Page 74 of The Dragoneers of Longbourn and Pemberley
Valeraine wished she could smile fondly, like Alyce did, seeing the beauty in Selaide’s spirit and determination. All she could muster was not exploding and saying all the places she would rather put a dress than in Selaide’s hands.
It would be nice, she acknowledged, to not have Selaide as a sister. If they were just ladies from the same neighborhood, they might be friends, fitting together in their stubbornness. Alas, because they were sisters, this was impossible. They were always in competition: for gowns, for Mamma’s favor, for the piece of toast at breakfast. They would always be enemies: two predators forced into a too-small territory. Valeraine could not allow her to win.
However, Valeraine would accept Selaide’s help to style her hair. She would strut in front of Mr. Pemberley in this elegant ensemble with her hair perfectly coiffed. He would ask her to dance — in awe of her — and she would have the privilege of rejecting him again. She hoped for the chance to reject him many times in the coming years, many opportunities to put him in his place. One day, his infatuation and admiration of her might dry up.
Or, perhaps, that day had already come. Perhaps her rejection of his marriage proposal combined with not responding to his letter had done the trick. He might never ask her to dance again. He already possessed many negative opinions of her, and perhaps those had already overpowered the love.
The thought left her in melancholy. Would she not get the chance to tell Pemberley how offensive and repulsive he was again?
Did he even think of her anymore? Had the good and the bad emotions he harbored mixed together into apathy?
Valeraine should be pleased she no longer needed to attend to Pemberley’s advances, that she would not have to suffer his conversation again. Instead, she yearned to hear his voice, even if it was just for him to insult her. The last words they said to each other should not be, “Your mask,”and,“Amaranth’s fine.”Their last words should be ones brimming with hate and fire — an expression of how thoroughly they despised each other.
Could she really even say those words to him, now? Now that she had seen him helpless, tangled in his tethers. Or now that she had read his letter that contained an honest apology. It was becoming difficult to maintain her disdain.
Pemberley was a flawed, odious man.
He was also an honest man whose mistakes were a product of a flawed attempt at being a stalwart friend and advocate for safety in dragon derbies.
It was time to descend to the ballroom. The Longbourn sisters collected their skirts and checked each other’s hair, and drifted as a pack of women to the ball.
Valeraine would dance, and she would revel in the party. She would not even look at Pemberley. He likely wouldn’t even attend, with his leg injured. She wondered how bad it was, and when he would be able to dance again. He wouldn’t be asking anyone to dance tonight, certainly. No matter.
The ballroom of Pemberley manor could have been a cousin to the Rosings ballroom. They were both grand and expensively furnished. However, where the Rosings ballroom had been showing off, this one was more restrained. There were exquisite mouldings and sculpted filigrees on the walls. The chandelierswere gold and crystal, throwing light around the room and making everything sparkle. There were vast windows along one wall, capturing the twilight hour as it creeped in. By the end of the ball, the windows would let in the sparkling starlight.
There was one man Valeraine wanted to dance with, and she spied him: Kesley was chatting with two people she didn’t recognize. He smiled easily as she approached and introduced her to the circle, and continued the conversation, talking with competence and passion on dragoneering. As the conversation turned to the recent actions of the Prince Regent, Kesley skillfully extricated himself and Valeraine to the dance floor.
The song was slow, and Kesley led her beautifully through the steps. He said, “I think my popularity here is due to this baffling rumor that I’m the masked rider for Longbourn.”
“Oh? What do you say to that?”
“I say, ‘Nobody knows who he is,’ and I give a wink. Everyone gets the idea.”
“Thank you for that,” Valeraine said. “We must keep them off the true trail.”
“They do love you, though. A rider who helps a downed opponent is always admired.”
“I would have thought those who abandon the race would be considered fools. I certainly felt one, rescuing Pemberley.” She gave an exaggerated expression of disgust.
Kesley gave this the laugh that it deserved, boisterous and wicked. “It’s true Mr. Pemberley is not popular. However, everyone wishes that if they go down, someone will ambulance them, and so they praise the ones who do it.”
“An admiration born from fear, rather than from charity.”
“Exactly. Well said, Val.”
The song ended, and Kesley went to dance with Selaide — to head off her tantrum upon seeing Valeraine with Selaide’s proprietary favorite.
Valeraine strolled around the room, looking for friendly faces. She saw Mamma and Merna sitting by the wall, ignoring each other in the way that said they had fought. Alyce (she was satisfied to see) was dancing with Nethenabbi, both smiling. The room was full of dragoneers from the race. They were familiar, and yet she didn’t dare talk to them — particularly Rosings — for fear of the spark of recognition. It was much safer for them all to only see Kesley, and not consider any other candidates for the masked rider.
“Miss Longbourn,” a self-assured voice called.
Valeraine knew that voice. She should pretend she hadn’t heard him over the noise of the ball, acting like his voice held no power.
Pemberley had reached her, and she couldn’t bring herself to pretend otherwise. He was sitting near the musicians in the fanciest chair in the room, padded and with intricate damask and gilding. His left foot was propped up on a footstool, wrapped in bandages instead of a boot. He would not be dancing with her today. He wouldn’t be chasing her around the ballroom, either; she could walk away. But then she wouldn’t know what he had to say. Then, the last words they ever said to each other might really be, “Your mask,”and,“Amaranth’s fine.”
Valeraine approached and curtsied. “Mr. Pemberley,” she acknowledged.
He gestured to the woman sitting next to him. She was a girl, maybe the age of Selaide, in her older teen years. She had perfect posture, a refined pleasant smile, and golden hair. “This is my sister, Olivinta. This is Miss Valeraine Longbourn.”
