~~~
I am standing at the edge of a giant ballroom with white walls and gold trim, watching the other extravagantly dressed guests bow and twirl to the orchestra. I can’t believe I am here at yet another ball. I’m too old for this and have no desire to marry. At least not any man I’ve ever met. They all smell like perfumed poodles or speak only of my dowry. My friend and companion Lucida, on the other hand, lives for the day she is wed. Of course, she is proper wife material. I am not. I read incessantly—science, philosophy, religion, and politics. I argue with my father. I refuse to do as I am told. My heart is wild and untamable and always will be.
I glance over at the grandfather clock in the corner of the massive room crowded with people who are laughing and drinking and judging one and other. One more hour of this horseshit and I am free to go. My older cousin Robert will chaperone me, as my father is away on business and my mother is feeling a bit “under the weather.” Really, she loathes these social events as much as I do, but this is my last season before I will officially be declared a spinster. I cannot wait. There is great freedom in being an old maid—no husband to make demands, no children to discipline, no more balls to attend.
As I try not to fidget or tug at my cream-colored silk dress to relieve the pressure of the whalebone digging into my rib cage, I feel someone watching me from across the room.
Oh, glorious. Yet another man I will have to politely shoo away with an excuse about my worn-out feet. But when I look up, a stunning pair of blue, blue eyes meet mine, and I feel like the wind has been sucked from my lungs. I start to fall backward, unable to keep myself upright.
“Madam, are you unwell?” says a man to my side who had been chatting with my friend Lucinda about something trivial related to gardens.
I find my legs again and nod. “Yes, I am fine. My dress is a little tight.”
Lucinda, who is a petite-framed thing with golden locks—the exact opposite of me with my black hair and dark eyes—lets out a little laugh. “Evelyn, you really will go to any length to leave early. But I’m not having it. You made a promise to stay to the last dance.”
This is the point where I would normally begin begging her to leave, appealing to her love for me, as we’ve been lifelong friends, but this time I do not wish to go anywhere. At least, not with her.
I watch the stranger approach, weaving between an ocean of billowing ruffled skirts and men in black coats. He is a head taller than the rest and a thousand times more beautiful than any man I’ve ever laid eyes upon—shoulder-length sandy-blond hair, wide shoulders, and a pronounced jawline. The way he walks, with such confidence and ease, gives him an air of power. Or danger. I am unsure. Whatever the case, I cannot take my eyes away, and he cannot seem to remove his gaze from me.
I have seen him before. I know I have. Yet I cannot recall ever meeting him, and this was the sort of man no woman could ever forget.
The man finally reaches me and stares down, holding me in place with those stunning azure eyes.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he says in a voice so deep and masculine that my toes curl inside my silk slippers underneath my gown.
Dear Lord, no. He thinks I am someone else. My heart is broken. Right then and there.
“You have mistaken me, sir, for someone else,” I say acerbically. It’s just my luck that this man, this beautiful, wild-looking man who clearly doesn’t belong at a ball, though his clothes appear fine enough, would be in search of another woman.
He holds out his hand, a very improper gesture, as we have not been introduced. “I never make mistakes.”
I glance at his awaiting hand and cannot help wanting it. He’s simply too magnificent to deny.
I reach for him, and the moment I do, images flash through my mind. I see myself and him together, though he looks different. His features are dark and the planes of his face are exquisitely sculpted like a marble statue of a Greek god. But nevertheless, I know those eyes and their endless blues. And I know how he feels when he holds me and kisses me.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
“They call me Macarius.” His eyes shift around the room as if checking for someone. “Come, we must leave quickly.”
Lucinda is now dancing and paying me no attention. My cousin Robert is occupied with a young blonde in the corner, surely attempting to convince her to meet somewhere later so he can rob her of her virtue.
“Where will we go?” I ask, knowing it doesn’t matter.