The Black Cat by Hayley Ann Solomon

coat shot with azure silk and encrusted with several shimmering pieces his valet had decreed quite quintessential, his lordship set off for Dewhurst Manor in a delightful barouche, lightheartedly painted canary yellow and sporting a sky blue trim. He wondered whether the gypsy queen would appreciate the merry colouring and thought she would, making a mental note to acquire squabs of crimson, a bright memory of that first, storm-swept night, so very long ago.
    Even as he was announced, he was scanning the ballroom for some young lady not previously introduced to his acquaintance. There were not many who fitted into that category, for any matchmaking mama worth her salt almost instantly introduced her daughters to his attention just as soon as they were out. There. . . in the far corner. He nodded in satisfaction.
    A comely girl, not plain exactly, but with none of the enlivening vivacity of the rest of the debutantes about her. Doomed to be a wallflower, he surmised. Well, if he had to face up to his task, then face up to it he would. He squared his shoulders, then made his way unhesitatingly toward the lady in question. “Miss St. Jardine?” She nodded mutely—unhappily, he thought.
    For the first time, he experienced a stab of remorse at the callous way he had handled the whole matter. He was just wondering how to broach the topic when the waltz struck up.
    â€œWould you care for a turn?” He smiled at her kindly.
    â€œWe are not yet introduced, sir!”
    â€œThen I shall take an enormous liberty and tell you my name. I am Lord Santana and I believe I have wronged you, though I swear I never had that intention.”
    â€œYou mistake the matter, sir!”
    â€œNot at all! I was rude and overbearing and impossibly high in the instep. Will you forgive me?”
    The lady nodded. “I did feel, when you ignored me and left me to sit out the dance that night, that you were a trifle stiff. But, sir, I assure you, that does not signify!”
    â€œBeg pardon?” This time, Santana was confused.
    â€œAnd now, my lord, I really must depart. My betrothed is fetching me a glass of orgeat, you see.”
    The words were so confiding that Santana could detect no guile. Nor could he fathom the meaning of the encounter that had just taken place. The young lady was evidently not repining for him, nor did it appear she knew anything of the arrangement that had seemed destined to unite them forever.
    Whilst he was greatly relieved to find her heart whole—he would have been mortified to have inflicted unwitting pain and expectations—he nevertheless remained supremely puzzled.
    The dancers twisted and swayed gracefully before him, but, as usual he demonstrated no interest. It was not until he heard tinkling laughter behind him that his lithe body moved swiftly into action. He knew that laugh anywhere, and by God, she would not slip so easily from his grasp this time!
    His keen eyes searched in the shimmering half-light, for the flickering flames illuminating the manor were prodigious and sparkled like thousands of diamonds in their crystal holders. Colour upon colour, velvets and muslins and satins and organdie . . . He could not find the elusive woman who tantalised him, provoked him, teased him, then invariably disappeared.
    Tonight would be different. He fingered the special license firmly. He had done his duty. He had made amends to Miss St. Jardine—though heaven knew, she apparently had no use for them—and now he would claim his prize. How right he had been to attend this evening! In his wildest imagination, he had not sought to find her here. But why not? She was a lady born—that was obvious. This was her milieu. . . or was it?
    The uncomfortable notion that he was missing something crept back into his mind. Strange to see Lord Peter Fotheringham, stiff as a ramrod, greeting guests his father would never have dreamed of receiving into his home. The old man now. Santana smiled