Page 17 of Blueprints, Battlelines and Ballrooms (Tales from Honeysuckle Street #4)

‘I can’t imagine her being a mess anywhere.

’ Miss Delaney was not elegant like a lady or a drawn model in a fashion catalogue.

She oozed perfection, every single inch of her, from her hair to her dress to her jewellery, all of her as perfectly composed as a song.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more stunning person in real life. Or even in a painting.’

‘She’s a shameless attention seeker. She’d do anything for five minutes with a man wearing a crown.’

Florence startled. Almost as tall as Johannes, the man beside them spoke with an accent tinged with the continent, but for all the accents she’d overheard in port cities, she couldn’t quite place him.

Like Odette, he seemed carved from stone, but where she was softness and grace, his eyes were dark as slate and his jaw set hard.

‘Cassius!’ Miss Delaney called. ‘Come play the piano for me.’

The man grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I am a conductor. Not a pianist.’

‘You were once. Please, darling.’ Miss Delaney’s words dropped to a purr. ‘There is no one who strokes the keys like you.’

He grumbled again, and with a huff, angled his way through the crowd. As he approached, Miss Delaney clapped her hands in apparent delight. She dismissed the group she had been speaking to with a wave, and they obediently merged into the crowd.

‘It’s like she’s a princess,’ Florence said with a laugh. ‘Everyone fawning about to do as she wishes.’

‘She could be. Mr Cassius Zadora is not exaggerating. She has caught the eye of princes, dukes, and kings. But no matter what the press says, there’s never anything to substantiate the rumours beyond chatter. And at the end of the Season and all of the speculation, she remains Miss Delaney.’

Cassius flipped his tails as he lowered himself onto the piano seat. A look passed between him and Odette, white-hot as lightening, then snuffed out. He laid his hands on the keys and, without breaking eye contact with Odette, began to play.

Johannes leant into Florence, still looking ahead, and rested a hand on her waist. ‘Would you like to take some air?’ he asked, his voice deep and little more than a whisper. ‘We will still be able to hear the music from the balcony.’

Her heart had settled into the same measured pace as the melody of the piano, but at Johannes’s question, it began to beat frantically, like a marching band.

The balcony. The na?ve were compromised in such places.

Liaisons were begun and reputations ruined.

Only foolish young women agreed to be whisked off to such places.

‘I would love to,’ she said.

Her hand enveloped in his, Johannes carved a path to the back of the room, then along its edges.

If heads turned to follow them, she did not notice, keeping her focus steady on his broad back.

Her knees and back protested the speed at which he moved, but she forced herself to keep pace.

Tomorrow she could be old and complain about her joints. Tonight, she would be young.

At the far end, they stepped through wide, unlatched French doors and out onto the balcony.

Johannes stopped beside the balustrade, and Florence joined him to look out over the lush gardens below.

Amidst the shadowed bushes, light split by the crystal chandeliers danced to the same rhythm as Cassius’s tune.

Miss Delaney was singing now, as superb as a songbird.

Johannes threw Florence a glance, parted his lips, then looked away. She tried to form some sentence to cut through the awkwardness, but nothing sprang to mind.

‘I have a confession,’ he finally said. He took her hand.

‘I think of you more than I should. I enjoy your company beyond friendship. Every Monday, I can’t help but feel a slight dread that at one of the gatherings you’ve attended the previous week, you have met a man who delights in your presence, who you’ll want to spend time with, instead of meeting with me.

I was hoping that I might be able to make a small claim upon your attention.

Perhaps I might call on you outside of working hours?

Or even just when you go out, would you keep in mind that I am very fond of you and would cherish the opportunity for a little more of your—’

Maybe it was the moon or the breeze or the melody—or even his bumbling hesitation.

All of it left her both bold and terrified.

He offered a prospect she was not ready to talk about, and she could not contemplate another word of his raw confession.

And so, with an overly eager lunge, Florence kissed Johannes.

He tasted sweet, so sweet, of cold air and crisp champagne.

His arms wrapped around her in an instant, like he’d been practising the motion in his mind.

He pulled her against his chest and tilted into their embrace, lips parting, tongue searching.

The man with the unsteady words was gone, replaced by the man who was kissing her now, confident and daring.

Florence let her hands relax against his chest so her palms cradled the firmness of his body.

With a tiny grunt, he drew her closer. His arm pinched her skin, and as a sharp pain shot through her shoulder, her anguished cry splintered the magic.

Johannes released her. ‘Florence? What happened?’

‘I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry, I—I can’t do this.’ She stumbled back, and he took a step to follow. His eyes blazed with hurt even as he reached for her. ‘I can’t forget George. I can’t… I can’t be married again.’

And even though it hurt like the blazes, she ran, limbs lopsided and pathetic. Back into the Palladian and down the front stairs, so fast she almost fell onto the main street.

Then, trembling with agony, she hailed a cab to take her home.