with each dance step more of Cassandra’s worry melted. If the whispers she overheard were any guide, London was already smitten.
But then her eyes were scanning the sea of dark coats, moving over them quickly, for the men inside them were tepid and dull. Only one was dynamic and alive, and when their eyes met, the music faded and he was the only man in the room.
For a beat of her heart—two beats, three—she was the only woman.
If they were the only couple in the room, why, he would cross the floor and sweep her into his arms, and they would waltz—
Waltz? Joshua? Not likely. And what need had she of a waltz, anyway? What need had she of a man who knew the right time to sit and the right time to stand and could say the right things while saying nothing at all?
None of that mattered. It was this man she needed: strong and true, caring and vulnerable. He lived by his values, he was buffeted by his emotions, he changed things for the better, and he had so much love to give that he did not know what to do and drove himself mad trying to hide it.
She almost shook with the intensity of her yearning. If only she could tell him: “It’s you. It’s only you. Don’t leave me. I need you.”
And he would laugh and say, “Been in the brandy again, Mrs. DeWitt?” and then he’d run as fast as he could.
Someone jostled her. She had to turn and when she looked back at him, couples blocked her view.
“With looks like that, your sister might survive your family’s shame.” The sly female voice slithered over Cassandra’s spine. “Then again, she might become a courtesan.”
Lady Bolderwood.
Disbelieving, Cassandra took in the fair curls, the extravagant gown, the nasty little smirk. No surprise that Lady Bolderwood was being insulting. No surprise, even, that she had addressed Cassandra when they had ignored each other for a week.
But a great surprise that the woman even attended the duchess’s ball.
Others were watching. Cassandra lifted her chin and, without a word, gave Lady Bolderwood her back: the cut direct.
She spied her grandmother three potted palms away and marched right to her.
“There you are, Cassandra, my dear,” the duchess said. “Shall we declare Lucy a success?”
“Why is Lady Bolderwood here?” Cassandra demanded.
The duchess cocked an eyebrow. “The invitations went out long before your little dramas came to town.”
“Grandmother, you should have revoked her invitation. This is my sister’s debut!”
“And my ball. I do not live to do your bidding, Cassandra.”
“We are family,” Cassandra said. “I thought I could count on your support.”
The duchess’s lips tightened. “You ignore my advice, you manipulate my husband, you force me to shelve my interests for the sake of your own, and then you have the impertinence to address me thus at my own ball?”
Cassandra struggled under the weight of the accusations. Put like that, she sounded awful. No wonder her grandmother resented her.
Habit had her ready to apologize, and yet—No, she decided. She had not manipulated or forced anybody. She was entitled to her own decisions and opinions, and she would never be ashamed of supporting her sister.
But before she could tell her grandmother exactly that, the music ended, closing the waltz with a smattering of applause. The crowd began to mill and the orchestra launched into a bright, fast reel, but they were too eager, it was too soon, and they stopped again abruptly, creating an unexpected silence, into which rose the voice of Lady Bolderwood.
“…but the old duchess has life in her yet. At least, she has Sir Arthur Kenyon in her. Indeed, I hear he’s in her most afternoons.”
The crude barb rose into the silence and exploded like a firework. A million scandalized faces turned their way. The duchess gasped. Her hand flew to her throat and the ugly color of humiliation mottled her cheeks. Her mouth opened, closed, worked, and she glanced about, wide-eyed and panicked. Titters rippled outward, and the proud duchess looked ready to faint.
With quick steps, Cassandra planted herself in front of her grandmother and indicated for her grandmother’s friends to join her in making a human wall.
“Oops,” came Lady Bolderwood’s giggle. “I ought not have spoken so loudly. Still, ’tis not as though everyone did not already know.”
Too much. Cassandra’s head spun, her elbows floated, and it vaguely occurred to her that rage acted upon her like a potent brandy. She seemed to grow to twice her height and