“Here, Sir Ambrose,” she murmured quietly. “Sit here.” She helped him into the chair, grinning at Bernadette in silent thanks. Bernadette inclined her head politely. She lookedaround, cheeks flaming as she spotted some staring eyes, and hurried across the room, back to the corner where she’d hidden before. In a moment, Viola was beside her.
“A dangerous man, he is.” Viola murmured the words to evade being heard.
“Sir Ambrose isn’t dangerous,” Bernadette said softly. “Just too full of Lady Cobham’s good brandy.”
“Sir Ambrose?” Viola sounded confused for a moment. “Oh. No. Not him. I meant that man over there. He was going to ask me to dance, and I confess I didn’t wish to.”
“Which one?” Bernadette craned her neck to see, heart thudding nervously.
“Tall man. Black jacket. Over there by the pillar.”
Bernadette frowned. At first, she saw nothing, but in a moment, she spotted someone close to the back of the ballroom. The man who was standing by the wall there was very tall, his hair honey-pale and bright in the light of the candles. She couldn’t see any details of his face, since he was too far away, but she could see the tense, tight way he stood; a posture that conveyed anger or frustration.
“He looks a difficult sort,” she murmured. Perhaps difficult wouldn’t have been the word she’d have chosen—tormented, perhaps. But Viola nodded agreeably.
“I think so. I came to stand here. I don’t want him to ask me to dance. I felt intimidated.”
“Why?” Bernadette asked. That was most unlike Viola, who was both bold and outgoing. While the man looked quite unfriendly, he didn’t seem dangerous; at least not from the look of him.
“He’s strange. Very quiet,” Viola explained nervously. “And he’s got this terrible scar. I think he must have dueled a lot. I don’t like people who duel. They must be very violent,” Viola confided.
“Perhaps,” Bernadette replied. She thought perhaps the man was unfortunate, not violent—after all, perhaps he hadn’t challenged people to duels, but had himself been challenged to a few. All it took was one duel, after all, to scar a man badly.
“I want to go onto the terrace again. It’s too hot in here,” Viola murmured, interrupting her thoughts. “Are you coming?”
Bernadette nodded. It would be good to go outside, away from the heat, the off-key music, and the scrutiny of too many people. She scanned the crowd for Mama, who caught sight of them, and glared, but Bernadette turned around swiftly, determined not to see it.
I have done my best, she told herself firmly. It was no good staying inside for another hour—if she hadn’t filled up her dance-card already, she didn’t imagine that she suddenly would in the last half of the ball.
She walked with Viola, listening with half an ear to her chatter about the different people she spotted as they approached the terrace. Her thoughts were with her mother and the angry look she’d given them on their way to the door. Violawent through ahead of her, and Bernadette hung back a little, hearing the sound of voices and feeling nervous. She drew a deep breath and strode out, still focusing on her mother, and she didn’t notice that someone was in front of her until she’d thumped into them hard. The scent of pomade cannoned into her nose and a very muscled, very tall form stunned her as she connected with it at a swift pace.
“Oh!” she exclaimed in fright. “I’m so sorry.”
She looked up.
“This is a narrow doorway,” the man who gazed down at her said feeling annoyed. “You could try and be more careful.”
Bernadette froze. It was the man with the scar, the one Viola had pointed out across the ballroom. This close, the scar was about as thick as a thin piece of wool, and wove across his mouth diagonally, moving from his chin to the corner of his nose. His eyes were very blue and bright, his face chiseled. He gazed down at Bernadette disdainfully.
“I’m so sorry,” she murmured again, feeling annoyance rise in her even as shame burned her cheeks and chest. He could try being polite! He had just as much reason to apologize as she had.
“It’s very crowded in here,” he said coldly. “One ought to look more carefully before one steps into a narrow space.”
Bernadette said nothing. Cheeks burning, she stared up at the man to see if there was even a glimmer of humor or embarrassment in his gaze. His eyes were cold, pale blue and icy, and Bernadette shivered, looking hastily down. The look he wasdirecting at her was so disdainful that it held all her attention.
“Sorry,” she said again, heart thumping with the need to escape. She turned around and walked swiftly out through the door.
“Bernadette? Bernadette?” Viola was calling from where she waited out on the terrace. Bernadette ran to her.
“Thank Goodness you’re here.” She whispered the words.
“What happened?” Viola asked softly. Her big dark eyes were wide with concern. “Who was that man you were talking to?”
“He was that man you said you didn’t like. The one who nearly asked you to dance. The scarred one,” Bernadette gabbled, glancing back at the door to make sure he wasn’t there and could not hear her. She blushed fiercely and tried to get his face out of her mind. Every time she thought of it, heat flooded through her, and her heartbeat raced fearfully.
“What? And you bumped into him?” Viola let out a little shriek.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Bernadette whispered, cheeks flaring up with heat. “Please, don’t say it so loudly.”
