Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

9. And the Last Dance (1 of 2)

No matter whom Mabel's darting gaze landed upon, she met eyes glistening with merriment and speculation. She had to extricate herself immediately, and with as much of her pride intact as possible. She plowed through, affecting to look past anyone stepping in her way, as if searching for a friend in the crowd. As if she had friends left!

Let the detractors and gloating rivals think she wanted to shelter with her mother. Mrs. Walton, with her propensity to discuss everything twenty times, was the last person whose company she craved.

And so, she sailed around the hands reaching out to take her by the elbow—she didn't care if their compassion was pretend or genuine—and repeated with the mindless persistence of a paroquet, "I beg your pardon."

The sound of her voice came from afar, dull, dead... and that's how she'd speak for the rest of her life, begging pardons for her existence. But she didn't want to think of the future now. All she wanted was solitude on the veranda.

Fortunately, the announcement of the Boulangere sent a wave of warmth through the crowd. The would-be-dancers paired up for this old favourite and milled toward the middle of the ballroom. Nobody wanted to be left out this time! Where were they for the waltz, those cowards? Their glee bounced off her as she stubbornly swam against the current of excitement.

Her hand found the door handle when the musicians played the first notes to cover up both the murmurs of conversation and her escape. A premonition graced her: she saw in her mind how she would grasp the handle, and it would turn.

Breath caught in her chest. She reached with trembling fingers. Gripped the warm brass of the handle. It rotated. Sweat beaded her forehead, as if she was escaping into the enchanted land, not a garden. She pushed the glass-paned door—and it opened without a squeak. A single step separated her from freedom.

She slipped sideways through the crack and shut the door gently, then leaned against it with her back. The night air refreshed her lungs and chilled her skin where it grew moist. The corset wouldn't let her breathe as deep as she wanted, but might as well. If she did, the sobs would surely wreck her body.

After the stuffiness, lights and noise of the ball, the garden was dizzyingly quiet and dim.

More by feel than by sight, Mabel crept along the veranda's railing until she found a wicker chair. Her knees gave out, dropping her into it like a sack.

With each breath, and each blink that fought the welling tears, her heartbeat slowed.

The last of the sunset's thrilling colour had gone from the sky. The trees and shrubs guarded the lawns. They needed such guarding indeed, for each grass-blade was generously bedewed, and each drop of dew was a gem reflecting starlight. Taken together, the multitude of them created a foggy glow that hung just above the ground. The pond loomed black with a silver track left by the translucent moon. On a night like this, it didn't take much imagination to see the faeries coming out to dance.

Luckily, Mabel was spared further humiliation by Terpsichore's worshipers. The dancing faeries didn't appear. The garden stood quiet, soothingly quiet, apart from the hushed sounds drifting from the ballroom.

Assured that she was completely alone, Mabel finally dared to draw in a deeper breath. It was shuddering, but didn't end in weeping.

Alas, she was not fated to take her nerves completely under control.

The door banged open, and the cacophony of the ball's sounds crashed through it into her starlit sanctuary.

Worse, an angry voice right next to her shouted over the music and laughter.