“I thought all debutantes reveled in the challenge of scouring the balls and soirees for the perfect mate.”
“Perhaps,” Emma replied thoughtfully, picturing the many bright-eyed girls who floated past her frequent position among the chaperones. “I imagine most young ladies are motivated by the idea of meeting a dashing gentleman who will sweep them off into a world of romance and adventure.”
“You do not share their idealistic perspective?”
Emma smiled and shook her head. Even when a debutante herself, she had not harbored such delusions. “I have never put much faith in the stuff of fairy tales.”
“Good girl,” he said in an approving tone. “Better to be sensible and see the world for what it is than to have your illusions shattered after you’ve built them up to epic proportions.”
“Have your own illusions suffered such tragedy?” she asked, curious about what had formed his pragmatic opinion.
His laugh was low and disconcerting in the darkness. He shifted his weight to push away from the wall, uncrossing his arms. There was nothing specifically threatening in his movements as he went from a relaxed posture to the more ready stance, but a ripple of caution spread through Emma’s body. She would have taken a step back, but to do so would have thrust her beyond the fall of the curtain. So she stood as she was, though his increased proximity made her skin tingle and her chest feel tight.
“Sweetheart, the stark reality of life was made clear to me from the day I was born.”
“Perhaps you were fortunate,” she said quietly, thinking of the pain that comes with disillusionment.
“Not many would see it that way.”
There was something in the tone of his response that reached out to her through the darkness. It carried with it a sort of kindred perception, as if they understood each other in a way requiring no deeper explanation.
Emma cleared her throat, unnerved by the sense of familiarity infusing the moment. Giving herself a mental shake, she recalled her responsibilities. She needed to return to the ballroom, but first, she had to ensure her foolish flight had not resulted in any lasting damage.
Tipping her chin to gaze up at the shadowed face of the stranger, she asked, “May I have your word you will allow me to depart your company anonymously?”
He took a slow breath, as if he had to think about her request.
Emma tensed. She was at the mercy of his whim. If he chose to follow her into the candlelight of the room, he would see her face and could easily determine her identity. If he decided to spread tales of their encounter, her reputation would be forfeit and her sisters would suffer the consequences along with her.
After a moment, he said, “Do me one small favor and I will remain blindly behind the curtain while you make your escape.”
A tremor ran through her, but Emma squared her shoulders. She had no choice but to hear him out. “What sort of favor?”
“Do you know how to tie a neckcloth?” he asked.
She blinked, unsure if she had heard him right. “Excuse me?”
“I cannot return to the ball in my current disheveled condition, and I have no idea how to rectify the state of my cravat.”
Reminded of what he had been doing only moments before she had come upon his hiding spot brought a flush of warmth to her cheeks and created a strange hollowness in her stomach. She would have loved to refuse him, to say she had no skill with such a task, but it wasn’t exactly the truth.
“You do, don’t you?” His tone was confident.
Emma replied with reluctance. “I used to tie my father’s.”
“Consider it a quick favor from one friend to another. Then you shall be on your way with no one the wiser as to how you spent the last quarter hour.”
Emma could come up with no good reason to refuse, and truly, to keep her identity a secret and the reputation of her family secure, it was not too much to ask. She took a step toward him and lifted her hands to the loose ends of his cravat.
“Do not expect something of high fashion,” she warned in a soft murmur. “I know only one formal style, and it is quite outdated.”
It was a design her father had taught her years ago when her parents still socialized, before her mother’s illness and her father’s descent. He’d had a valet back then for everything else, but the styling of his neckcloth was reserved for his eldest daughter.
“Sweetheart, anything you can manage would be appreciated,” he drawled.
Taking another step closer in order to comfortably reach up to his throat, she began to twist and fold the neckcloth into a style she had re-created many times before. Warmth emanated from the stranger and cool night air drifted around her. There was a solid strength to his body as he stood still and accommodating beneath her hands. The sound of his breath began to match the rhythm of her own and the light-headedness she had experienced earlier returned in a rush.