren’t being stared at out of suspicion…but rather, fascination.
“I say, who were those women?” she heard a man murmur to his acquaintance, and her cheeks filled with color when she realized his tone had held a note of admiration instead of disdain.
“Helena, people are staring at us,” she whispered in her friend’s ear as they navigated their way through clusters of debutantes preening behind their fans, matronly dowagers observing the next generation of nobility with tightlipped scowls of disapproval, and young bucks stealing sips of smuggled brandy from silver flasks. For Calliope, who had always observed the intricate workings of a ball from a lonely line of chairs stuffed behind the foliage, it was an entirely new experience. She didn’t know yet how much she actually enjoyed being the center of attention, when in truth she’d been quite content being a wallflower.
“They’re staring at you,” Helena said with satisfaction. “They’re wondering where you came from, and why they’ve never been introduced to you before.”
Calliope’s brow creased. “But I’ve been here all along. This is my fifth Season.”
“The ton is a fickle lot. They only see what they want to see. And right now, they want to see you. This should do it.” Having reached the other side of the ballroom, Helena stopped in front of a set of glass doors that opened out onto a large, wraparound terrace. After a quick check of her reflection she turned to face the crowd and gestured for Calliope to do the same.
“What do we do now?” Calliope asked.
Helena’s lips curved. “We wait.”
“Bloody hell, Mr. Corish!” Leo roared up the stairs. “Where is my damned cravat?”
“It is on your neck, my lord,” the valet said calmly from behind the earl where he’d been standing the entire time. “Do you wish to exchange it for another?”
Frowning, Leo tugged at the cravat in question. “No,” he said sourly. “This one will do just fine.” A quick glance out the windows framing either side of the front door and his expression cleared. “It’s raining. I should remain home. I’m sure they wouldn’t have a ball in the rain.”
“Surely a light drizzle is not going to prevent an indoor event from behind cancelled,” Robert said as he went to the closet and retrieved a heavy black greatcoat.
Leo’s scowl returned. “You never know,” he muttered as he shoved his arms into the coat and fumbled with the buttons, his long fingers made more clumsy than usual by the erratic beating of his heart.
Bollocks, but he really did not want to attend Lady Galveston’s affair. And he was furious at Helena for making him. Favor or no favor, it was a rotten thing to ask. Rather like dragging a hibernating bear out of its