Content warnings can be found here

More than a month passed, and she and Mr Thornton met rarely. Her mind was with him, though, as she sat in the public ballroom and heard the Master of Ceremonies bang his staff upon the ground and announce, “My Lord Forthenby.” 

Feeling the name to be somehow familiar, Serafina glanced up, before realising that, of course, it could not be anyone she actually knew. The room was not crowded - most of the Quality were still in the country, and gentlemen were scarce - therefore she was able to watch as a young nobleman strode into the room with a careful, elegant gait. 

She was not the only one watching him, and some whispering went along the chairs to either side of her, but Serafina ignored it. The man was handsome enough, but he had neither the presence nor the profile of Mr Thornton. There was to his face - as to his name - something familiar, but she could not place the resemblance, and went back to watching the few couples taking their turns about the floor.

If only Mr Thornton could be in attendance tonight. Since beginning his new post, he seldom had time for such amusements as public balls. Instead, he was to be found at his office at every possible hour, working to impress Sir L—- and guarantee his own preferment. Serafina understood, of course, and was determined to show too much good sense than to turn away every young buck who deigned to ask her to whirl about with him. It was expedient, she told herself. She could not allow any suspicion to arise in her father’s mind that her heart was somehow engaged. 

You’re mystifying again, a part of her mind insisted. You like dancing, that’s all. 

Yet she did need to be careful. It had been she who had insisted upon a clandestine correspondence when he would have handed his notes to her openly, for she knew her father would not be above commanding such letters from her, if they came to his attention. Yet a secret one contained far more potential for scandal were it discovered – even correspondence of such tedious innocence.

Their letters were all of his work, of what they were reading and their mutual acquaintances - there was nothing that might betray partiality, nor arouse suspicion, except the very fact that the letters were concealed. 

Mr Thornton signed each note, “Yours respectfully,” and never again put to paper anything to make her breath catch, to set her heart racing, unless it was by the simple joy of having heard from him. She followed his example, avoiding incriminating herself as much as possible. He had insisted often enough that they could not find themselves embroiled in an intrigue, that it would ruin him. 

And what would it do to me, I wonder?

Serafina reminded herself not to tap her fan against her knee, or the arms of the chair, and tried to distract herself by watching the movement of polite society around her. Eleven months. Really, nearer ten.

 She tried to amuse herself as she often did, noting the absurdity of those about her. Often, at home, she would note down their most ludicrous habits in her pocket book, and sometimes even make small, satirical sketches to share with Mary. It was a frivolity, one that bordered upon impropriety, and she knew she would be forced to cease doing it at some point. 

Still, it entertained her, and so she fixed her attention on the way this barely genteel company – the children of doctors, bankers, retired aldermen – was thrown into confusion by the presence of a verifiable title; and no mere grocer elevated to a knighthood, but an actual peer of the realm.

 A little swarm had gathered around him at the end of the floor where, in the season, there would have been couples dancing. The Master of Ceremonies was making much of his introductions, bowing and scraping more than was entirely seemly. The Earl himself seemed rather above it all. His gaze took in the decorations, the band, and those sitting about the walls - too tired, or too plain to garner dances - as though it offered him but the least satisfactory of distractions. His manner with those who approached him was aloof, although not quite disdainful. He made very proper bows to the girls were presented to him by interfering biddies and clambering fathers. The manner of these petitioners reminded her of the way one might attempt to lure an honoured guest with a tray of sweetmeats. Serafina glanced about her; her mother was in sight, but too old a hand at these things for such obvious gold chasing. Her father was - fortunately - at a card table in the other room. 

Seeing the Earl surrounded like that, it came to her notice that while he was not an especially tall man, and slender with it, there something in his mien suggested rather more stature than mere inches could gift. The people about him gave him the space which they would normally only grant to one with greater bulk, and seemed to incline their heads up to him, even if they were the taller. It put her in mind of old Boney, surrounded by towering generals; a small man seeming to drag an empire along in his steps. 

And, as she watched, it came to her that, yes, there was something familiar about the man. She stared at his face trying to ascertain where she had seen it before. Indeed, so absorbed was she in this task that it took her a moment to realise that her gaze was reciprocated, that Lord Forthenby was leaning over the Master of Ceremonies, was speaking discretely, nodding in her direction. 

Ah.

In quick succession, Serafina considered hiding behind her fan, taking a sudden interest in the card tables, or simply getting up and running from the room. Regardless of whether he came to pay court, or to reprimand her for her insolent stare, the last thing that Serafina needed at this moment was the public attention of an Earl. 

Too late. 

The Master of Ceremonies was coming towards her with an awed and eager expression. The whole room appeared to be watching. Reaching her, he bowed and said, “Miss Tooting, I have the pleasure to inform you that my Lord Forthenby desires me to present you to him.”

Oh, hell. 

Serafina smiled and sweetly as she could and rose. Her fan trembled slightly in her hand.

“It is quite normal,” the Master of Ceremonies assured her, “to feel nervous when one approaches a gentleman such as my Lord Forthenby, but I can assure you, Miss Tooting, he has the sweetest, most condescending nature I have ever seen in a gentleman of his rank.”

“I’m very comforted to hear that, sir,” she managed, and wondered whether her slippers were up for a quick bolt across the floor and down the stairs. But, of course, Serafina Tooting was a delicately raised gentlewoman, and she would do no such thing.

The Master of Ceremonies took her hand and guided her forward like a small boy pushing a toy boat into the middle of a pond. 

Let’s hope I don’t sink.

“My Lord Forthenby,” he said, in a voice that carried far more than Serafina would have liked, “I have the honour to present to you Miss Tooting.”

She gave a deep curtsey and felt the searing heat of a blush score across her face.

Lord Forthenby returned a shallow and perfunctory bow, his eyes travelling over her frame like sharp knives, cutting away her clothes and taking knowing estimates of the flesh underneath. Serafina swallowed, trembling, somehow terrified that everyone in the room was party to this, as though they could all partake of the gaze which trapped and exposed her so. Again, she considered running, but knew she must not. So it was, after Lord Forthenby had taken stock of her legs, her hips, her breasts, did he look into her eyes, at her face - a face now crimson with a blush. He gave a spasm of a smile that looked more like a smirk and Serafina felt shame trickle down her back, felt something tighten between her legs in answer to him. Uncertain of where to look, she dropped her gaze and hated herself for it, knowing it must seem a show of coquettish modesty, or an acquiescence to such appraisal. 

“Miss Tooting,” said Lord Forthenby in clipped, bored tones. “I suppose you would you do me the honour of this next dance.”

There was a stiffening, a tension in the crowd of young women around them, and Serafina felt the pressure of resentful stares. No, she thought, not a chance. Not on your life. 

But that slot on her card was not taken, so she had no alternative but to bob another curtsey, and say, “Yes, my Lord.”

He did not smile. Indeed, he seemed so accustomed to having things his way that this latest acquisition gave him no gleam of satisfaction or pleasure. He bowed to her, no deeper than the last time, and Serafina knew herself to be dismissed.
 
Returning to her seat, she did not fan herself frantically, although her cheeks blazed so violently, she was fairly sure it increased the room temperature for a good ten feet around her. 

A familiar hand grabbed her arm, and Mary Dunning was leaning in, whispering, “Oh, well done, my dear. Very well played.”