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T his felt different.

Millie had been to a handful of balls in her life, and since the first, she had thought herself certain she had a handle on what the experience would be like.

One arrives alongside one’s mother. One’s mother drags one about, forcing uncomfortable introductions. Then, one is permitted to find her place along the wallpaper while she watches the dancing.

One does not sneak in her journal, either. She’d learned that lesson the first time she’d been caught sneaking away to scribble her observations into it.

Her mother, tiresome as she sometimes was, wasn’t against Millie’s journaling habit.

In fact, Millie wasn’t certain she’d even minded the sneaking off.

What scared Lacey Yardley was Millie risking her reputation being compromised while off by herself in an empty room, either by a real unwanted tryst or simply whispers of something of that nature, and all the unpleasantness that could follow such a thing.

It was one of those times that Millie’s mother had a very good point.

But that was when she had been a debutante. The rules were plentiful and exhaustive for debutantes.

Millie Yardley was a lady’s companion now, a staid spinster earning her own wage. And knowing that, knowing she could wander off if she pleased, make only the introductions she wished, and dance only if she desired it, was, in a word, intoxicating.

Even the evening air felt different.

When she’d attended her first ball some years back, there had been a still, wet chill in the air and endless, thick clouds pulled over the sky like rows of tilled soil.

Tonight, save a few gossamer-thin pink wisps here and there, the sun was setting on a perfectly clear canvas, spraying layers of sherbet punch in every direction.

It was warm enough to tingle on the skin, and there was a breeze whipping playfully at gowns and tails outside the house.

Lady Bentley was fanning herself with her constellation fan, matched perfectly to her blue gown with gold flecks sewn into the skirt.

She wore a gold and silver brooch at her breast with the contrasting metals winding around one another into a complex knot.

The back of the gown was cut very, very low.

“I couldn’t be daring as a girl, nor as a wife,” she’d told Millie gleefully when she’d revealed the dress, “but as a widow, there’s no one at all to stop me.”

When Millie had expressed concern about mean-spirited whispers and gossip sheets, it had only made Patricia Hightower’s eyes sparkle all the more.

“Oh, do you really think so?” she’d asked with enthusiasm. “I’ve never caused a stir before.”

Later, she’d amended this statement. She’d turned to Millie quite suddenly in the carriage on the ride over, twisting a loose tress of pale hair around a finger, and said, “Actually, I should say I’ve never caused a stir in public .”

Millie had not known how to react.

Though she did release a giggle a moment later, when Lady Bentley had muttered, “I suppose I caused Freddy. Does that count?”

Millie’s own gown was a simple affair in a forest green silk, accented with mock pearls and glittering silver threads that twinkled beautifully in the night.

The dowager had also lent her a delicate comb studded with diamonds that shone against her dark hair, drawing candlelight to the red undertones in her curls.

The dowager had pressed her to be daring as well, but Millie had anticipated an experience like those balls she remembered with her mother, and she thought it well to plan to blend into the walls as quickly and quietly as possible unless she was expressly needed.

After the showing at the opera, she had suspected her patroness would be occupied for the entirety of the evening.

“I’ve never gotten to enjoy a Season before, my dear,” she’d told Millie.

“I’ve never even really had a chance to enjoy London.

In my youth, there was always some goal to accomplish, some task to attend.

Now, I can simply be here and choose the activities that bring me pleasure.

That is all life should ever be, isn’t it? ”

Perhaps it was, and now, upon the realization that this ball was going to be different—that, indeed, it was a font of freedom and possibility—Millie wished she’d worn one of the more elaborate pieces in her new wardrobe.

Next time, she told herself.

Next time, perhaps she would cause a stir, even if it was only in the thrill of her own heartbeat.

And perhaps she’d sneak off with her journal, if only because she now had the freedom to do so.

In the end, Lady Bentley had decided against attending the very first ball of the Season, which had occurred some days prior, following the Queen’s Drawing Room last week.

She had reasoned that she had returned to London in order to indulge in pure enjoyment, not to play politics or rub shoulders with royalty in such a carefully monitored environment.

“I should think we’ll avoid Almack’s as well, for the most part,” she had said with a flippant shrug to an awestruck Millie, the likes of whom had never been invited to affairs of such stature.

“Though if you’ve never been, it’ll be worth one visit, I suppose, but it’s terribly stuffy.

Excellent lemonade, however. That’s a perk. ”

Tonight’s affair was held at Lord and Lady Wharton’s private mansion in Marylebone, and was sufficiently fashionable without offending Lady Bentley’s distaste for stuffiness. The house was impressively wide and surrounded on all sides by trees and flowers in an impressively lush garden.

Based on what Millie knew of roses, this home would be something truly spectacular in a month or two, when the flowers began to explode into full bloom. The overpowering sweetness of scent would probably be unbearable to anyone who did not wish to live directly inside a rose bush.

In a brief flash of sentimentality, she thought of how enthusiastic her mother would be to see this place and tour the gardens. Was she really missing her mother’s company?

She shook the thought from her head as they passed through the foyer and into the heart of the event, Lady Bentley’s posture assuming a regality as her name was announced and people turned to behold her triumphant return to Society.

Millie trailed a few steps behind, deeply curious about observing the reactions to her patroness’s presence and her fashion choices as they descended into the melee.

The men were certainly appreciative, which flew in the face of everything Millie had been taught as a girl.

The dowager countess was well into her fourth decade, and yet men half her age eyed her with interest and turned their heads to follow her path through the crowd.

These were not the upstart beaux from the opera, either. These men were monied and in high stature. They did not need a wealthy widow to improve their lot, which could only mean one thing: their interest was genuine.

The women either watched in admiration and amusement or with the type of venom that could only be inspired by a woman’s helpless reliance on the fleeting attentions of men in the room.

Millie reflected once again at how grateful she was to be earning a wage in her own right. Even if this opportunity hadn’t blessed her in an unexpected twist of fortune, her father would never have allowed her to be at the mercy of an unworthy man’s whims.

Which, of course, is why Claire had eloped instead of asking for his blessing. Though that, too, had worked out in an uncanny show of luck in the end.

No one had ever been as unworthy as Freddy Hightower.

The dance floor was occupied with the polonaise as they entered, with brightly dressed couples on grand procession across the shiny, freshly waxed wooden floors.

Those who were not occupied with observing the entry of new guests were either gathered around the dancers or making use of the beverage table, which had a fine assortment of sweet cooled drinks to refresh guests.

The room amplified the merry chime of the music, and the coordinated steps of the dancers clapped pleasingly through the air, mingling with laughter and conversation.

“Ah, aren’t they bonny?” Lady Bentley said with a delighted clap of her gloved hands. “I must find a partner for the next dance! I haven’t danced in such a very long time.”

“Lady Bentley!” came the hostess’s voice as she darted through the crowd to greet them. “How pleased I am that you decided to attend! We have missed you in London.”

This time, the introduction process was not nearly so painful. Millie felt rather important, actually. She noted the appreciative glint in Lady Wharton’s eye as she was introduced.

“Ah, I see,” the lady said, giving Millie a gracious smile. “I will ensure all of my future invitations arrive directly in Miss Yardley’s capable hands. After all, I wish to ensure that you continue to accept them!”

Millie found herself blushing at the recognition, a warmth spreading in her heart at the idea that she, of all people, held some semblance of importance.

It didn’t take long for Lady Bentley to secure a dance partner. Several, in fact. And Millie was happy to let her go, enjoying her happiness vicariously at getting exactly what she had hoped for tonight.

Though she knew it was not a requirement, she did find herself seeking the solace of the walls for a time, if only to watch and enjoy the many moving parts of the ball.

Not much had changed, she found, for the debutantes.

There were sullen and plain misses relegated to the sidelines and the punch bowl, sparkling beauties with their dance cards completely reserved before the end of the first quadrille, fussing mamas, impatient papas, and at least two girls on the verge of tears at any given moment.

“Hannah, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself,” came the sound of a very familiar voice. “It is only your first ball. These things take time.”

“I want to leave,” was the reply, in a voice unmistakably tinged with tears.

Millie’s head turned just as Dot Cain fell into her line of vision, following after one of the red-eyed young women that the night had taken its toll on.

“Dot!” Millie called, giving a little wave.

The debutante with Dot looked at her incredulously as she approached, while Dot broke into a wide grin.

“Millie!” she called back as Millie closed the distance between them. “Didn’t I tell you I might see you this Season? Oh, you look beautiful! Allow me to introduce you to my ward, Miss Lazarus.”

“How do you do?” Miss Lazarus muttered, followed with a sniffle.

“It’s a pleasure,” Millie replied, though privately she found herself rather surprised.

When Dot had said Hannah Lazarus reminded her of Millie, Millie had pictured someone physically similar, with a generous build and dark coloring.

This girl was almost pixie-like in frame, a full head shorter than Dot, and crowned with glorious bright orange hair.

Her eyes, while swollen with tears, were a crystalline blue.

What on earth did she have in common with this bright little doll of a girl?

“Hannah, this is Millie Yardley,” Dot continued, as though nothing at all were amiss. “My dearest friend. She will tell you, just as I have, that Society gets easier with time.”

Miss Lazarus was not interested in this line of conversation. “Dot, you never had a debut,” she said to her chaperone. “You never had to worry about Society until after you were married. It is different for you.”

The girl slapped a tear away from escaping down her cheek and sniffed again.

Dot looked at a loss. Those things were true, after all.

“I had a debut,” Millie put in, as gently as she could. “And I am yet unmarried. I know we have only just met, but perhaps I will understand if you talk to me about it?”

Miss Lazarus hesitated, raising a reluctant gaze to meet Millie’s.

Dot threw her a thankful expression and hopped in before her ward could decline. “I think that is a brilliant idea,” she said. “Millie will undoubtedly have useful insight.”

“Do you want to walk with me somewhere less crowded?” Millie asked gently, touching the girl’s arm. “Somewhere quiet where we will not be overheard?”

Almost imperceptibly, Miss Lazarus nodded.

And for the second time this evening, Millie Yardley felt as though she mattered.