Chapter Thirteen




By the day of the ball, Buffy was a nervous wreck. Anne had give her a crash course in the most popular dances, and with her natural rhythm, she picked them up very quickly. But there was so much to remember, and she was afraid that she would forget which one was which and end up embarrassing herself. Still, despite her nervousness, she was looking forward to it. To dance—to finally be allowed do something physical—would be most welcome.

It took her hours to get ready. Her dress—well remodeled by Mrs. Simms—looked like something from an 1880s Parisian fashion plate. Delicate, hand-made Irish lace trimmed the flounced shoulders of the bodice and cascaded over the bustle into a well-lengthened train. The neckline was adjusted to a wide V-shape that showed more than a little bit of cleavage, and the waist outlined her abdomen in a way that, for the day, was both fashionable and quite daring. Elbow-length kid gloves in light blue were the perfect complement to the dress, and the matching high-heeled dancing slippers were so pretty Buffy felt she could even overlook the fact that they were devilishly uncomfortable. With some of her monthly wage, she had gone to a shop and bought a blue heart-shaped stone on a fine gold chain to wear around her neck. It was costume jewelry made of cheap glass, but it matched her dress and kept her from looking so bare in that low-cut neckline.

Naturally, one would want to do justice to such a beautiful outfit, and most of her evening was spent in arranging her hair, because, in a world without electricity, the only way one could curl one’s hair was to heat iron tongs over the fire and painstakingly curl one strand at a time. Since the tongs cooled quickly, Livvy had to reheat them each time she moved on to a different strand, and since Buffy had a lot of hair, this meant that the process took quite a while. Yet the result was good, and looking at herself in the glass afterward, Buffy got the oddest sensation. Wearing that elaborate gown, with her hair piled up on her head, she held almost no resemblance at all to her previous incarnation as Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Not only that, but she didn't even feel like that person. She was Elizabeth Summers, American lady in Britain, a prim little Victorian archetype. The odd thing was that she liked it. For the first time in years, she was able to shed the burdens of her calling: she was without responsibilities. And damn it, the longer she stayed here, the better that felt.

The good feeling was still with her as she descended the staircase some ten minutes later. It was six-thirty in the evening, and the Underwood ball would commence in just a half hour’s time. Buffy’s primping had caused her to run a little behindhand, and William was already pacing at the bottom landing when she appeared. Beside him, Anne was consulting the small gold watch that hung from a chain around her neck.

“Elizabeth, you took rather a long time to dress. It’s already half-past the hour. We were wondering what kept you.” Her voice was full of motherly concern, and Buffy flashed a reassuring smile.

“I’m sorry. I just want to make sure I look nice…it’s my first party here, after all.”

If she had possessed any doubts about how well she looked, the way William stopped his pacing to stare at her dismissed them immediately. He was watching her fixedly, as if completely unaware of anything else. Had he been any other man, the intensity of his gaze would have made her think he was mentally undressing her. Yet in all the time it took her to reach the bottom of the staircase, she never once saw his eyes leave her face. He was not smiling, just staring at her with the strangest expression. If Buffy didn’t know better, she might have called it awe.

“Well, your efforts have certainly been successful,” Anne complimented her. “You look lovely, Elizabeth.” She turned and lightly prodded her son. “Does not Miss Summers look lovely this evening, William?”

He came out of his reverie with a slight jump.

“Oh…yes, indeed.” His voice was throaty, and so soft it was difficult to hear him. “She looks—that is, Miss Elizabeth, you look—quite stunning.”

“Thank you.” Buffy smiled. “You look very nice also.”

That much was true. He was wearing a suit of dove-gray—a shade that was far too light to be fashionable, but it looked wonderful on him. His waistcoat was almost the same color of dark blue as her dress, embroidered with a gilt thread like stars in a night sky, and his cravat was blue-and-gold striped to match. He had done something with his hair; it looked flatter than usual, and he had brushed it out almost completely straight. Buffy didn’t like it as well. Even though the new style was more in keeping with the fads of the day, she missed the tumble of curls that once fell over his forehead. When she made idle mention of this, he immediately put his hands to his hair, combing with his fingers until he had completely eradicated the effect that had taken so long to achieve.

This act simultaneously amused and annoyed his mother, who disliked the untidiness of his standard style but couldn't help feeling moved by his devotion to Miss Summers. Still, she knew that the spirited young nurse must be curbed if she was to be a success in London society, and Anne stifled her smile for a more severe expression.

“Elizabeth, I trust you have been studying ball etiquette these past few days?”

Buffy, who had done little more than skim over that section of her etiquette guide, nonetheless nodded confidently. “I have it all memorized by heart, Anne. Don’t worry about me.”

Buffy's self-confidence did little in the way of reassuring her employer, yet Anne's lips relaxed back into a smile when she turned to her son. “You will see to it Miss Summers gets along all right, William?”

He gave a little nod of assent, even as his eyes remained fixed on Buffy. “Of course I will.”

Despite this promise and the small smile that followed it, Buffy could detect a hint of worry in those expressive blue eyes. She knew by the way he held his shoulders alone that he was feeling tense about the evening to come, although she could not imagine why. She didn’t like to ask him with Anne standing there; she was so apt to worry about him anyway. But as soon as they stepped out into the cold dooryard, Buffy grasped his coat sleeve in her fist to hold him and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

He turned to her, his face coloring slightly, though whether this was from the question or the touch of her hand, she didn’t know. At any rate, he did not seem inclined to discuss what was bothering him.

“Nothing is wrong, I assure you,” he said quietly. “However, it is very cold out, and I fear you will take ill if we stand discussing it. The coach is waiting.”

She stifled a sigh at this. Nevertheless, she fell into step beside him as he made his way down the dark walkway to the carriage block. It was then that she received the first in a long series of shocks that evening. William’s bay saddle horse was tacked and waiting beside the coach, its proudly arched neck and fine, slender legs putting the heavier, duller carriage horses to shame. She turned to William questioningly.

“You’re not riding with me?”

He flushed.

“Riding alone in a closed carriage with me would…it would ruin your reputation. I would never do such a thing to a lady.”

“But you can’t ride,” she insisted. “You said it yourself—it’s freezing out here. You’ll get pneumonia, riding around on horseback.”

“I will be fine, I assure you. The Underwood home is in Mayfair, which is not far from here, and my overcoat is quite warm. Now please…let me help you into the carriage before you catch a chill. You are not dressed so warmly as I.”

Buffy did not much relish the thought of riding to the party alone. As excited as she was to be meeting some new people, she couldn’t help feeling nervous, as well. And these people were William’s friends; she was sure she would be more at ease if she could arrive at the party on his arm, so that he could introduce her to everyone. The idea of stepping out of the carriage, alone, while a bunch of people she did not know stared at her, was unsettling, and the butterflies in her stomach began flutter in mad fright. She felt a flash of resentment that William would do this to her now.

He saw the sulky expression in an instant. Once he had helped her situate herself in the coach, he did not go to mount his horse as she had expected him to do. Instead, he stood beside the carriage, one hand propped on the open door. “After a bit of a wait, the carriage will pull up at the block in front of the Underwood house,” he explained patiently. “And a footman there will help you to alight. However, I will be there to walk you inside. You will not have to do that on your own. It is merely that they must see you were not riding with me. Do you understand? I don’t want them to think ill of you.”

“William, I don’t understand why you’re so worried. These people are your friends, right? I mean…” She looked at him curiously. “They are nice people, aren’t they?”

“That is something you must ascertain for yourself.”

This was not exactly an answer to calm her jittery nerves, but William refused to elaborate any further. He turned away from the carriage and went to his mount.

It was odd that as self-conscious as he was on the ground, he seemed so poised on horseback. She had never actually seen him ride before; now she was surprised to find how upright and confident his posture was in the saddle. Buffy peered out the carriage glass, watching with interest as he trotted down the cobbled driveway, keeping well ahead of the coach. When they reached the main road, where it was not so slick, he flicked his crop and the animal took off in a fast canter that quickly became a gallop—a speed that in this icy weather could easily get him picked up by the police. He took the turn onto Park Lane so quickly that his horse left the road and had to clear a hedge to keep from going down. He was well out of sight before the coach even reached the corner.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





The Underwood home was located in Berkeley Square, which by society standards was the crème de la crème of London neighborhoods. Judging from the huge and ostentatious residences on either side of the Underwoods' huge and ostentatious house, Buffy could see why. If the Hartleys lived in a mansion, then this place was almost a palace. Not only was it several hundred square feet larger than Anne’s house, but it was also far more ornate. To Buffy’s tastes, it seemed almost too ornate, bordering on tacky, but even she had to admit it was impressive. And intimidating.

The carriage pulled between two large stone columns that served as supports for the open wrought-iron gate. There was a short gravel drive that ended in a cul de sac in front of the house, and a long line of carriages was waiting on that drive to let off passengers at the door. It seemed a long time before Matthew was able to pull up to the block and let Buffy out. When he did, she was almost loath to move. There were so many people milling about that, at first, she had no idea where she should go. She slowly walked in the direction of the house.

There was a small cluster of men standing on the wide front steps, and Buffy had not gone far before she realized that one of the men was William and that he was waiting for her. He had been in conversation with a sandy-haired, mustached man, but he politely excused himself as soon as she came into view. He hurried down the steps to offer her his arm.

“Well, what do you think of it?” he asked her quietly.

“I think if you always ride your horse like that you’ll end up breaking your neck,” she answered. He chuckled good-naturedly.

“I knew there would be a wait here; I wanted to be sure of having the horse up well in time to meet you off the coach.”

“You came in as though you were following the hounds, did you not?” asked a voice beside them. Buffy startled and turned. The mustached man was standing next to them.

William dropped Buffy’s arm.

“I—ah—Miss Summers, this is Charles Archer. Charles, Miss Elizabeth Summers. Miss Summers has recently joined us from America, of course.”

Charles Archer lifted his hat and smiled at Buffy from beneath his bushy mustache. “And a lovelier wild rose from America has never graced our fair city,” he said extravagantly. He lifted an eyebrow and added archly, “And from all I have heard, I am sure William agrees with me. Don’t you old chap?”

Buffy returned Archer’s smile and murmured an appropriate hello, but she could not help noticing the way William’s eyes narrowed at Archer’s gallantries. Had he been reluctant to attend the ball because he did not want Buffy to meet other men who might show an interest in her? He certainly gave the appearance of being jealous, now, and he cut into their conversation with a rudeness that was heretofore unseen in him.

“Yes, well. Although I do hate to make brief our chat, you must excuse us, Charles. I have not yet seen our hosts, and I am sure there are plenty of others who wish to meet Miss Summers…”

With an apologetic smile at Archer (who seemed more amused than offended), Buffy followed William through the huge oak doors and into the house. “You were very impolite to Mr. Archer.”

William’s lips tightened at this admonishment, but his tone remained level as he answered her. “You don’t know the man.”

“No, I don’t. But I know you, and you aren’t acting a bit like yourself this evening. What's the matter? Are you afraid people will talk about us for being here without a chaperone?”

“Mother spoke with Mrs. Underwood about the matter, and she will act as your guardian this evening if need be. It is all quite acceptable, considering the circumstances.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then why are you having such a hard time enjoying—”

“The man is a guttersnipe,” he cut in shortly. “And I should think you would not wish to make acquaintance with such people. I am certain I don’t.”

Buffy smothered her smile of amusement at this. She suspected his dislike for Archer was nothing more than a boyish show of jealously, and she wondered if she should call him on it. Before she could make up her mind, however, she found herself distracted by the extreme opulence of their surroundings. The foyer of Underwood house was so large that the upstairs of the Revello Drive home could easily have fit inside it, and so lavishly decorated she felt as though she had taken a wrong turn into Buckingham Palace. There was an enormous crystal chandelier suspended above their heads, the light of each ivory-colored candle reflected and refracted in the sparkling clear crystal. Rich wood trim work gleamed from ceiling and floors, and the walls were covered in deep red wallpaper scrolled with gold leaf. It was all so pretty that Buffy didn’t realize she had stopped walking to look around, until William took her by the elbow and drew her to one side to prevent her from being trampled by a crowd of new arrivals.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as they made their way through the congested entryway. “I got distracted, I guess. This is a gorgeous house.”

“It is rather nice,” he admitted. “And the ballroom is beautiful beyond compare. Yet I think I prefer the simplicity of our home.”

“So do I,” she told him, and he smiled.

After a quick visit to the ladies' dressing room to remove her cloak and check her hair, Buffy joined William in what was known as the “receiving line” upstairs. The ballroom was on the third floor, and they must wait in that seemingly endless line in order to greet their hosts. Meanwhile, servants were circulating within the group, carrying silver trays. Buffy thought they must have hors d'oeuvres, and she reached forward eagerly when one man extended his tray to her. To her disappointment, he was not carrying food, after all, but small cards bound together with little silver-topped pencils. Buffy took one confusedly.

“What are they?” she whispered to William. She was embarrassed having to ask, but he did not seem too surprised by her ignorance, nor was he condescending when he explained the rather complicated system of “dance cards.” Evidently, the cards listed the names of the dances and next to each, a blank space. If a gentleman wanted to dance with a lady, he must first obtain her permission and then write his name in the space beside the desired dance on her card. It was in this way that a lady kept track of who each dance had been promised to that evening.

Buffy was still marveling at this strange practice as they moved to the front of the line. Ellen and Cecily Underwood were standing just inside the doorway of the ballroom, their hands extended graciously to the ever-moving line of guests. William murmured an abbreviated hello to each of them, and Buffy, after a slight pause, did the same. After this, they were free to do as they liked—within reason, of course—until the dancing commenced.

Now was the time when the guests greeted each other and chatted, as the gentlemen began to fill the women's dance cards. William introduced Buffy to so many people she did not even bother trying to remember all their names. It didn’t matter anyway. Most of them did not stay to talk very long, although a few of the men did commandeer some of the dances on Buffy’s program. She noticed that each time this happened, the muscles in William’s jaw seemed to contract just a little bit more, though it was not until they had a few minutes alone that he said anything about it.

“I am not a skilled dancer.”

Buffy had been admiring the elaborately dressed musicians who sat in a small group off to one side of the room, and at first, she did not hear him. When he repeated himself, she was not sure what to think of the comment.

“I’m sure you’re fine,” she said. “I’m the one who should be worried. This is my first ball—or, um, my first British ball, anyway. I’ll probably make an idiot of myself, somehow.”

William ignored her interruption as though he never heard it at all. “What I mean to say,” he continued doggedly, “is that you—you might not wish to dance with someone as inept as myself. However…if you could overlook my awkwardness…perhaps…”

Suddenly realizing what he was getting at, Buffy extended the dance card to him.

“Which ones do you want?” she asked with a smile. “Fill them in. I’ve been cooped up so long, I am ready to dance every dance…and if all of them are with you, then that's even better.”

His hand trembled as he took up the pencil, and it took him some time to fill in the ones he wanted. Yet when he returned the card to Buffy, she saw that he had not requested more than five of the twenty-four different numbers. She looked at him questioningly, and he offered her an apologetic smile.

“Although nothing would give me greater pleasure, it would not be seemly for me to monopolize your company this evening. I—I hope you understand. I hope you aren’t hurt…”

Buffy was not hurt. If anything, her smile had widened when she looked up from reading the dance card. Every dance he had requested was a waltz, slow and romantic.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~






Two hours into the ball, Buffy was beginning to come around to William's way of thinking: society parties sucked.

For one thing, the dance card system did her no favors at all. For some reason, the only men who asked her to dance were complete social outcasts. If they weren’t as old as dirt, then they were fat, or boring, or stupid, or they had some other disagreeable quality that clearly earmarked them as the “undesirables” of the group. Unfortunately for Buffy, she had no way of refusing their requests to dance, for they could see whether a number was taken just by glancing at her card. Therefore, she had little choice but to spend much of the evening trying to avoid having her feet crushed by overweight, middle-aged bachelors. Even when she sat out a song or two, she got no reprieve. William was nowhere to be seen, so she sat down on one of the small seats in the corner of the room. The older matrons of the group generally occupied this small clump of chairs, and they did not seem pleased when Buffy invaded their territory. They glared at her suspiciously when she sat down, and almost immediately began to ask personal questions she did not want to answer.

Where are you from?


What did your father do?


How do you know the Hartleys?


How came you to be in London?


What is the duration of your visit?


Buffy stumbled through these questions as best she could. However, from the sidelong glances those women kept shooting one another, she knew she had not done well. After the interrogation was finished, they turned their backs on her and began to have a whispered conference amongst themselves. She did not have to hear their words to understand what they were saying: What on earth was a good lady like Anne Hartley doing, taking such a common girl as that one into her home?

By this time, Buffy desired nothing so much as to leave that hateful ballroom. Even to slip away to some quiet alcove for just a few minutes. She might have done it, except that her next eager partner was waiting for his dance, making absurd gestures as he beckoned her to the edge of the floor. So she sighed and fixed a smile to her face, ready to spend yet another song trying to avoid being stepped on while her companion clumsily maneuvered his corpulent body in the graceful steps of the quadrille.

As she suffered this, Buffy’s eyes and her mind were on anything but her partner. She was looking for William, who, as a gentleman, should have been dancing every number so as not to leave any of the ladies sitting out. Yet he was still strangely absent from floor, or even the sidelines. He was not in the ballroom at all, and he did not show up until just before the minuet de la cour, almost an hour later. It was his dance, this third waltz of the evening, and he had appeared for the express purpose of claiming it. And even though Buffy was still slightly puzzled by his absence during the first part of the evening, she could not hide her pleasure at his return. When he slid his arm about her waist, she felt that the night might just be salvaged, after all.

True, he was just as awkward on the dance floor as he had promised to be, but somehow this did not matter. And he wasn’t horrible at it. He didn’t step on her toes, nor was he hopelessly out of rhythm. He was just so very tense, struggling to figure out how closely he should hold her and how quickly to move his feet and what to say. It was actually kind of endearing how hard he tried. When he asked her if she was enjoying herself, Buffy rewarded his effort with a soft squeeze of her hand on his shoulder and a brilliant smile.

“Of course, I’m enjoying myself,” she murmured into his ear. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

“You flatter me,” he said quickly. “Though, actually, what I meant was these past two hours. Have you been enjoying the ball? I heard on fairly good account that you seem to have had no lack of willing partners…”

She detected a hint of jealousy in his tone, and she smiled. “Willing, maybe,” she conceded. “But not exactly enviable. I’ve been all right, I guess, but talking to some of these men is about as interesting as watching paint dry. What about you?” she added. “I haven’t seen you all evening, on the dance floor or anywhere else. You haven’t been courting the ladies in some dark recess, have you?” She said it lightly enough, but there was a trace of jealousy in her tone as well. The memory of his ogling Cecily Underwood was still fresh in her mind and the thought that he might have slipped away to do more of it was galling.

He flushed, confused by the insinuation. “Why…no…I would not…that is, I do not…”

“Well, then, where have you been? I haven’t seen you in ages. And I looked for you, you know.”

“You did?”

“I was hoping you would come rescue me from the four hundred pound dancing wonder, Neville,” she explained. “He’s been back three times, and each time, he tells me how light I am to hold while at the same time lumbering across my feet like an ox. My toes are just about crushed.”

William laughed at that—really laughed, not just his customary quiet chuckle—and several of the nearby couples looked at them curiously.

“I am sorry, Miss Elizabeth. Although I must point out, Neville has many fine qualities if not grace on the dance floor.”

“Fine qualities, my aching right foot,” she quipped. “The man has lamed me! I think he broke a nail. You should have come to my rescue, gentleman that you are.”

“I’m sorry,” he said humbly. “I was not aware you were in need of rescuing. I was downstairs in the parlor.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“I was...talking with some of the gentlemen.”

Something about the way he said it led Buffy to believe he was not being entirely truthful. Again, the specter of Cecily Underwood flitted across her memory, and for a moment, jealousy choked her. But of course, Cecily had not left the ballroom in that time; he could not have been with her. And the way he was holding her…the look in his eyes when he spoke…Buffy could not believe he would be more interested in another woman than in her.

Yet neither could she let the matter drop.

“Talking with gentlemen?” she echoed questioningly. “All this time? Why haven’t you been dancing?”

“I—I don’t care very much for dancing.”

So he said, but the almost possessive tightening of his arm around her waist told Buffy differently. He enjoyed dancing very much, if it was with the right person. The thought warmed her, but she could not resist the desire to tease him, he made it so easy.

“Oh, well. If you want to stop, then—”

“Not at all!” William said. His hand was resting on Buffy’s lower back, and at the first suggestion that she might draw away he braced his palm more firmly in an attempt to keep her with him. However, he underestimated his own strength—or, more likely, overestimated her desire for retreat—the result being that he pulled her off balance, throwing her forward against his body.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Buffy couldn’t even think about what to do with her feet now. Aside from the fact that she had almost fallen, she was also stunned to find herself leaning into him, her breasts pressed into his chest. Through all the layers of clothing they were both wearing, she could feel the feverish heat of his body; she thought she might even be able to feel his heart beating. When she tilted her head back to look at him, she realized with a shock that his mouth was just a few centimeters from her own.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. And she was dazed by the warm caress of his breath against her skin, by the slight trembling of his bottom lip so close to her own.

“Forgive you…for what?” she asked.

“For making you feel as though I did not wish to dance with you, when in fact it was what I have been looking forward to all evening.”

“Was it?”

“The only thing I have looked forward to,” he amended hoarsely, and she shivered at the intensity in his tone. In his eyes. Somewhere in the back of her mind was the thought that she should not alter the past, that she should not have allowed this to progress as far as it already had. But the thought was vague and faraway. To Buffy, it seemed a concern from long ago, a concern stifled by the greater desire for him to verbalize the longing in his expression. If he would only say it—if he would only do what she knew it was killing him not to do—

He released her abruptly and took a step back, and she realized with a start that the music had stopped and the waltz was over. Stephen-something-or-other, her partner for the next number had already approached them and bowed to her the way polite men did. Buffy returned his smile mechanically and tried not to notice the pained look on William’s face as another man drew her into his arms.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~




There were fourteen dances during that first part of the evening, and then the supper room opened to the guests. It was nearly ten o’clock by then, and Buffy should have been famished, but this was not the case. The dining area was crowded and so elegantly turned out, that she felt in a constant panic lest she break or spill something. Not only this, but because Victorian party procedure strictly dictated that one should not be seated next to the person she arrived with, Buffy was not permitted to dine with William. She ended up at the complete opposite end of the long table, surrounded by people she did not even know. People she was beginning to think she didn’t even want to know.

The fact was that several of the party guests kept looking at her as though she were an animal in a zoo. At first, she was concerned that something had happened to her hair or dress, and she surreptitiously looked in the back of her soupspoon to check. However, aside from being a little flushed from the heat of the room, she looked almost exactly the same as when she had walked in. She thought, then, that it might be because she was an American and therefore foreign to them, although as she began to overhear bits of conversation she realized this was not exactly all of it. Being American made her a novelty to them, of course. But living with the Hartleys made her a joke. In fact, the more she overheard conversations about her—and them—the more she came to understand that she was seen as being distinctly under their charity. Or, under William’s charity. And the Victorian “ladies” made no bones about why they believed he was being so generous.

One red-haired young woman, who sat three or four places down table from Buffy, was especially blunt in her criticism. She was not speaking loud, but the room was fairly quiet, and Buffy had sharp ears anyway, so she could not help overhearing every word.

“I have heard quite a few rumors about Miss Summers and that she is not what she seems. The Hartleys’ cook told our scullery maid that she is nothing but a glorified servant, come to help Anne while she is ill. Apparently, she arrived with nothing but the clothes on her back, and William took her up and gave her everything she has. Can you imagine anything quite so distasteful?”

The blond girl sitting next to the redhead made a face as though she had bitten into a lemon.

It’s all so vulgar, really,” she sighed with the flit of one hand. “Yet what can one expect? What other woman would have our dear William? His only recourse would be to purchase one…”

The redhead screeched with horrified delight at what was, for 1880, a very risqué statement. She collapsed into giggles against a third, dark-haired girl’s shoulder and said, “Cecily, do you agree with Catherine? Or do you perhaps lament the loss of your bold suitor?”

Cecily.

Buffy’s head snapped around in their direction. Yes, there she was, Cecily Underwood. The same young lady who had so graciously greeted them when they first arrived was now coloring with anger at her friend’s joke. She lifted her chin haughtily.

“I can assure you, it is of supreme indifference to me what he does.”

The red-haired Catherine gave a shrill laugh. “To be sure! Why else would you invite him, then? One would certainly not consider herself fortunate to be in William Hartley’s affections, yet to be cast out of his affections in favor of a servant girl from across the sea must be—”

“I find that to be most fortunate of all!” snapped Cecily. “Do you think I shall miss that fool giving me calf’s-eyes from across the room, while he writes that absurd poetry of his? I would have washed my hands of him long ago, if Mother was not so fond of Mrs. Hartley. As it is, she insisted I invite him to our gatherings. I asked Miss Summers in the hope she would offer him a distraction, and so far this proves fruitful.”

“I should say it has!” agreed Catherine in a scandalized hiss. “Did you note how closely they danced together? She was leaning against him, and their faces were almost touching!”

“Who would not have noticed it?” demanded the blonde. “Though I have never thought much of William, I would never have suspected such impropriety from him as that. Likely, it is the influence of the American…”

The American, meanwhile, was endeavoring not to hear the rest of their conversation. She wished she had not heard as much as she had. It made her feel dirty, somehow. These people saw her as nothing but a gentleman’s mistress, a project taken up by William so that he could have female companionship. They were interested in her not because she was an American, but because she was a scandal. That was why none of the women would speak to her, aside from putting her through the third degree about her past. That was why the only men who would dance with her were ugly and single and—and weird. They thought that because of what she was, they could all of them have her if they wanted her. They thought she was for sale. She was sitting at a table with a hundred people who all thought she was a prostitute.

Appalled by the realization, she started to rise. She had to find William. He had to take her home, because she was sure as hell not spending the rest of the evening listening to a bunch of catty women call her a whore.

As it happened, dinner was ending anyway, and Buffy found that leaving was not as easy as she might wish. The crowd around the door was dense, and their progress into the corridor was slow. She looked around for William. Just seeing him, just hearing his voice would take this dirty, humiliated feeling from her, she was sure. But William was nowhere to be seen. Either he had slipped away from dinner early, or he was caught further back in the throng. She thought then that she might linger near the doorway to the ballroom and catch him as he went in, but as she edged her way into that vast room, a voice suddenly rang out and stopped her.

“Ah, Miss Summers! How are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

The voice belonged to Charles Archer, the “guttersnipe” she had met out on the steps when she arrived. Now he was standing in the near corner of the room with another man, this one rather younger than he was and with a closer clipped, neater mustache and dark hair. He looked familiar, but Buffy had met so many people over the course of the evening that his name escaped her. Not that it mattered. Charles seemed to be doing most of the talking, anyway. He also seemed to have drunk a great deal of champagne at dinner, which meant he was talking at a volume twice that of the people around them.

“My very dear Miss Summers!” he boomed, his enormous sandy mustache stretching into a smile as he approached her. “We were wondering when we would get a chance to speak with you!”

While he had not said anything offensive, there was something in his expression that Buffy did not like, and she backed away from him slightly before she answered.

“I have been here all night,” she said brusquely. However, Charles refused to see the implication.

“Of course you have,” he answered gaily. “And now you must allow me to have the pleasure of a dance. I am a fine dancer, as any lady in this room can attest, and it would be the pleasure of my life to lead a lovely creature such as yourself in the next waltz.”

For a Victorian gentleman, he was certainly being rude and overly aggressive about asking her, but Buffy felt it would be easier to endure one dance with him than to refuse. He was a little drunk, and she didn’t want him making a scene. And she knew she could handle anything he could dish out on her anyway. If any part of his body tried to wander somewhere inappropriate then she would take that appendage, break it off, and shove it up his ass for him.

However, despite the obvious intoxication, Archer did not try to grope once they were on the floor, and he was a surprisingly skilled dancer. More skilled than William, although she did not enjoying dancing with him nearly so much, perhaps because he insisted on yammering on at top volume the entire time.

“Miss Summers,” he bellowed as they moved slowly within the crowd. “Tell me all about yourself. I have never had the pleasure of meeting an American before. Do tell me all about your home there.”

Buffy opened her mouth to answer him, but before she could, he interrupted.

“And tell me all about how you came to be with the Hartleys here in London; I am quite interested in knowing. I know they appear to be quite taken with you. Our own dear William is said to be simply mad for you, as a matter of fact.”

“Is he?” Buffy asked. Her tone was light, but her hand clenched his so hard it was a wonder he didn’t cry out with pain. Maybe the alcohol kept him from feeling it.

“Of course he is,” Charles stated firmly. “You must know this. In fact—has he written you any of his poetry yet?”

Buffy stared at him blankly. There was that word again.

“Poetry?” she echoed. In her confusion, she had stopped dancing. Archer clasped her waist more tightly and began dragging her about in the appropriate patterns to keep her from standing in the way of the other couples.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t heard William’s poetry,” he said suggestively as he pulled her around.

“No, I haven’t.”

Archer grinned like a Cheshire cat.

“Oh! But you must!”

As soon as the number ended, he pulled Buffy off the dance floor, leading her over to where he had spotted William standing near the door. That distinctly jealous look was on William’s face again, and Archer noticed it at once and with pleasure.

“William, my good man,” he said smoothly. “Miss Summers has just told me that you haven’t read her any of your poetry! Now, how can you keep such talent as you have hidden? Go on—do favor us with a recitation.”

William, by now standing just a dozen feet away, looked dumbfounded. Buffy glared at Archer furiously, but he spoke again before she could make any retort.

“He does come up with some of the most inventive verses!” he said in a confidential yet clear-carrying sort of tone, which brought the attention of everyone close by. He tapped the side of his head thoughtfully. “There was one in particular…it was composed at a party rather like this one, if you can imagine! Now, let me see…How did it go…?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Buffy saw William’s face go red and then white in horror.

“…something about how Cecily there had skin as radiantly white as a moonbeam sparkling on a mountain stream. Cecily!” he called out to her. “Surely you can remember the verse?”

Across the room, Cecily looked simply livid.

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you are talking about,” she said coldly. “But I suggest you lower your voice, now. You are making an even bigger fool of yourself than the fool poet of whom you speak.” She turned her back on them.

Archer laughed easily.

“Ah, romantic disappointment! Well, I suppose you must ask William to tell it in its entirety.” He sighed. “Although, I daresay you should not want to hear his love-poems to other women when I am sure he has written you plenty of your own. I did see him in the parlor earlier, scribbling away like mad—”

Buffy’s head whipped around just in time to see William making his way through the crowd and out of the room.

“Oh, I fear that I’ve embarrassed him,” chuckled Archer. “Yet I cannot see why he should attempt to keep his talent thus hidden—”

“You know,” Buffy interrupted him swiftly. “Whatever else he has, William has a talent for being pleasant and kind—something you people obviously know nothing about.”

Archer’s eyes glittered.

“Ah, yes!” he answered, and his voice had dropped to a whisper only she could hear. “Do tell me about William’s kindness to you, Miss Summers. I am quite fascinated by that subject.”

“If you think—” she began. Her voice was shaking with rage, but Archer misinterpreted it as feminine weakness and quickly went in for the kill.

“It is not what I think, my beautiful lady.” He leaned in, blowing his hot breath into her face as he added, “It’s what everyone thinks. It is, in fact, one of the reasons you are here tonight. We had to see the woman who had our William behaving like a man in his dotage—the woman who had him so entranced that he must keep her in his household as well as in his bed. You must understand how very odd it is for a gentleman to make a pet out of a servant girl. And you see…well…we had always figured William for something of a poufter…”

She had raised her hand without even realizing she was doing so, and when these last words passed Archer’s lips, she struck him, her hand cracking against his cheek so hard that he actually stumbled backward from the force of it. He looked furious, but in the sudden confusion of a new crowd of people entering the ballroom, no one else seemed to have noticed that anything was amiss. And before Archer had sufficiently recovered from his shock to say anything, Buffy was gone.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~