Page 11 of Letters to a Wallflower
Helen looked around Lady Bailford’s ballroom, trying very hard to not be seen looking. Outwardly, she appeared calm. Serene. At ease among those in the ton who had welcomed her back—a little over half, she estimated. But inwardly, she was a roiling mess of conflicting emotion.
Because she had begun to doubt her own plan.
And because of Ben.
It was his face she was looking for, even as she called herself a fool. He’d showed up at that garden party and then he’d appeared at every event she attended. Watching. Always watching. Just exactly as she’d wished, so long ago, he’d centered all that daunting focus on her—and it had shattered her nerves.
She wanted him to go away.
She wanted him to come close enough so that she could confront him about his claim of innocence.
She wanted to march up and demand answers, but that she could not do, at any cost. Imagine the gossip if she was seen approaching him! Someone would say she was chasing him and soon enough the story would become outrageous. So she held her ground and ignored him. And abruptly, he had gone away.
Now she could not stop wondering. Where was he? What was he doing? Was he watching some other girl?
She suppressed a groan. Saints alive, but she was a colossal fool.
The rest of the evening stretched on. There was some sort of on-dit circulating in the room. She could see the gossip moving from group to group, from behind one raised fan to another. But the talk died away when she approached. It gave her a momentary fright. This was remarkably similar to the way her own scandal had begun. But then she overheard a giggling remark about the Baron Akers and another naming him as Lady Littleton’s newest flirt. It eased her nerves a bit. Most everyone knew she and Leighton were close. They likely did not wish her to hear them discuss his affairs with the infamous widow.
Her evening was at last brightened by the arrival of Miss Parker and her brother. Helen’s gown this evening was one of her favorites, the skirts dropping away from the empire waist in alternating long panels of ivory silk and lace she’d tatted in a rose and leaf pattern. Her underskirt was sage green, which showed beneath the lace and she’d embroidered embellishments on the bodice and sleeves to match. It looked a treat in motion, and she was happy to accept a dance with Mr. Parker to show it off.
Afterward, Miss Boyd joined their group. She was the young lady who had brought up riding at the Isleworth party, and Helen had happily fallen into several horse-heavy discussions with her, since. Now the girl invited Helen to ride with her in Hyde Park.
“I’ve asked my papa’s permission and he has granted it, Miss Crawford, as long as I mount you on one of the town-trained horses we keep in London.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Boyd. I should love to accept.” Helen was both touched and grateful. “It’s been so long since I’ve been riding. Too long. I look forward to it.”
Helen knew she should feel happy. She hadn’t won everyone over, but Society people were acting kinder and more accepting than she’d expected. Her plan was a success. Her grandmother’s spirits seemed high and her health held steady. She told herself she was satisfied.
And yet . . .
She glanced around again. And once more as the musicians struck up the first chords of the supper dance. She stilled. Was that Ben? Over near the French doors?
“Excuse me.” She nodded around the group and set off, but found no sign of him. After a moment, she went out onto the terrace. It was damp tonight and there was a chill in the air. A couple passed by her, heading back inside, shivering. Helen stayed, enjoying the change from the warm and crowded ballroom. Crossing to the stone balustrade, she gazed out over the small garden.
“Will you walk with me? Just for a bit?”
Startled, she let go of the railing and took a step back.
Ben. He stood below, just a shadow in the dark. She knew his voice, though, and she saw the flash of green and gold in his eyes as he stepped forward into the light. She knew the familiar weight of that gaze, the one that had lately been watching her so intensely, making her feel seen and understood in a way completely new and terrifyingly addictive.
“What? No,” she said reflexively. “I cannot be seen with you.”
“No one knows I’m here. And they are used to you disappearing during the supper dance.” He gestured.
“Not without Grandmama.”
“Let them wonder, then. Come,” he wheedled. “I think we should talk. And I have something for you.”
Helen hesitated, but after a moment she stepped down the stairs, telling herself it was only curiosity driving her.
“You do not have your cane,” she observed.
“No. I don’t use it every day.” He watched her step down the stairs, his eyes roving over her, as if to reconcile her with the young, foolish girl he’d known so long ago. He didn’t look as if he’d succeeded, but he did look as if he appreciated what he saw now.
“You look lovely,” he said quietly, moving away from the house. “And cold. Here, take my coat.”
She started to object, but he was already draping it over her shoulders and suddenly she was burrowing into it. Warm comfort and the citrus tang of orange blossom from his cologne. How many times had she absorbed both, in his company?
