Dear Future Husband

40. Do You Know My Daughter?

21 April 1894

Maximilian watched as Rosalie, murmuring an excuse to him, ran off toward her friend. His hand felt bereft of hers. He had not even been able to secure a dance with her, though the memory of the one they had shared all those years ago, under false names, still burned fever-bright in his memory. Standing by the lemonade table, he thought he might take a minute to take in the sights. After all, a ball was still a rarity for him, even if he might be a duke's son by blood.

Had he made the right decision in coming here? What if she decided that she could never forgive him and had made up her mind to hate him forever? He had no way of knowing what she had thought about him or her feelings toward him during the past five years. What if she thought him too lowly to associate with and that was why she had run off so quickly? No, then why would she have entertained his conversation in the first place? But perhaps she only did not wish to be rude and give him the cut direct. The thoughts swarmed through his mind like a pack of bees, making him wish he had never come tonight. Ballroom etiquette was more intimidating than facing off with Edgar Wakefield ever had been.

"Excuse me, sir," came a sudden female voice, the tone sickly sweet, cloying. "Could you possibly assist me with a grave matter?"

He spun on his shoes, unused to the way the fine leather and well-made soles moved on the well-tiled floor, which he had been informed by the host was laid into a mosaic of a Bengal tiger. Not that one could witness such a thing, considering the dance floor was crowded with waltzing couples. "How may I help you, madam?"

Then, Maximilian stiffened. Had Madam been the right form of address? He ought to have said my lady, shouldn't he? Now, he would be momentarily exposed as a fraud... Still, the lady's expression did not betray any offence she may have taken at his words. Instead, her perfectly composed face, in which a pair of blue eyes shone out, and surrounded by a blonde coiffure, remained, well, perfectly composed. There was something familiar about her, something he could not quite place. She was an older woman, at least in her early forties, but her navy silk gown was far from matronly.

"Well, I noticed you were speaking... No, allow me to introduce myself, first," she said with a graceful smile. The flickering sconces threw shadow over her face, revealing the lines by her blue eyes. "I am Lady Cornelia Wa- that is, Lady Cornelia Winthrop."

He frowned at her mistake, eyebrows pulling together. For a moment, he thought she might have been on the verge of introducing herself as Cornelia Wakefield. But no, that was silly. Edgar Wakefield had long been shunned from polite society, had he not? "Maximilian Walker, my lady, at your service. How might I assist you?"

"I only wished to inquire... Do you know my daughter?" she asked, the same dazzling smile on her face. Lady Cornelia fanned herself with a fan decked out in frippery and painted with blue flowers."Rosalie, I meant."

"I... We are fairly well-acquainted," he said. Did Rosalie have a mother? Hadn't she once told him something about her mother being out of the picture? Perhaps her mother lived somewhere else? He couldn't remember now what she had said to him. They had not spent much time discussing their respective parentages, considering his lack on that part. Well, his supposed lack. "Why do you ask? Surely a mother should know such things about her daughter and the company she keeps."

Though, of course Lady Cornelia would not–not when she had left her daughter and husband years ago, abandoning her own child. Now, Rosalie was returning, arm-in-arm with the redheaded girl. Her beaming grin felt like rays of sunshine, though the sun had long since set. "Maximilian, this is my dear friend. Anna Carver. Anna, this is Maximilian."

"Rosalie, apparently this woman professes to be your mother, a Lady Cornelia Winthrop," he said, gesturing towards the dame in blue silk. "Is this true?"

Rosalie dropped Anna's hand... and her own jaw. "Mother?"