Midnight Masquerade

The Diamond and The Waltz

The ballroom glittered with opulence, every corner drenched in candlelight, the air heavy with anticipation. Whispers floated among the guests as they awaited the Queen's decision. Evelina stood beside Clara, her heart pounding in her chest, but her face betraying none of the anxiety she felt. Lady Margaret, ever composed, kept a watchful eye on her daughter as they stood at attention, waiting.

From her grand seat at the front of the ballroom, the Queen rose, her gown shimmering in the soft glow. Her expression was unreadable as she surveyed the crowd, her fan opening and closing with deliberate grace. Every woman in the room held her breath.

Then, with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, the Queen's voice rang out: "Lady Evelina Sinclair."

Gasps echoed around the room, eyes wide with shock and envy. Clara squeezed Evelina's arm in excitement, whispering hurriedly, "Oh my stars, Evelina! The diamond! The Queen's diamond!" But Clara's voice was almost lost in the tidal wave of murmurs and sidelong glances.

Evelina, though dazed, remembered to curtsy gracefully in the direction of the Queen. She could feel the heat of jealous eyes on her back as the other debutantes stiffened, their carefully curated smiles cracking ever so slightly. Clara, ever observant, leaned in close. "You may want to steel yourself, Evelina. I daresay we'll have to fend off not only the eligible men but every jealous debutante in the room."

Evelina kept her composure, though her pulse was racing. "I can feel their eyes burning through my mask, Clara. Do you think I've any hope of surviving the night unscathed?"

"Perhaps, though I wouldn't bet on it," Clara quipped with a grin. "Still, if you're lucky, their ire may ruin their coiffures before they get a chance to pounce."

Before Evelina could respond, a group of debutantes swept forward, eager to shower her with thinly veiled compliments. Chief among them was Lady Arabella, her voice syrupy sweet, yet sharp as glass. "Well, it seems fortune favors the bold. Or, perhaps, those who simply stand in the right light."

The barb hit its mark, but Evelina only smiled. "Perhaps, Arabella. But the light, I find, favors those who carry themselves with grace."

Beside her, Clara gave a subtle, approving nod. "Oh, Arabella, do you think there's enough light for all of us to glow, or must you now sit in the shade?"

Lady Arabella's mouth tightened, but before she could retort, the sound of the orchestra tuning their instruments filled the room. The Master of Ceremonies announced the start of the evening's waltz, and the room shifted with excitement. Eyes turned to Evelina, expectant, and within seconds, several eligible men began making their way toward her.

"Brace yourself," Clara whispered with a wink. "I suspect the flood is about to begin."

Lord Talbot reached Evelina first, his hand extended confidently. "Lady Evelina, may I have the honor of the first dance?"

Evelina smiled, poised. She could feel Clara's gaze boring into her, and as she prepared to accept Lord Talbot's hand, Clara whispered teasingly, "The first of many, I suspect. Do be careful, Evelina—one wrong step, and you may have all of London at your feet."

But just as her hand was about to meet Lord Talbot's, a presence stirred in the crowd—a presence Evelina could feel more than see. Her breath caught as her eyes met those of the Marquess, Alistair Blackwood, standing across the room. He watched her with an intensity that made the ballroom seem to shrink around them. His face was unreadable beneath his mask, but his gaze—dark and unwavering—sent a shiver through Evelina. It was as though, in that moment, he had claimed her attention without uttering a word.

"Evelina?" Lord Talbot prompted, his hand still outstretched.

Her eyes flicked back to Lord Talbot, but her mind was elsewhere. Clara, ever the mischief-maker, had noticed as well. "Oh, I see now—Lord Talbot is clearly the front-runner for your affections, Evelina. And yet, why is it that your gaze keeps drifting to the Marquess, I wonder?"

"Clara, stop," Evelina whispered sharply, though her cheeks had warmed. "You're imagining things."

But she wasn't imagining the weight of Alistair's gaze. Before she could make a decision, Alistair began to move toward her. The room seemed to part for him, as though even the other men sensed they could not compete. Without a word, he approached, his presence commanding.

With a silent bow, he offered his hand, and without understanding why, Evelina took it. The waltz began, the music swelling around them, but all Evelina could hear was the quiet sound of her own breath mingling with his. His hand rested firmly on her waist, and they moved together, fluidly, as though they had danced together a hundred times before.

"You're handling the attention well," Alistair said quietly, his voice low against the hum of the music.

"I had little choice," she replied, her voice a touch breathless, though she tried to hide it.

"No one ever does," he murmured, his hand tightening slightly at her waist.

She glanced up at him, her heart racing. "And yet, you seem above it all, my lord. Untouched by the fray."

"Appearances are often deceiving, Lady Evelina."

The tension between them was almost unbearable. Every step brought them closer, every movement charged with an unspoken connection. The room, the music, even the other guests seemed to fade into the background. All Evelina could focus on was the Marquess—the firm grip of his hand, the way he held her with such confidence, as if she were meant to be in his arms.

As the waltz came to an end, they parted, but the heat of his touch lingered on her waist, an invisible mark that no one else could see. Other men quickly approached, eager to have their turn with the Queen's diamond, but none of them could command her attention like the Marquess.

"Well," Clara whispered, sidling up to Evelina as the next suitor extended his hand, "I don't think I've ever seen a waltz like that. Care to explain what exactly happened there?"

Evelina's cheeks flushed again, but she kept her voice steady. "Nothing. It was just a dance."

Clara gave her a knowing look. "It didn't look like 'just a dance' from where I was standing. You two looked as though you were the only people in the room."

Evelina tried to shake the feeling that Clara was right. Even as the night wore on, and more men tried to capture her attention, her mind kept drifting back to the waltz with Alistair—the way his hand had felt on her waist, the way his words had made her pulse quicken. She couldn't explain it, but something had shifted between them, something she wasn't ready to admit even to herself.

As the evening continued, she couldn't help but wonder—what did Alistair Blackwood want with her? And why did she so desperately want to find out?