in the room. Not even ordinary eligible gentlemen paid her the least attention. Why should Xavier Campion?
In Brighton, when she’d been a young, foolish child, she’d been his companion. Although a few years older, he played children’s games with her. He filled buckets at the water’s edge with her and built castles out of the pebbles on the beach. They’d chased each other through the garden of the Pavilion and pressed their faces against its windows, peeking at the grandeur inside. Sometimes when they were at play, she’d stop and stare, awestruck at his beauty. Many a night she’d fall asleep dreaming that some day, when she was grown, Xavier would ride in like a prince on horseback and whisk her away to a romantic castle.
Well, she was grown now and the reality was that no man wanted a young lady with a scar on her face. She was eighteen years old and it was past time to put away such childhood fancies.
‘Phillipa?’ His voice again.
She turned.
Xavier extended his hand to her. ‘May I have the honour of this dance?’
She nodded, unable to speak, unable to believe her ears.
Her friends moaned in disappointment.
Xavier clasped her hand and led her to the dance floor as the orchestra began the first strains of a tune Phillipa easily identified, as she’d identified every tune played at the balls she’d attended.
‘The Nonesuch’.
How fitting. Xavier was a nonesuch, a man without equal. There were none such as he.
The dance began.
Somehow, as if part of the music, her legs and feet performed the figures. In fact, her step felt as light as air; her heart, joy-filled.
He smiled at her. He looked at her. Straight in her face. In her eyes.
‘How have you spent your time since last we played on the beach?’ he asked when the dance brought them together.
They parted and she had to wait until the dance joined them again to answer. ‘I went away to school,’ she told him.
School had been a mostly pleasant experience. So many of the girls had been kind and friendly, and a few had become dear friends. Others, however, had delighted in cruelty. The wounding words they’d spoken still felt etched in her memory.
He grinned. ‘And you grew up.’
‘That I could not prevent.’ Blast! Could she not contrive something intelligent to say?
He laughed. ‘I noticed.’
The dance parted them again, but his gaze did not leave her. The music connected them—the gaiety of the flute, the singing of the violin, the deep passion of the bass. She would not forget a note of it. In fact, she would wager she could play the tune on the pianoforte without a page of music in front of her.
The music was happiness, the happiness of having her childhood friend back.
She fondly recalled the boy he’d been and gladdened at the man he’d become. When his hand touched hers the music seemed to swell and that long-ago girlish fantasy sounded a strong refrain.
But eventually the musicians played the final note and Phillipa blinked as if waking from a lovely dream.
He escorted her back to where she had first been standing.
‘May I get you a glass of wine?’ he asked.
It was time for him to part from her, but she was thirsty from the dance. ‘I would like some, but only if it is not too much trouble for you.’
His blue eyes sparkled as if amused. ‘Your wish is my pleasure.’
Her insides skittered wildly as she watched him walk away. He returned quickly and handed her a glass. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Showing no inclination to leave her side, he asked polite questions about the health of her parents and about the activities of her brothers, Ned and Hugh. He told her of encountering Hugh in Spain and she told him Hugh was also back from the war.
While they conversed, a part of her stood aside as if observing—and judging. Her responses displayed none of the wit and charm at which her friends so easily excelled, but he did not seem to mind.
* * *
She had no idea how long they chatted. It might have been ten minutes or it might have been half an hour, but it ended when his mother approached them.
‘How do you do, Phillipa?’ Lady Piermont asked.
‘I am well, ma’am.’ Phillipa exchanged pleasantries with her, but Lady Piermont seemed impatient.
She turned to her son. ‘I have need of you, Xavier. There is someone who wishes a word with you.’
He tossed Phillipa an apologetic look. ‘I fear I must leave you.’
He bowed.
She curtsied.
And he was gone.
No sooner had he walked away than her friend Felicia rushed up to her. ‘Oh, Phillipa! How thrilling! He danced with you.’
Phillipa could only smile. The pleasure of being with him lingered like a song played over and over in her head. She feared speaking would hasten its loss.
‘I want to hear about every minute of it!’ Felicia cried.
But Felicia’s betrothed came to collect her for the next set and she left without a glance back at her friend.
Another of Phillipa’s former schoolmates approached her, one of the young ladies to whom she had introduced Xavier. ‘It was kind of Mr Campion to dance with you, was it not?’
‘It was indeed,’ agreed Phillipa, still in perfect charity with the world, even though this girl had never precisely been a friend.
Her schoolmate leaned closer. ‘Your mother and Lady Piermont arranged it. Was that not clever of them? Now perhaps other gentlemen will dance with you, as well.’
‘My mother?’ Phillipa gripped the stem of the glass.
‘That is what I heard.’ The girl smirked. ‘The two ladies were discussing it while you danced with him.’
Phillipa felt the crash of cymbals and the air was knocked out of her just like the day in Brighton when she fell.
Prevailing on family connections to manage a dance invitation was precisely the sort of thing her mother would do.
Dance with her, Xavier dear, she could almost hear her mother say. If you dance with her, the others will wish to dance with her, too.
‘Mr Campion is an old friend,’ she managed to reply to the schoolmate.
‘I wish I had that kind of friend.’ The girl curtsied and walked away.
Phillipa
