You May Kiss the Bride(44)
In due course their party proceeded to the Upper Rooms, where Livia’s hand was promptly claimed. As a Mr. Tenneson—approved by Mrs. Penhallow as the nephew of one of her cronies—led her out onto the floor for the first quadrille, Livia felt again an exhilarating surge of triumph. She’d done it. She’d reinvented herself. And spectacularly, too: she was dressed in the height of fashion, in an enchanting dress of snow-white crepe over a white satin slip and on her feet the most cunningly pretty white satin sandal-slippers embellished with dozens of little sparkly brilliants.
She glanced around at the other couples assembling on the shimmering wooden floor beneath massive crystal chandeliers. They all looked so assured, so confident, so perfectly a part of this elegant world. And she was part of this world now.
All at once she wanted to know where Gabriel was. Ah: he was leading out a pretty girl in a Roman tunic of Sardinian blue, but—very properly—he did not look her way. And there was old Mrs. Penhallow, sitting perfectly upright among the row of high-backed chairs lining the wall and flanked by her usual crowd of friends and hangers-on. She wasn’t looking at Livia, either.
Still, that was no reason to suddenly feel so alone. She had it all. She had everything. She was happy.
So she smiled at Mr. Tenneson.
The orchestra launched into “La Rosalinde.”
And they began to dance.
Oh yes, she was very happy.
Gabriel came to Livia for the country dance preceding the interval. As their hands met, he tried to ignore an odd fiery sensation that—palm to palm—seemed to connect them in some mysterious way. If he’d had his choice, he wouldn’t have danced with her at all tonight. It brought him too close. But—inexorably, inevitably—duty called. Politely he said:
“You’re making a sensation this evening.”
“The right sort, I hope.”
“Of course. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Are you having a good time?”
“Why would you even ask that?” she said, rather quickly. “Of course I am.”
He lifted his brows. “It was merely a routine inquiry.”
“Oh. I see. Are you having a good time?”
“How could I not? I’ve been besieged with congratulations on my engagement. Haven’t you?”
“Yes.” She sounded a little defiant. “From dozens of people. It’s been delightful.”
“You don’t feel a trifle—ah—hypocritical?”
“Not at all. I’m enjoying every minute of it.” Her big green eyes were sparkling militantly.
“How splendid for you.”
“Yes. Extremely splendid. Let’s change the subject.”
“By all means,” he answered. “What would you like to talk about?”
“Well, at dinner Mr. Olivet pretty well thrashed out the subject of the weather, and Lady Gibbs-Smythe covered literature in five minutes or less. Do you know who Humphry Davy is?”
“Of course. The scientist.”
She nodded. “I’ve been reading about him. I don’t think I’ll ever fully grasp what he means by Galvanism, electrolyzing, and the voltaic pile—it sounds like a nasty device Dr. Wendeburgen would use—but I am interested in his scientific method.”
He found himself staring at her. No other woman he knew would dare to talk about such things at a ball. He supposed he ought to mention it. How predictably stuffy of him. So instead he asked, “Why?”
“Because of how he gains knowledge through experiments. Some succeed, some fail.”
“And so?”
“So I’ve been conducting an experiment of my own lately.”
“What kind of experiment?”
“Why, I’ve been experimenting at being the person you and your grandmother want me to be. The docile, well-bred young lady Society assumes I am.”
She was smiling, and her voice was light, yet he thought he heard a faint brittle tone beneath it.
“And?”
“Why, now that I’ve more or less mastered the rules of etiquette, it’s wonderfully easy, I find. Very little, in fact, is expected of me. A few monosyllables here and here, a laugh, a smile, and I am one of you. As long as I stick to the rules.”
“Does this mean your experiment is a success or a failure?”
She blinked, as if for a moment she’d forgotten he was even there. “Oh, a success, of course!” she said, and gave a little silvery laugh which reminded him unpleasantly of Miss Cecily Orr. “How stupid of me to be droning on about scientists and experiments! Who could possibly care about such dry things? Do forgive me! Oh dear, our dance is over. I’ve enjoyed it so much! And here is Mr. Tenneson, to take me in to tea. You know each other, of course? Yes. Well then. Au revoir.” She spoke as if Gabriel were a stranger to her—or at best a mere acquaintance—and lightly went off with her escort, looking as if she were the most contented woman on earth.