Page 13 of The Christmas Ball
The white candles in their tin holders waited to be lit, and a few buckets of water were discreetly tucked in the corner of the room, just in case the tree caught fire. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, savoring the anticipation. It would be a festive evening to remember, and one that would ideally end with her brother at last forming an attachment.
Heavens knew, the half-dozen young ladies she’d invited were all lovely, intelligent, and possessed of impeccable pedigrees. Surely Theo couldn’t remain insensible toallof them. Especially during the warmth of the Christmas season, which was most certainly conducive to love.
Then one of the maids came looking for her, and Viola was once again swept into the preparations. Before she knew it, the sun was down and the guests were arriving for dinner. Dovington’s chef, Monsieur Allard, had prepared a grand feast, complete with roast goose, braised vegetables, and of course, Yorkshire pudding.
Drew, looking most ducal, presided from the head of the table, which the servants had extended to seat eight-and-twenty. Viola had placed Lord Winslow some distance down the table, on the same side as her own, so that she would not have him distractingly in her line of sight.
The crystal goblets and gold-chased plates sparkled, reflecting the winking chandeliers overhead and the ranks of candelabra marching down the center of the table. The conversation was lively, the food delicious, and the footmen attentive with the water and wine.
Theo was surrounded by eligible young women, and Viola watched closely, trying to determine which of the ladies seemed to catch his interest. Unfortunately, he was equally affable toward all of them.
Well, then. She’d continue her observation during the dancing. Surely at least one of the eligible misses would be able to capture her brother’s attention.
The dinner ended with a round of Mena’s parkin cake, served with a creamy hard sauce that balanced the dark sweetness of the gingerbread perfectly. Once everyone was replete, Drew rose from the head of the table and extended his arm to his duchess. Together the lord and lady of the house led the way to the ballroom.
The duke paused before the closed doors and nodded to Viola, who stepped up with a smile. She knew that the moment dessert had been served, the servants had set to work lighting the dozens of candles upon the tree, and trusted that all was in readiness, as planned.
“I’m delighted you’ve come to our festive little ball,” she said to the assembled guests, carefully not looking at Lord Winslow. “Before you depart this evening, don’t forget to collect your gifts from the branches of the Christmas tree. Speaking of which…”
She turned and rapped her gloved knuckles upon the door. A moment later, the latch drew back and then the doors slowly swung open into the ballroom. The guests pressed forward, craning their necks, and she heard someone—Lady Holly perhaps—remark softly how dim the interior seemed.
That, of course, was by design. There was only one source of light in the large ballroom, and as the doors opened wide, it was revealed in all its glory.
The Christmas tree.
Its candles sparkled like stars, the glass beads reflecting the flames in a myriad of tiny constellations. The ribbons shimmered, the red velvet bags were brushed with light, and at the very top, crowning the majestic evergreen, glowed a gold-foiled star.
“Oh,” another young lady said, pressing her hand flat against her chest. “How magical.”
It was. Viola felt a pang of wonder herself, even though she’d arranged for every detail.
As the guests moved into the ballroom, the small group of musicians on the far side of the room began playing softly. The strains of a Bach Minuet wove gently through the fir-scented air as the servants began re-lighting the wall sconces. In a few moments, the music would transition to a waltz, and Mena and Drew would open the ball by taking to the floor.
Viola planned to hold back and see which young lady managed to snag Theo for the dance. She saw her brother glancing her way, no doubt looking to be rescued, and she hurriedly ducked back—only to collide with the solid form of one of the guests.
Even before she turned, she knew who it was by the telltale scent of cloves and leather: Lord Winslow.
“I beg your pardon,” she said stiffly, staring at his cravat.
It was elegantly tied, the gold buttons on his ivory brocade waistcoat gleaming, his black coat hugging his broad shoulders… In short, he cut a very fine figure. One whom she desperately wanted to escape.
“Not at all,” he said, then touched her arm as she turned to go. “Wait a moment. Please.”
She pivoted back to him, and this time met his gaze. For some reason, her heartbeat fluttered in her chest like a flurry of snow swirled by a fierce wind.
“Yes?” She attempted an arch tone, but to her dismay her voice emerged slightly breathless.
“Lady Viola, would you grant me the favor of this dance?”
She blinked at Lord Winslow. They’d done fairly well avoiding one another, thus far. Why was he asking her to waltz, of all things?
He must have seen the question in her eyes, for his intent look deepened. “I promised my sister I would ask you. And I never go back on my word.”
***
Grayson stared into Lady Viola’s dark eyes, his heartbeat inexplicably pounding as though he’d just sprinted across a frosty field. It had seemed a simple thing to agree to his sister’s request when she’d badgered him on the carriage ride over. A polka or set dance, whirl Lady Viola about the ballroom a few times, and that would be the end of it.
But then they’d stepped into the softly lit room, the Christmas tree presiding like some kind of glowing forest spirit, and Charlotte had prodded him in the back.
