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A soft rustle interrupted them. Joy glanced up—or tried to—and discerned, from the drifting perfume and the swirl of pale blue skirts, that her sister Faith had ventured into the alcove. “Am I interrupting something?” Faith asked, her tone somewhere between teasing and concern.

Joy pulled her hand from Freddy’s, though she did so gently. “Not in the least,” she managed. “You recall, of course, that I wanted to flee this dreadful ball. Freddy only enquires if I have gone mad enough to do so by means of some scandalous route—perhaps scaling the terrace walls.”

Faith’s lips curved, but her gaze flickered from Joy’s face to Freddy’s in that shrewd way she had.

“Yes,” she said dryly, “I can see how that might be a route you would choose. Joy, my dear, I realize this night has not gone as smoothly as one would hope, but truly, there is no need to skulk in corners unless you feel unwell.” She stepped closer, then touched Joy’s arm gently. “Is your head paining you again?”

Joy swallowed, aware that her sister could tell. Faith was not so easily deceived. “A trifle,” she admitted, “though I shall manage. I merely needed some air.”

Faith’s gaze was all sympathy, though in her measured, elder sister way. “Perhaps a brief walk on the terrace would do. The music and chatter in here grows deafening. Do not be overlong.”

Freddy offered an arm to Joy. “Shall we?”

She hesitated, uncertain whether to remain hidden in the shadows or brave the watchful gazes of the assembled guests. But she reminded herself that retreating forever was not an option. So she looped her arm through Freddy’s and ventured onto the terrace.

Freddy was more than a little bothered by the thought of Joy losing her sight.

The notion of sprightly and fearless Joy no longer able to see the world around her—no longer able to engage in all those spirited pursuits that had endeared her to him—was almost unbearable.

Joy was lively, forthright, and possessed of an unladylike fondness for galloping across the countryside or tending to horses as though she had been born in the stable yard.

She was so full of zest for life that Freddy sometimes wished she had been born a male.

Then they might have hunted together or ventured into clubs that were far from proper for a genteel young lady.

But now, everything felt turned upside down.

If Joy was indeed afflicted with a malady of the eyes that threatened her vision, why had she not confided in him sooner?

Had she believed him too frivolous to be entrusted with such a burden?

Had she feared his pity or his judgement?

The thought nettled him, though he reminded himself that Joy had always guarded her vulnerabilities as fiercely as she embraced her freedoms. It was not in her nature to lament her own troubles for fear that her family would coddle and shelter her.

Surely her sisters did not know, but he could not betray Joy’s confidence.

They walked side by side down the garden path in silence.

That was another thing about Joy—he never had to talk if he did not care to, and she would not chatter a man’s ear off as so many females were wont to do.

They stopped before a fountain of three leaping fishes shooting water from their mouths in graceful arcs.

Joy’s posture was stiff, as if she were bracing herself for something—or perhaps she was merely weary from the press of the ballroom. She wore an elegant lilac gown, her generally wild hair tamed into a sophisticated coiffure. To him, she looked terribly uncomfortable.

“Joy,” he said softly.

She turned part-way in his direction, though her gaze landed slightly to his left. There it was: the tell-tale sign that she could not quite discern his figure unless she focused very carefully. Freddy felt a twist in his chest at the sight. How had he not noticed before?

“Freddy,” she murmured. Her tone was guarded but not cold. “You should go back inside to dance.”

He approached, offering a tentative smile. “I will soon. If you must know, I grew weary of listening to Lady Pratt extol the virtues of her niece.”

A hint of amusement flickered across Joy’s features. “Her niece, is it? Next she shall try to foist her upon you in some manner.”

Freddy laughed, relieved at the return of her uninhibited tongue. “Let us hope not. I fear I am too clumsy to evade her machinations should she turn them on me.”

A silence settled between them, filled by the night songs of crickets and the distant lilt of the orchestra.

Freddy studied Joy’s face in the warm glow of a nearby lantern.

She looked tired, though she tried to conceal it behind a polite mask.

He swallowed, recalling how, earlier in the evening, she had nearly stumbled during a dance—her second near disaster with the Abernathy family.

Indeed, her vision must be more precarious than she dared admit.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked gently.

She fixed him with a look he could not entirely interpret. “Oh, Faith has fussed enough over me. Pray, do not join her in it.” She drew a breath, then smiled, but the expression did not quite reach her eyes. “I am exceedingly well, except for the usual vexations of these endless balls.”

Freddy’s mouth tightened. She was steering him away from the subject, reluctant to speak of her infirmity. Yet how could he leave it unaddressed? Joy had always prided herself on meeting obstacles head-on. Why should her sight be different?

Nevertheless, he sensed that pressing the matter too forcibly might only drive her from his confidence. So he forced a lightness into his tone. “Yes, these events can be tiresome. At least you have your menagerie to return to at the end of the night.”

At the mention of her beloved pets, Joy visibly brightened.

“Oh, the kittens!” She laughed—a real laugh, this time, carrying that musical lilt he had always found so captivating.

“You have no idea how they have grown. They scamper about the house as though they own it. My maid found Camilla perched upon the mantelpiece yesterday! The little daredevil must have leapt from a chair to a bookshelf and then across to the mantel, toppling half the Dowager’s porcelain figurines in the process. ”

Freddy raised his brows in mock horror. “Was there much damage?”

“Shockingly, only one figurine was lost—the small shepherdess, which she never liked much in the first place,” Joy said impishly. “Camilla looked entirely unrepentant. If anything, she seemed proud of her new vantage point.”

“And what of the others?” Freddy asked, heartened by her eagerness.

“Mortimer—the largest of the litter—already fancies himself the king of the drawing room. He lounges atop the sofa, swiping his paws if anyone dares disturb him. Then there is Cecilia, the gentlest, who likes to curl up in one’s lap and purr as if she were a little dove.

” A fond smile touched Joy’s lips. “Lord Orville is the most spirited—he is forever knocking over the vases of flowers or chasing after the maids’ skirts. I thought you might wish to have him.”

Freddy found himself grinning at her animated account. “I must pay them a visit, if only to witness their antics first hand. I suspect he and I should get on famously.”

“I should be delighted to have you call,” Joy replied, her tone more relaxed than before.

“It is growing lonely with all my sisters now wed.” She glanced towards the path that led deeper into the garden, where a lantern-lit arch invited them forward.

“Shall we walk for a while? The air is mild, and I find I prefer the scent of roses to that of over-perfumed guests.”

Freddy offered his arm. “By all means.”

They started along the gravel, the rhythmic crunch of their steps mingling with the faint music still audible from the house.

The hush of the garden was soothing, yet a part of Freddy could not relinquish his concern.

He walked slower than usual, mindful that Joy might not see protruding roots or uneven patches of ground in the dim light.

But he strove to do so without appearing patronizing, altering his step subtly so that she would not suspect he was taking care of her.

A ripple of laughter and applause drifted from the house.

Glancing back towards the open doors of the ballroom, Freddy caught sight of a figure whirling past—someone in a bright turquoise gown, slender of waist and with dark, glossy hair cascading in a stylish arrangement.

Even at this distance, he could discern Lady Maeve’s graceful posture as she turned in time with her partner’s steps.

She was quite striking—one of the beauties of the Season.

Her laughter rang out, clear and melodic, as she spun around.

Freddy realized he had paused in his steps, momentarily distracted by the spectacle.

A slight pang of guilt slid through him—here he was, determined to assist Joy, and yet he found himself distracted by a vision of feminine beauty.

He gave himself a mental shake and resumed walking, casting Joy a sidelong glance to see if she had noticed.

Her expression was indecipherable, but he guessed she had not seen what had caught his attention.

Or, if she had, perhaps it was only a swirl of colour and movement.

Did Joy feel any sense of loss at no longer being able to appreciate such displays?

It must hurt her pride that she could not fully see—but how could he help alleviate that pain?

“Freddy,” Joy said quietly, after they had passed the fountain. “I should like to return inside soon. The night air is—well, it is refreshing, but Faith will fret if she discovers me gone for too long.”

They retraced their steps towards the terrace, the sounds of revelry growing louder with each passing moment.

As they crossed the threshold back into the ballroom, Freddy noted that the dancing was in full swing.

The beautiful Maeve caught his eye once more, spinning gracefully with her partner amidst the crowd.