The Proposal

going to have to ask.

The evening of the Ravensberg ball inevitably came despite Hugo’s attempts to think about it as something comfortably far in the future. Feeling it creep up on him was not unlike knowing a great and bloody battle was in the offing, except that with the battle he could at least look forward to action and the knowledge that once it began he would forget all else, even fear.

He had the horrible feeling that fear would paralyze him when he walked in upon a ton ball.

He could get out of going altogether, he supposed, since Lady Muir had agreed to sponsor Constance, and his presence was not strictly necessary. It would not be fair, though, to Lady Muir, who was being kind to Constance only because of him. And it would not be fair to Connie, whom he had promised to take to a ball.

It would help if he could dance. Oh, he could prance about in approximate time to music as well as most other people, he supposed. He had attended a few country assemblies in the last few years and had never quite disgraced himself—except perhaps with the waltz. But dancing at a ton ball in London during the Season? It was a three-pronged combination to fill him with terror. He would rather volunteer for another Forlorn Hope.

He was to escort his sister to Redfield House on Hanover Square, the site of the ball. Lady Muir would meet them there. Hugo dressed with care—Connie was not the only one who had new clothes for the occasion—and waited in the downstairs sitting room with Fiona and her mother and sister. The latter two had called for the first time the day before. Hugo had not witnessed their meeting with Fiona in her bedchamber. But as they were leaving, they had informed him that they would return this evening to give her their company while Constance and he were at the ball.

Fiona had come downstairs for the first time in a week and sat, limp and uncommunicative, close to the fire. Her mother, plump, rosy-cheeked, and placid, sat beside her, holding one of her limp hands and patting it. Fiona’s sister, twelve years younger than she, sat across from them, working quietly at some crochet she had brought with her. She resembled her mother more than she did her sister though she still had the slimness of youth.

It was a promising situation, Hugo thought.

“I shall go to the kitchen myself, Fee, as soon as Constance and Hugo have gone, and make some soup,” Fiona’s mother was saying when Hugo came into the room. “There is nothing better to coax an invalid back to health than good, hot soup. Oh, my!”

She had spied Hugo.

He made conversation, but only for a few minutes. Constance was not about to risk being late for her first ball. She burst in upon them, looking as if she were literally about to burst, and then stood inside the sitting room door, blushing and selfconscious and biting her lower lip.

“Oh, my!” her grandmother said again.

Like a bride, she had not allowed anyone to see the gown she would wear tonight or even to know anything about it. She was all white from head to toe. But there was nothing bland about her appearance, Hugo decided, despite the fact that even her hair was blond. She shimmered in the lamplight. He was no expert on clothing, especially women’s, but he could see that there were two layers to her gown, the inside one silky, the outer one lacy. It was high at the waist, low at the bosom, and youthful and pretty and perfect. She had white slippers, white gloves, a silver fan, and white ribbons threaded through her curls.

“You look as pretty as a picture, Connie,” he said with no originality at all.

She turned her head to beam at him—and her grandmother wailed and spread a large cotton handkerchief over her eyes.

“Oh,” she cried, “you look like your mama all over again, Constance. You look like a princess. Doesn’t she, Hilda, my love?”

Her younger daughter, thus appealed to, agreed with a smile after setting down her crochet in her lap.

“Constance.” Her mother reached out a pale hand toward her. “Your father would advise you not to forget your roots. I would advise you to do whatever will make you happy.”

It was a remarkable pronouncement coming from Fiona. Constance took her hand and held it to her cheek for a moment.

“You do not mind my going, Mama?” she asked.

“Your grandmother is going to make me soup,” Fiona said. “She always made the very best soup in the world.”

Five minutes later Hugo and his sister were in his traveling carriage, on their way to Hanover Square.

“Hugo,” she said, setting one gloved hand in his, “you are like a rock of stability. I am so frightened that I am sure my chattering teeth will drown out the sound of the orchestra when I get there and everyone will frown at me and Lady Ravensberg will accuse me of ruining her ball. Of course, you do not have to be afraid. You are Lord Trentham. My grandparents are shopkeepers. Is not Grandmama a dear, though? And Aunt Hilda has eyes that twinkle kindly when she talks. I like her. And I still have my grandpapa and my uncle and aunt and cousins to meet—and Mr. Crane, Aunt Hilda’s betrothed. I have a whole other family, as well as Mama and you and all Papa’s relatives, even if they are only shopkeepers. That does not matter, does it? Papa always used to say that no one, not even the lowliest crossing sweeper, ought to be ashamed of who he is. Or she. I always used to tell him that—or she, Papa, I used to say, and he would laugh and say it back to me. I think Mama is happy to see Grandmama, don’t you? And I think she is getting better again. Do you think—Oh, I am prattling. I never prattle. But I am terrified.” She laughed softly.

He squeezed her hand and concentrated upon being like a rock of stability. If she only knew!

They were unable to drive up to the grand, brightly lit mansion on Hanover Square and disappear indoors to find some shadowed corner in which to hide. There was a line of carriages, and they had to await their turn. And when it was their turn, they had to allow a grandly liveried footman to open the carriage door, and they had to step down onto a red carpet, which extended from the edge of the pavement all the way up the steps of the house.

And when they stepped into the house at last, they found themselves in a large, high-ceilinged hall beneath the bright lights of a large candelabrum and in the midst of a chattering throng of gorgeously clad ladies and gentlemen. Hugo, glancing around, discovered without surprise that he did not know a blessed one of them. But at least Grayson was not among them.

“We will go on up, then, Connie,” he said to his silent sister, his voice sounding to his own ears remarkably like that of Captain Emes ordering his subordinate officers to form the battle lines.

But the broad staircase, which presumably led up to the ballroom, was no better than the hall. It was just as brightly lit, and it was crowded with chattering, laughing people who were awaiting their turn, Hugo soon realized, to be announced prior to passing along the receiving line.

Oh, good Lord, give him two Forlorn Hopes.

“Not too much longer now,” he said with hearty jocularity, patting his sister’s cold, clinging hand.

“Hugo,” she whispered, “I am here. I am really here.”

And he looked down at her and realized that it was excitement and brimming happiness that she was really feeling. And he had been toying with the ignominious idea of suggesting that they flee.

“I do believe you are right,” he said, and smiled at her.

And then they were at the top of the stairs, and a stiffly formal majordomo, who reminded Hugo of Stanbrook’s butler, bent an ear to hear their identities, and announced them in loud, firm tones.

“Lord Trentham and Miss Emes.”

The receiving line was made up of four persons, Viscount and Viscountess Ravensberg, whom Hugo remembered from the drawing room at Newbury Abbey, and the Earl and Countess of Redford, who must be Ravensberg’s parents. He bowed. Constance curtsied. Greetings and pleasantries were exchanged. Lady Ravensberg admired Constance’s dress and actually winked at her. She looked assessingly at him and did not wink. It was all surprisingly easy. But then the aristocracy were adept at making such occasions easy. They knew how to make small talk, the hardest talk in the world to make in Hugo’s experience.

They stepped into the ballroom. Hugo had a quick impression of vast size, of hundreds of candles burning in