Page 56

The interior was much the same as she had heard—orderly, refined, stifling.

The ceilings were low compared to the grand ballrooms of the aristocracy, and the chandeliers, though impressive, flickered under the dim glow of countless candles.

The air hummed with polite conversation, punctuated by the occasional rustle of a fan or restrained laughter.

Indulgence or extravagance were nowhere to be found within these hallowed halls.

There was no orchestra of twenty musicians, no dizzying swirl of decadence, no pockets of scandalous whispers behind Grecian columns.

Almack’s existed to assess, approve, and distribute marriage prospects like parcels at a well-run post.

The main ballroom was a sea of shifting silks and dark coats. The scents of beeswax, perfume, and humanity hung thick in the air. Conversation hummed along with the measured strains of the musicians, punctuated by the occasional bright laugh or the murmur of whispered speculation.

Marjory forced herself to breathe as the press of bodies closed in around her.

The air was stifling, thick with the mingled scents of perfumes and candle wax, and the rustle of silks whispered against her nerves like taunting ghosts.

She smoothed a clammy hand over her skirts, trying to quell the rising panic as they joined the queue leading into the main ballroom.

Verity’s voice droned in her ear, an incessant stream of advice that melded into the oppressive hum surrounding them. “Remember to stand tall, dear. Shoulders back. And do keep your smile gentle, not too broad…”

Marjory barely heard her, each word adding to the weight pressing upon her chest. She longed for a breath of fresh air, a single moment of solitude, but the crowd jostled them forward, leaving no room to escape.

They were shunted to the right of the cramped antechamber, the crush of people nudging them like cattle toward the slaughter.

A sudden hand closed around Marjory’s arm.

She stifled a cry, nearly jumping out of her skin as Lady Harrington pulled her toward the wall where several matronly ladies observed from plump settees, their eyes sharp beneath powdered brows.

“Don’t be nervous, dear. The old dragons have long since lost the worst of their fire,” Lady Harrington murmured as they approached the imperious gatekeepers of Almack’s.

Marjory doubted that very much. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Verity scrambled to keep up, still prattling on about proper etiquette, and Marjory felt her patience fraying like a worn seam.

They all dropped into deep curtsies before the patronesses. Marjory’s knees dipped obediently though they threatened to buckle beneath the strain of expectation. She fixed her gaze just above the gleaming floor, counting the breaths until she could rise.

“Lady Jersey,” Lady Harrington said, addressing an older woman whose skin reminded Marjory of crushed muslin stretched too thin. “Lady Marjory Finch, of whom we spoke last evening.”

Lady Jersey, perched upon her chair like a sovereign on her throne, cast a cool, appraising gaze over Marjory.

The weight of it pressed down, suffocating and relentless.

Marjory resisted the urge to tug at her gloves, to do anything that might betray the turmoil roiling beneath her composed exterior.

Introductions to the other patronesses followed—Lady Sefton, who looked as though she had never once smiled in her life, and the Dowager Viscountess Eastwick, whose gaze weighed and measured everyone before her, tallying their worth in breeding and banknotes.

“I trust you will comport yourself well,” Lady Jersey finally said.

Marjory dipped her head, forcing a placid smile. “Of course, My Lady,” she replied though a flicker of defiance sparked within her. As if she needed reminding of her place.

“She will,” Lady Harrington interjected before Marjory could speak further. “Marjory has an excellent head on her shoulders.”

Marjory’s smile tightened. It seemed even her assurances were not her own to give this evening.

“Well, that would be a first for a Finch,” Lady Sefton muttered into her fan. Beside her, the Dowager tittered in response.

Heat flared in Marjory’s cheeks, and a swift rush of anger chased away her earlier trepidation. She lifted her gaze to meet Lady Sefton’s steely eyes.

“Then I am pleased to offer you a novel experience,” Marjory said, her voice cool and edged with unmistakable challenge. “After all, even the most seasoned among us can stand to learn something new.”

A faint arch of Lady Sefton’s eyebrow was the only sign that the remark had hit its mark. Before Marjory could savor the small victory, another young debutante was thrust before the patronesses like a lamb on the altar, and they were nudged aside.

“Thank you for your consideration, Lady Jersey,” Marjory managed, as she was guided away. Her hands clenched at her sides, pressing her nails into her palms to anchor the turbulent emotions swirling within.

As they stepped into the main ballroom, the sheer multitude of guests struck her anew.

The walls seemed to edge closer, the ceiling lower, as the din of conversation and stilted laughter swelled around her.

Marjory fought the urge to gasp for breath, her earlier irritation giving way to a rising sense of suffocation.

Verity leaned in, her voice a practiced whisper. “That was a disaster. What were you thinking?”

“Was it?” Marjory replied without listening. She scanned the room for any point of escape—a balcony, an open window, a shadowed corner where she might find a moment’s peace.

“Nonsense! They’ll remember her now,” Lady Harrington countered. “If one isn’t remembered, one cannot be suggested for a match.”

Verity continued to fret, but her words faded into the background as she and Lady Harrington navigated the currents of bodies with Marjory in tow.

It was impossible to stand still for more than a moment before someone brushed past, nodding their greetings, casting appraising glances, or angling their shoulders in a subtle but unmistakable attempt to maneuver into a better position.

She attempted to orient herself as people milled about. A quadrille was ending, and the dancers were flooding off the floor when she caught the sharp scent of cloves. It was so out of place among the cloying perfumes.

She scanned the crowded room, drawing in a deep breath. The scent was faint, barely there, but unmistakable. Her pulse gave an unsteady jump as the memory rushed back—the darkness, the solid press of a body against hers, the low, teasing murmur at her ear.

A hand on her arm startled her back to the present.

“Do not tell me you are already overwhelmed,” Lady Harrington said. “I thought you Finch girls were made of sterner stuff.”

Marjory blinked, pushing away her distraction. “Not overwhelmed. Just trying to take it all in. Thank you, by the way. I do appreciate all you’ve done for me.” She liked Lady Harrington immensely and would not for all the dry cake in Almack’s wish to offend her.

“It was my pleasure, my dear,” the Countess said, patting her arm. “Now, I promised the Earl I would not stay out late, and he gets terribly fussy when I overextend myself. I will leave you in your cousin’s capable hands,” she said with a nod to Verity.

Marjory sketched a polite curtsey. “Again, thank you.”

“Do call on me soon,” she said and paused as she was turning away. “Be sure to do something scandalous before the night is over. It would be a dreadful waste if you didn’t.”

Marjory covered her mouth to stifle her surprised giggle. Verity hadn’t heard. She was craning her neck to take in the crowd with eager intent.

“There are several promising gentlemen here tonight,” Verity murmured, pulling her close. “Now, let’s see who is worth our time…”

Marjory stifled a sigh. The scent of cloves had vanished.

But it had been there. And that meant he was, too.