Chapter 3: Musings of Impropriety at the Crothwaite Ball

Nicola felt queer.

Not queer in the sense that she felt ill- indeed, no. Rather, she felt unusual, as if something was simply off.

Her eyes collided with a pair of silver orbs from across the ballroom and a thrill ran down her spine. Jason Blackwood was lavishing her with more attention than she had ever had from him over the years. It was downright discombobulating. And it simply didn't make her feel, well, normal.

Suppressing yet another hot shudder, Nicola forced her eyes away from the strikingly beautiful man and smoothed a crease in the smooth white gloves that covered her arms up to her elbows. At one and twenty, she was no stranger to a ballroom, especially the Crosthwaite's most opulently designed one, and there was absolutely no reason for her to feel as odd as she did, as if she couldn't quite find a comfortable niche to slot into- a misfit, a piece of the puzzle that would not, could not, fit in its rightful place.

Nicola turned her back on the Marquis of Northwick and even though she could no longer behold him, his eyes strayed across her skin as tangible as if he were running the tips of his fingers along the crevasse of her bare shoulders.

"Nicola, is ought amiss?" Blanche asked, concerned.

Nicola hadn't realised she had closed her eyes. Opening them, she found her little companion shifting from side to side beside her. Blanche was always so damn full of energy, as if it were nigh impossible for her to remain stationary for long. Nicola hardly knew how she kept up with the shorter woman's abundance of cheerful energy. "Not at all," she responded with a smile. "Perhaps I need an ice."

"Shall I ask Mr Whitley to fetch us some?" Blanche asked happily, referring to the podgy gentleman who had been hounding the girls all evening for a snippet of attention from either of them. "I'm sure he would be more than happy to oblige."

Every gentleman here would be more than happy to oblige, Nicola thought to herself as she studied her friend. Blanche was gorgeous, a delightful impish beauty whose allure was hard to resist. With her dark hair coiffured into an intricate ensemble at her crown and her silver eyes flashing with energy, she painted an exquisite picture. Her gown was fashioned from the richest silk, a silvery grey in colour which charged her eyes with translucent power.

On the other hand, Nicola thought she rather paled in comparison though she was not devoid of attention. It was obvious that she had some appeal, though Blanche had most. Combined with the title of the Blackwood name and her exquisite looks, Blanche would make any gentleman a very suitable wife. Nicola, though, had no title though the sizeable dowry her father had given her surely made up for that lack of allure. If that didn't attract a suitable man, then Nicola's quiet, confident comportment usually did. She wasn't a rambunctious or outgoing individual like Blanche. She preferred being more reflective, though by no means shy. When it came down to it, Nicola could be very friendly and helpful. In fact, because of these admirable qualities, she had many friends, though only one she could call her closest.

There had been offers for her hand over the years and she had politely declined. Four in total, if one enjoyed counting them. However, she was fortunate to have very little pressure from her father in that regard and so, unable to accept any of the gentlemen as her future husband, Nicola had refused to accept. One had even been a baron.

Nobody had questioned her decision and she hadn't bothered to explain. Her father had left her to her devices, content that in time Nicola would choose a man that would make her happy. But at one and twenty, Nicola wasn't sure how much longer she would be able to enjoy that liberty.

Her mind strayed to Jason again and she compelled her face to not show her distress at her inner musings.

"I think I need a bit of fresh air," she told Blanche.

"Oh, but I promised Mr Dudley the next quadrille," the other woman lamented indecisively.

"You do not have to follow me everywhere," Nicola laughed. "I'll be on the terrace when you're done."

Without a word more, Nicola headed for the nearest French door that lead out onto one of the immaculately decorated terraces. The steps flowed down into a lush garden that was lit by the golden orbs of intermittent lanterns and through these paths couples strolled amiably, followed closely by their respective chaperones. It was romantic and idyllic; Lady Crosthwaite certainly knew how to ensure a mood was set.

It was while she was observing the amblings of a couple in her close proximity that she became aware of a presence entering the terrace behind her and Nicola knew that it was him. The air around her grew heavier somehow, charged with a current she couldn't identify, and the sounds of the orchestra plucking a lively number for the quadrille seemed to dim until all she was only aware of the two of them, on that terrace, while the world melted away to oblivion around them.

The thought was bittersweet and she closed her eyes against the torrent of emotion that swept over her, schooling her features to reveal none of what she felt for Jason Blackwood. She sensed him moving closer, heard the faint scuff of his boots against the marble of the floor, and finally, feeling strong enough to face him, Nicola turned.

Shadowed slightly against the night, Jason Blackwood cut a devastating figure. His dark thick hair swept languidly against his forehand and his eyes glinted with that strange heat she had been privy to earlier that day. His angular jaw held unspeakable strength yet his lips, thick and wide and devilishly wicked, always wore an amused smile. He was muscle and power, with broad shoulders donned in a fine black evening jacket. On any normal day, Jason could make every woman in his nearby vicinity swoon. Well-groomed, he was catastrophic to the female population of England.

"Enjoying the evening?" he asked in that low, sultry baritone of his.

Inwardly, she was aflame- hot and fluttered and wild. Outwardly, Nicola was cooled and poised, portraying nothing of the havoc within her. She even managed a smile. "It has been lovely thus far," she said. "And you, my lord?"

He sighed. "You're never going to call me Jason, are you?"

Her smile tightening slightly and she couldn't help being amused that something as trivial as a name could irk him so. "Tis improper, my lord."

He laughed at that and Nicola was inordinately pleased that he enjoyed being teased by her. But those revelations were dangerous and she quickly dispelled such notions. "Would you like to take a turn about the garden?" Jason asked, offering her his arm.

Nicola hesitated and glanced inside the well-lit ballroom. Lady Blackwood, Blanche's mother, had opted to remain at her daughter's side as chaperone and rightly so. Out of the two of them, Blanche would be the most likely chosen to fall into trouble but not sweet-tempered, mild-mannered Nicola Eversley. The chances of Nicola cavorting with a member of the opposite sex were as slim as... well, her ever marrying Jason Blackwood.

And that notion alone sent a wave of bleakness through her.

"I do not think that is very wise," Nicola told him slowly, sure the beating of her heart was so wild and erratic that he must have heard it. If he did, however, Jason made no comment about it.

Instead, quite implacably, the Lord of Northwick clamped his fingers about the bare skin just above her elbow, sending bolts of fiery warmth under her skin. "Don't be silly," he berated mildly, beginning to guide her down the several steps that lead into the lavishly manicured gardens, "The garden is plenty occupied. You'll be perfectly safe, I personally guarantee it."

A protest died on her lips as she recalled his words that the gardens were teeming with other occupants. If she made a scene, someone would be bound to notice and then where would that get her? Bound to a scandal, no doubt. Wordlessly, her mouth pursed, Nicola found that she had no choice but to allow Jason to guide her into the dimly lit paths of Lady Crosthwaite's gardens.

His sudden, unequivocal interest in her was confounding to say the least. Just why he had taken a liking to her was suspicious- he hadn't shown her this much attention before in all her years at Northwick, and yet Nicola couldn't help but revel in it. Oh but it was sinfully delicious to catch his gaze devouring her from the other end of the ballroom, wickedly silver and intent. It sent currents of ecstasy through her and her knees felt weak.

Even now, Nicola struggled to maintain her stoic poise. It was a downright Herculean effort...

...Considering the man she had loved for years was touching the bare skin of her upper arm in a wantonly intimate manner.

"Tell me, how is your father these days?" he asked in a vain attempt to initiate some form of small talk between them.

"He is well, my lord."

"Still investing the textile trade?"

"That's correct." Nicola studied him shrewdly. "You did not bring me out here to discuss my father, my lord."

Above them, the stars glittered- a quilt of twinkling diamonds. From a distance the hum of the orchestra reached their ears and the din of softly coveted voices drifted from the various paths in the gardens. Jason crooked a corner of his lips and looked at her askance, amused. "You are a clever one, Nicola."

"Now you are teasing me."

"Never. Merely stating the obvious." He dismissed the conversation with a brusque gesture. "It doesn't matter. I can't say why I brought you out here for I don't even know. I do know, however, that you look simply marvellous tonight and perhaps I wanted a moment to enjoy the company of such a lovely creature as yourself, to myself."

"That... is very flattering."

"You don't sound very convinced."

"To be honest, my lord, I am not."

They drew to a halt and Jason turned to face her. Though she was tall, his chin tilted down a notch in order to level his silvery liquid gaze at her and Nicola felt her stomach lurch with tormenting longing. "Why?" he enunciated succinctly.

"I have spent my entire life at Northwick," Nicola explained tautly, "and you haven't once paid me any heed. I am in your presence almost every day, my lord."

"Perhaps I've never really looked before?"

Nicola sighed plaintively. She couldn't make herself feel better by that statement. It smarted, actually. For if she had interpreted correctly, Jason had just informed her that only now, after more than a decade under his nose, had he thought to actually look at her, to see or judge her worth. "I think I had better go," she said in a small voice.

"Have I said something amiss?" Jason demanded, but Nicola had turned and was already fleeing down the path towards the brightly illuminated ballroom.

When the evening drew to an end and Nicola was safely ensconced in her private chambers, she knew that she wouldn't be able to sleep that night. From a secret compartment inside her valise she procured a sizeable carafe of sherry- her one and only vice. It was an enjoyment she partook in privately and sometimes with Blanche, knowing that any lady who outwardly imbibed was ridiculed by society, though for Nicola it was an occasionally reprieve from her troubling emotions and a cure to her sleeplessness.

The nightly pastime has begun with her father. Ewan Eversley was a man who worked late into the night and Nicola, whenever she could not find it in herself to welcome sleep into her embrace, would seek out her father and together they would sit and enjoy a glass of sherry. They would talk and laugh, perhaps even play a game of cards on some nights, but inevitably the sherry would work its magic and Nicola would find her eyelids growing heavy until eventually she found her way back to her bed.

Tonight however she knew that sleep would come slowly, the ever-present longing in her bosom seeming to expound her thoughts this evening. Restless, she poured the dark liquid into a crystal glass and relished the warm burn of the stuff as it laced her throat, burning her stomach. She moved silently, gracefully, towards her writing desk and procured a piece of vellum and a pen. Here she allowed all her vexations and the deepest longings of her soul to pour forth, to materialise with exquisite precision on the page before her.

The words poured from the tip of the pen like a torrent, a great, uncontrolled flood of emotion that howled forlornly at the world. Nicola knew not the source of the words or from whence they came, but come they did and she could not stop the flow if she tried- not now, not ever. It was another pastime, a manner she had concocted to manage her all-consuming love for a man she could never have, and when she could write no more, her fingers stained with black ink, she squeezed her eyes shut and inhaled a deep, trembling breath. When she expelled it, she felt lighter- relieved- and the anguish seemed to lessen. Her hands shaking slightly, Nicola set them to either side of the parchment before she opened her eyes, and slowly, carefully- like a tentative, shy lover- she studied the contents she had created.

My beloved Jason, it read.

Though you know not the deepest torments of mine heart, I am well aware that every rhythmic beat, every tremulous path of blood through my body, survives for naught but to see the smile of your lips- mischievous, becoming, enticing!- the scent that surrounds your soul, your very being- oh, how I burn to know you, to feel the whisper of your words against the curves of my own lips.

But to know would surely be the death of me, for such exquisite languor I would perish on the spot for but a moment of your smile. I long for a look from your eyes much like the moon longs for the company of his stars, the sun for the clouds and birds.

Tonight, I captured your gaze across the Crosthwaite ballroom and my heart- oh my heart!- how I lived for that moment, in that moment! Just your look was enough to sustain me; the look that provokes the soul to soar and sing with all the glory of all the love in the world! I beheld you and you were marvellous, a figure to put any knight to shame. I long to brush my fingertips along the feathery curls at your nape, to feel the simplicity of our fingers entwining as you effortlessly and gracefully escort me for a dance...

Perhaps, tonight, you will favour me in my dreams and our lips will touch, linger, with the stars as our audiences.

With love...

She didn't sign her name. She never signed her name.

If she did, it would become too tangible, as if she were bellowing it out for all the world to hear.

With a sigh, Nicola folded the vellum in half and opened a small wooden jewellery box her father had bought her for her eleventh birthday. The compartment had never held any jewellery. Instead, within it was dozens and dozens folded pieces of parchments, neatly stacked and tied in multiples of ten.

Nicola placed the most recent one atop of stack of eight others before closing the box and placing it back inside the top drawer of desk.