the tracking of Lord Wyburn’s movements.
Not that he seemed in any great hurry to perform his duty towards his stepmother’s protégées. He was now escorting a large young lady in pink silk to the dance floor.
He’d likely regret that choice. The lady in pink did not appear light on her feet.
And then, in that split second of amused derision, it came.
The horrid, familiar, unwanted cold struck. It spread from the centre of her body down into her limbs. The candelabra and brightly coloured dancers dimmed. The purple-and-pink bouquets swirled and the music muted, as though coming from some great distance.
In its stead she heard a soft, sad whisper.
‘Help him.’
Rilla twisted left and right, but saw only the rubber plant and the blank wall behind it. Goosebumps prickled. Her hand tightened on her fan so that its hard edges pressed almost painfully against her palm.
I will not faint. Or cause a scene. Not here. Not now.
The words repeated in her mind like a mantra or the thumping of indigenous drums. I will not faint. I will not faint.
‘Rilla! Are you all right?’
A tall figure in ruffled green stood before her.
‘Julie,’ Rilla said, her voice oddly distant to her own ears.
‘Are you ill?’
The sweet cloying scent of lavender filled her nostrils.
‘Lavender. I smell— Are you—wearing—lavender?’ she asked, the simple question difficult to phrase.
‘No, I don’t like the smell. But, Rilla, what is it? You look awful.’
‘Fine. Really.’
Rilla had fought this before. She knew how to do it. She knew she must root herself in this hot, overcrowded room. She must focus on Julie and her frilly green dress. She must press her palm hard against the edge of her fan. She must escape the scent of lavender and immerse herself in the smell of flowers and sweat and food from the buffet.
She must ignore the man on the dance floor who was so impossible to ignore.
She exhaled in a slow whoosh.
‘It is the heat,’ Julie said.
‘Yes,’ Rilla said, disregarding the goosebumps still prickling her arms.
‘You will get used to it. I have. This is my fourth Season.’
‘When did you get into town?’ Rilla managed to ask, ludicrously proud to have said the simple sentence without pause or stammer.
‘Only two days ago. Mother wants to keep our costs to the minimum, you know.’
‘And how is she? Your mother, I mean?’
Julie shrugged with a rustle of fabric. ‘Dragging every unmarried man under a hundred to meet me. I’m a disappointment, although I’d likely do better if I did not resemble a wilted lettuce.’
‘You look lovely.’
‘For a lettuce.’
‘But never a wilted one,’ Rilla said and even smiled.
She took her friend’s hands, glad of the human contact, the reassuring pressure of Julie’s finger and the clean, wholesome talcum scent of her. ‘I am so happy you are here.’
‘And I you.’ Julie paused, looking towards the wide sweeping staircase which descended into the ballroom. ‘Gracious, he’s here too. We could have a schoolroom reunion.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Jack.’
Dislike knotted her stomach as Rilla saw a familiar young blond gentleman descend the staircase, his expression one of cynical indolence.
‘Roving for an heiress, I would guess. He needs one. Is he deigning to acknowledge us?’ Julie asked.
‘Apparently.’ Rilla watched the man’s approach.
Jack St John, Earl of Lockhart, looked well enough. His clothes were well cut, his movements easy. Yet she felt herself cringe, edging towards the rubber plant.
‘My dear sister and Miss Gibson.’ He made his bow.
‘Lord Lockhart.’
‘Miss Gibson, I did not know you and your sister were coming for the Season. I hope you are enjoying the evening and that it has been convivial.’
The earl gave the last word peculiar emphasis, rolling it in his mouth.
An emotion, close to fear, twisted through Rilla’s body, although his words were innocuous enough. ‘Everyone is very pleasant,’ she said.
‘Ah, yes, the ton can be delightful, but then the mere whisper of a rumour can make it cruel.’ He smiled. His face was pale and, in stark contrast, his lips looked too red for a man.
Rilla swallowed. The fear grew. Her palms felt clammy within her gloves.
‘Jack, don’t say you’ve done something scandalous?’ Julie asked, worry lacing her tone.
‘Not at all.’ His smile widened. ‘And Miss Gibson is fortunate that she has such an admirable character she need never fear rumours or odd tales.’
Did he linger on that word ‘odd’ like a man tasting brandy or was it her imagination?
But before Rilla could formulate a response, the earl made his bow and left. Rilla swallowed. The heat, the dancers, the music pressed in on her.
Julie touched her arm. ‘You’ve gone quite pale again. Don’t worry about Jack. He probably remembers the goat.’
‘The goat?’ Rilla said blankly.
‘The one you rode?’
But, of course, the goat. The relief was so great she almost laughed out loud. Her smile grew wide. She had quite forgotten the goat. Good lord, he could talk about the goat ad infinitum, if he chose.
‘Julie!’ Lady Lockhart’s strident voice startled both girls. Julie turned so quickly she nearly tumbled into the rubber plant.
Her mother approached, bearing down on them in a well-corseted purple dress. ‘There you are. Whatever are you doing, hiding in the shadows? People want to dance with you! You’ll never make a match indulging in idle chatter.’
‘No, Mama.’
‘Good evening, Amaryllis.’ Her ladyship cast an appraising glance over Rilla’s gown and coiffure. ‘You’d best be standing straight. Giggling is never attractive in girls. They appear vapid. Indeed, you’d best make
