Page 45 of To Winter at Wildsyde

14th December 1814. The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin’s Christmas Ball. Beverwyck, London.

Minerva looked around the vast ballroom, enjoying the spectacle of everyone dressed up in their finery. The grand marble pillars had been wrapped in thick swathes of red and green ribbon, giving a festive air, and the glitter of hundreds of candles sparkled on myriad jewels as the fine ladies of the ton skipped and swayed through the steps of a country dance. Despite the convivial atmosphere and the pleasure she found in her new dress, she felt restless and dissatisfied. She stared down, smoothing her hands over the glossy fabric, a bright, sunny yellow. It was her favourite colour, and she knew it became her, setting off the golden glints in her pale blonde hair. Yet what was the point, if the only man she wished to see her in it was not here?

Of course he was not here. This was an event for the highest of society, the ton in all their splendour. Mr Inigo de Beauvoir might be many things—a gentleman, a scholar, one of the most brilliant minds in the country, and the man she could not stop thinking about—but he could not gain entry to a ball such as this. Not that he’d want to.

She tried to imagine him here and failed utterly. Instead, she tried to imagine a life where she never set foot at such an event again and felt a mild pang of regret, but not nearly the horror which some might expect from her at the idea. Anyone watching her at this moment would no doubt suppose she was like the rest of the apparently vapid young ladies that thronged these events. Likely they were every bit as intelligent as the men, probably more so as took skill to dance a line between feigning stupidity and keeping a man’s interest. They were all carefully taught to be pleasing to a gentleman, to never venture an opinion but to agree with whatever that gentleman said, to laugh at his jokes and flatter his ego and generally make themselves whatever he wanted them to be. Minerva had been one of them. She had been among the hungriest of the eager-eyed virgins, desperate to snap themselves up a title. She’d thought, like they probably did, that there was no other choice. Yet she had changed.

She had her cousin to thank, she knew. It had been Prue who had troubled to ask Minerva what she wanted for herself. It had been a shock to realise that her mother’s ambitions for a title were just that, her mother’s, and that Minerva’s own hopes—the ones she’d buried deep, considering them impossible—were very different.

Despite knowing her mother would have an apoplexy if she had the slightest inkling of her thoughts, Minerva allowed her mind to wander, to remember the first time she had set eyes on Mr de Beauvoir in the bookshop at Tunbridge Wells. She remembered his eyes, that odd mix of grey and green, and the fierce intelligence that seemed to blaze within him, consuming him. Her heart felt an odd, aching tenderness whenever she thought about his gaunt frame and ill-fitting clothes. He had clearly lost weight recently and she considered how badly he looked after himself. That he was the kind of man to be so addicted to his work that he forgot to eat was obvious. She wondered what it might be like to be the subject of his focus, the thing that fascinated him to the detriment of all else. Would he be as obsessive in a love affair as he was with his work? The idea made her shiver, though it was heat that slid beneath her skin. She let out a soft huff of laughter as she realised the obsession was all on her side. Mr de Beauvoir was doing his utmost to ignore her, and still had not replied to her last letter. He was not entirely unmoved, though, she was certain of it. She remembered the feel of his mouth beneath hers in the too short moment when she had dared to snatch at the chance offered her and kissed him. Good Lord, but he’d been outraged! When she had continued to write to him, she had assured him he was safe as she could not try her wiles upon him with mere ink on paper. His reply had left her speechless and hopeful.

Do not underestimate your penmanship.

Minerva smiled, and wished that she could see him again now, tonight, instead of the interminable wait to attend his lecture. She remembered her dare, to go somewhere she was not supposed to go, and wondered just how difficult it would be to discover the whereabouts of his laboratory and visit without her mother finding out.

“What are you looking so misty eyed about?”

Minerva awoke from her daydream with a start, to see the imperious green eyes of Lady Helena Adolphus studying her with interest.

“Misty eyed? Whatever do you mean?” Minerva retorted.

Helena favoured her with an impatient glance, took a sip of her drink and grimaced. “You know exactly what I mean, and I will have a glass of champagne tonight if it kills me. This lemonade is vile.”

“You’re just blue-devilled because your Mr Knight isn’t here.”

A chilly green gaze swept over her and Minerva reminded herself Helena was a duke’s daughter.

“He’s not my Mr Knight,” she said, her tone precise and clipped, and then her lips quirked, her eyes flashing with mischief. “Yet.”

Minerva snickered. “The poor man. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Helena chuckled in reply, a surprisingly throaty sound from such a feminine form. “No,” she agreed, grinning broadly now. “He doesn’t.” She took a second sip of her lemonade and pulled another face. “But never mind him, when are you going to tell me who it is you’re sighing over?”

There was a lengthy silence whilst Minerva considered this. She’d only become friends with Helena since Prue had married her brother, the duke, and though they liked each other very well, there had been no real intimacy between them until recently.

“I swear you can trust me,” Helena said, and Minerva saw sincerity in her eyes. “We’re as good as sisters now, you know. You’re part of the family.”

Minerva snorted. “My mother would be beside herself with joy to hear you say that.”

There was another throaty laugh as Helena acknowledged the truth of that. “You cannot be blamed for your mother, dearest, and besides, I like her. She’s ambitious and unambiguous about it. I can respect that.”

“You don’t have to live with her,” Minerva muttered and then gave a heavy sigh and accepted the arm that Helena offered to her as they took a turn about the room.

“Well?”

Minerva rolled her eyes, aware that Helena would not be deflected. “I doubt you know him. You hardly mix in the same circles.”

“Try me.”

“Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.”

Helena’s eyebrows shot up. “The scientist?” She laughed at Minerva’s obvious surprise. “I’m not a complete hen wit, Min, darling, and besides which my brother is fascinated by science. He attends the lectures and drones on for hours over dinner if you let him. I believe Mr de Beauvoir’s work to be one of his interests.”

“Oh.” Minerva absorbed this and wondered how such information might be used for her own ends.

“Now, then,” Helena replied, and then echoed Minerva’s unspoken thought almost precisely. “How is that information to be turned to your benefit?”

She looked to be giving the matter serious thought and Minerva leaned over and gave her a spontaneous kiss on the cheek.