Prada and Prejudice (11 page)

Chandeliers and sconces hang everywhere, hundreds of flames casting a romantic glow over the crowd below. The marble floor is glossy and covered by nearly two hundred people, most of them dancing in what, to my horror, appears to be a choreographed routine. They're standing in a row, do-si-doing around one another, clapping hands, and spinning.

I just stare, remembering what Emily had said about a country-dance and a reel, and realizing she'd meant
line dances.

"I
--
" I'm about to explain that I have no idea what all this is about when someone walks up to Emily.

He's sort of cute. A little older, like maybe twenty or so, but tall and athletic, with sandy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Unlike Alex's attire, this guy's is colorful: a bright blue jacket with burgundy stripes, and a matching burgundy neckcloth tied in large, lazy twists. His eyes twinkle as he grins, as if the world is at his feet and he couldn't be happier.

I decide immediately that I like him.

He stares straight at Emily as she smiles back. "Miss Thorton-Hawke, it is lovely to see you," he says with a deep bow.

She curtsies back, so low her knees practically touch the ground, and her mint-green dress mushrooms out around her. "The pleasure is mine," she says, in a singsong voice I hardly recognize.

"Save the next dance for me?"

She nods, and then he smiles and disappears into the crowd. For a second I wonder if she's just following her own rule about accepting the first request to dance, but then I realize it's far more than that.

As soon as he's out of earshot, she squeals and grabs my hand. "Oh, I'd hoped he would be here!"

I cock an eyebrow at her.

"His name is Trent Rallsmouth. We met at a country-dance. He is the son of a wealthy merchant and the subject of my greatest adoration."

I want to say something to her, but no words come as I stare into her shining eyes.

Trent. That's it. My solution. Somehow, someway, he's the guy she should be with.

Not Denworth. It has to be Trent.

If I fail, it's not just about her being stuck with Denworth
--
it's about her being without Trent. I'll be denying her a smile like this one forever.

I won't let that happen. Not when I promised her. Not when fixing this could lead me home. "So, what's the deal?"

Emily gives me a blank look.

"What I'm asking is
...
you and Trent... are the feelings mutual?"

"I am not certain. I believe so." She looks away for a silent moment and then sighs.

"According to my father, it does not matter, for I am betrothed to another
...
more
appropriate
match. He has said that Trent is below me, and he refuses to allow me to marry anyone other than a gentleman."

I swallow and stare into the crowd like it will somehow show me the right words to say, but I end up just standing there, silent. How am I going to fix this?

The evening was supposed to be fun, and now it's turning complicated. Emily's betrothal just became real. The pain she's going to feel.. . It's real. I
have
to do something.

And on top of all that, I don't know these dances! And as soon as the next dance starts, I'm going to be standing here alone while Emily dashes off to dance with Trent. It's like my worst nightmare, come to life.

Turns out 1815 isn't so different from the twenty-first century, because this is
exactly
what would happen if I were back home. Even pretending I'm Rebecca hasn't fixed it.

Why did I think it would change? Flying thousands of miles to Europe didn't change my fate. Traveling two hundred years, it seems, didn't change it either.

Chapter 17

I chew on my lips as I scan the crowd. There's quite a mix of people here: men and women, boys and girls (though none of them appear to be younger than fourteen). Judging by their clothing alone, some are quite wealthy, and others
...
not so much. And yet none of them seem to care, because they're laughing and dancing and smiling, and I want so badly to be a part of that.

Why can't I? Why do I always do this? My skin tingles with the desire to step outside myself, to walk onto the floor and push away
old
Callie.

But I don't know how. I'll just do something classic like trip on my dress or bump into everyone else. I'm too freaked about the prospect to force myself onto the floor.

There's a crowd of people near the edge of the dance floor, and I squint to see what they're all looking at. And then someone pushes through the group, and to my utter shock I realize it's Alex they all want. They stare longingly after him as he tries to extract himself from the mix.

And they're all girls. Is he supposed to be considered a major catch or something?

They must not know what a jerk he really is. They must have no idea the kinds of secrets he keeps locked away. If they knew the things I know, they'd stay far, far away from him.

One of them tugs at his sleeve and says something, and he glances out toward the floor. Did she just ask him to dance?

They keep talking for a minute, and I have a perfect view of his profile. Of his dark hair and bright brooding eyes, of his full lips and strong jaw, of his broad shoulders and that ridiculous neckcloth he has tied in a thousand knots around his throat. He walks away from the girl, but he looks more like he's strutting.

I snicker to myself. He looks like a cat on the prowl, or maybe a peacock. Actually, a peacock isn't a bad analogy, considering how conceited and proud he is.

And that's when the song transitions and the crowd dissipates as new dancers swarm the floor. Before I can say a word, Emily hands me her glass and dashes off to find her
...
boyfriend? I guess he's just her crush. They probably don't even
have
boyfriends in this century.

I stand on the edge of the floor, suddenly filled with deja vu. Why is this like every dance I've ever been to? Not that I have a long history or anything. I went to the 8th grade graduation dance though. And I did
try
to go to homecoming stag with Katie, but we only stayed twenty minutes. It turned out she was wrong about a lot of people going without dates, and we stood out like a couple of losers. We'd gone home and rented movies and pretended we hadn't wanted to be there anyway.

I glance around, hyperaware of every movement, knowing I look like a total dork.
There are some chairs near the edge of the room, practically disappearing into some velvet curtains, so I scurry to them. Once sitting, I lean back. I'm not quite covered but I feel a little less obtrusive, like maybe no one will even notice I'm here.

I play with the fingers on my gloves and try to pretend I'm not being a complete wallflower.

I take a deep, calming breath.
This is 1815. I am Rebecca. And everyone loves Rebecca,with her fun piano duets and her tales of America.

From my vantage point I've got a pretty good view of the scene. I can figure out a strategy for the next dance if I watch carefully. A woman seems to be in charge and is deciding exactly how the dance will work. Then the next person imitates her steps. Maybe she is Mrs. Pommeroy. Or Lady Pommeroy. Whatever. I study the dance for ten full minutes, trying to memorize what they're doing. It's actually pretty repetitive. A twirl here, a patty-cake there, and then down the line they go. I can probably pull it off. If someone asks me to dance, that is.

It just goes on and on and on. Fifteen minutes and they're still going. I find Emily in the sea of faces, and she's beaming from ear-to-ear. Trent is staring back at her as if she's the only girl in the room.

Yes, they are in love, even if they don't know it yet. I watch them for the next five minutes. Now and then wax drips from the chandeliers above, but they never take their eyes off of each other. They just laugh and dance and stare, and I bet the house could catch fire and they wouldn't even notice.

Emily is my friend, but watching her with that happy glow, I feel a familiar twinge. I've never had that. Not in the twenty-first century, not ever. Even Katie got a boyfriend a month after she moved away. But here I am, fifteen, never been kissed. Why? What's wrong with me? Am I that unworthy?

I stand up again, awkwardly because of the stiff corset, and nearly run into a girl maybe two years older than me. She has golden hair the color of straw, but it's twisted up in several plaits, so it makes her look over-Botoxed and angry.

"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm sorry. Excuse me."

But when I turn around, Alex is standing in front of me, an older guy trailing behind him. I've landed myself in the midst of two strangers and a guy I
wish
was a stranger. I so should have stayed hidden in the curtains.

"I see you've met Lady Everson," Alex says, gesturing to the blonde I'd crashed into.
"Lady Everson, this is Miss Rebecca Vaughn, a guest at Harksbury."

I furrow my brow. "Why is she a lady and I'm a
miss?"

His lips part. I've caught him totally off-guard. "Excuse me?"

"Why didn't you call
me
a lady?"

The girl stifles a giggle and steps closer, like she's about to watch a verbal smackdown and needs a better view. The stranger behind Alex also crowds closer. We have an audience, it seems.

"Because you are not a lady."

My jaw drops. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He quirks a brow and looks at me like I'm asking a stupid question. "A lady is a member of the peerage. Through marriage or lineage. You are neither."

Oh, this is rich, coming from a guy with an illegitimate kid.

"Where I come from, you're a lady because you act like one. Because you carry yourself with dignity and respect. You're not handed the title because of some fancy pedigree."

He arches a brow but says nothing.

Harrumph! The nerve! To say I'm not a lady! To introduce me to this girl as if she's better than me! When will he get over his elitist attitude and realize I'm just as good as everyone else even if I
am
a commoner?

The stranger clears his throat. "Excuse me, Your Grace," he says, bowing.

Alex bows back, though not as deeply. I wonder if that means the guy is of a lower rank. The idea is amusing, as Alex looks a great deal younger than him.

"Evening, Lord Brimmon," Alex says. His voice is cool and detached, just like last night at the dinner table.

"A nice evening for a dance, yes?" The guy is at least in his twenties, with a reddish tint to his brown hair. It's shorter than Alex's and a little bit unruly, but he has sparkling hazel eyes and a lean build, so he's still fairly cute. For, you know, an older guy.

"I suppose," Alex replies. His eyes flicker over to me and the girl. Does he think I'm going to start a cat fight when he's not looking? Please.
He's
the one I can't stand. I have nothing against this girl.

"Might you introduce me to these two lovely ladies?"

I smirk. The guy just called me a lady. I guess
he
was giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Certainly. Might I introduce you to Lady Everson and Miss Rebecca Vaughn."

It's hard not to scowl at his continued snub.

"So lovely to meet you, Lady Everson, Miss Vaughn. Do you suppose you might like to dance?"

When I come up from my curtsy, I realize he's looking at
me.
I think I stop breathing for a second, because every muscle in my body freezes. I don't even blink. This guy wants to dance with me instead of this "lady." It's exactly what I wanted, and yet I'm paralyzed with terror. I don't know how. I've never even been asked to dance. Ever. Equal parts of anxiety and elation race through me.

"Wouldn't you prefer to dance with Lady Everson?" Alex says. And then before I know what he's doing, he's gently pushing Lady Everson forward and stepping in front of me, blocking my view of Brimmon. "She is a peer, after all."

I'm so stunned; the two disappear before I can even move.

When Alex turns to me, I come unleashed. "You are the rudest, most ridiculously arrogant person I have ever met in my life!" I say, and then spin on my heel and stomp away.

I've gone less than two yards before he stops me, a hand on my shoulder. "Miss Vaughn. As you are my guest, it is expected that the two of us shall dance."

I snort. "Oh, no, that's not necessary. I won't he your charity case. Wouldn't you rather
--
"

But he grabs my hand, places it on his elbow, and starts pulling me toward the floor just as the music transitions. Half the guests are looking at us. I can hardly rip my arm away and stomp on his foot without looking like a total freak. Not if I want a
nice
guy to ask me to dance later.