Rivals and Revels (A Regency Romance)

11. The Ode to Heroes (1 of 2)

The ballroom brimmed with merriment when she came inside. The musicians played quadrille, the pairs obediently switched, then switched back again amidst much joyful stomping. Men's hands stayed well clear of the ladies' waists. To Mabel's heightened sensibilities, it produced a certain undercurrent, a feeling of mutual relief, that led to the most energetic quadrille she had seen the society perform.

The couple that drew every eye were Everett and Hazel.

Her sister shone brighter than all the candles put together. The pink skirt swirled round her ankles, curls bounced under the golden circlet on her head. Bewitching eyes opened so wide that they threatened to put her partner, along with half of the gentlemen present in the room, under her spell forever. This moment she laughed at something Everett was whispering to her, without missing a single step. The next—her dazzling smile flirted with him, only to be replaced in a flash by a coquettish pout.

His skill didn't destroy her like it did Mabel, but elevated her until she reached the height of her already considerable talent.

"I don't remember that your sister danced so well," someone told Mabel.

Alas, she didn't disagree, but neither could she be sincerely glad for Hazel.

"We have been doing lessons all summer," she replied dully.

"Oh, how marvelous," came a reply after a tiny pause.

She read the reflection of her own thought in the speaker's face: those lessons benefited Hazel far more than her. And she had asked for them! Was this double humiliation her own fault?

Blood drained from her face. She could barely hear her own heartbeat. Was this how ladies in the novels swooned from the misfortunes visited upon them? She would rather not swoon...

The music stopped, and Everett escorted Hazel to her seat, supporting her elbow, as if she was in any danger of tripping.

At the same time, Radcliffe moved to intercept the merry couple. His limping gait remained slow enough not to agitate those around him, but Mabel sensed urgency. Something was amiss. She followed in his wake, telling herself it was her sisterly duty since Hazel was involved in whatever was brewing.

Her flaccid pulse accelerated in response to the stiff cast of Lord Chesterton's bent back. He infected her with a dire premonition. Luckily, it was not hard to peek discreetly around him, because he was no taller than her, perhaps even an inch or so shorter. Due to this fortuitous coincidence, Mabel could see everything unfolding very well.

Hazel sat on her chair, radiant and pink-cheeked. The pupils spread so much from excitement, they almost flooded out the warm brown of the irises. Mabel's eyes were almost black, but they would have never enticed like that above the rim of the fluttering fan. Everett didn't leave her side, and Mr. Aldington encircled her chair with some other admirers.

"But Mr. Aldington, I am afraid I can't! I've already promised the next dance," Hazel exclaimed so loudly that Mabel could hear her in the din from ten yards away. To encourage her oldest and most faithful suitor, she tapped him lightly with her fan. It didn't stop him from squeezing the back of her chair with whitening fingers.

"I am having a great deal of fun, dear Mr. Aldington, like I've never had in my life!" Hazel went on, oblivious to his distress. The peals of her laughter had an incredible effect on the gentleman in question. While his clutching fingers turned positively bone-white, his cheeks flushed a contrasting deep red of the poppy blossoms. It was a wonder that in this state he could talk at all; even if it was in a tight, pitching voice.

"Whom did you promise the next dance, if I may ask?" Mr. Aldington asked.

He knew the answer before Hazel chirped. So did Mabel. So did every gentleman jostling for the spot around her.