“Dorie,” said Dorie, and curtseyed, which sent the older girl into raptures.
Jane saw the amused look on the gentleman’s face—the cooing over Dorie was likely to be of little interest except to the father, and where was he?
“Just look at these golden curls! Nearly as bright as mine.”
Come to think of that, where were the other guests? Where was Nina, and hadn’t she seen a redhead earlier, from above?
A gentle laugh by the door, and Jane turned to see her question answered. Mr. Rochart. And the redhead … of course.
That’s where he had been.
Blanche Ingel slipped her arm under Mr. Rochart’s, laughing. “I won’t melt, will I?” she said, and she turned her perfectly chiseled face up to his. Mr. Rochart leaned closer, and Jane couldn’t catch what he said, but she saw his lips move with his reply. The tall dark man swept the redhead with the unearthly beauty into the drawing room; the younger Miss Davenport struck up a waltz, and they danced.
The well-dusted curtains sagged overhead, creased and worn as if they’d not been touched for two centuries. The boarded windows were made gayer for the evening, tacked over with cloth cut from remnants of upstairs curtains. Only one of the paned windows was still whole, and it showcased the dusky moor.
Jane held her side as if it had a stitch. Her ribs were too broad for her dress, suddenly, and they labored against the golden panels. What was it to her if he danced with his clients? That was what he was supposed to do—what he had told her he would do. It wasn’t his fault that she couldn’t understand how he could say he hated parties, hated smiling, hated the dance—and now could whisk away the redhead in the slinky green silk with an air of absolute charm, smile at her as if she were the only person in the room, whirl her around as if he loved every minute of this gathering.
He wasn’t supposed to dance with Jane, not in this life or any other. Even the imaginary whole-faced Jane was nothing compared to this woman’s sculpted perfection (the perfection he had created, oh, why wouldn’t he adore his living artwork), and it wasn’t just her. More women were in the room now, including Nina, and the Misses Davenport’s cousin, who was nearly as striking as Blanche. She was shorter, and her figure not nearly so fine, but her face was a tiny cornered thing of heartbreaking beauty, and the few men flocked around her, to the dismay of both Misses Davenport. Had the cousin, then, already been under his knife?
It mattered little if she had or not—the women’s beauty was still from money, whether bred or bought. These were the people of this world, and she was a fool to believe that Mr. Rochart’s seemingly unguarded moments with her could mean anything more than that she happened to be standing nearby when he spoke. A man who could swear that he despised parties and then charm a roomful of women—no, she didn’t understand him, she couldn’t understand him, and the familiar claws of cold humiliation tore her up inside.
The waltz rang to a bright finish, and Mr. Rochart twirled Blanche into his arms and against the piano. They stopped, breathing with the effort of the dance, and Mr. Rochart took a long time to draw away from his lovely partner in green, to let her escape his arms. Jane’s shoulder blades prickled under her filmy dress, recalling how that touch felt.
The elder Miss Davenport also watched this interaction carefully, her eyes flicking from Mr. Rochart and Blanche to her younger sister and the moon-eyed boy gazing at her. Weighing options, but good luck to her, thought Jane. As if anyone in the room could surpass Blanche Ingel.
“Da!” said Dorie, and she ran to hug his knees.
Edward bent to caress the blond head. “Are you behaving yourself, my little terror?”
“Oh, you ogre!” butted in the elder Miss Davenport. “This sweet thing is an angel, a bunnykin, a darling moppet. I just adore her, and she adores me already, don’t you, precious? Look at her sweet pink frock. Can you give us a curtsey, pet?”
Jane’s hand crept down to the radiator to rap on iron as Dorie smiled and curtseyed prettily at the crowd. “Oh, what a doll!” she heard Miss Davenport exclaim, and then the other girls pressed in until Jane couldn’t see Dorie at all. She stood, unwilling to either leave her dark corner or risk Dorie getting out of her sight.
Too much attention might be a balm, might make Dorie sufficiently happy that she would not be tempted to destroy her father’s reputation in a single flash of blue light. On the other hand, Jane had seen more than once what excessive adoration could do to a child. She did not know Dorie’s measure in this situation, and she took a step in, nerving herself to fight her way into that flock.