The Brahmin Ball (A Sweet Historical Romance Novella) (Brahmin Brides Book 1) (2 page)

Chapter Four

Grace had watched as Madeline was asked to dance right away, not long after she approached Mr. Ashby near the refreshment table.

She sighed.
How can I expect to find someone so soon after shedding my mourning clothes? Bachelors want fiancées who are bright and gay, not somber and living through yet another difficult life circumstance.

Nevertheless, she knew it was imperative that she at least make an effort, if for no other reason than to please her mother. Seeing a convivial group of old friends nearby, she fought back her reservations and joined in chatting with them for a while. At last, one of the men asked her to dance. It was a relief—watching her younger sisters dance while she played the part of a wallflower was embarrassing. Not long after leaving the dance floor, another man asked her. And soon after, another.

With each partner who asked her to dance, she hoped that her secret admirer would reveal himself. But no man did.

At last she felt that she needed a rest and some cool air—the ballroom was crowded and stifling. The parlors and libraries of the Boston Brahmin were no match for the growing “Calling List” that each socialite kept, from which she drew her invitation list, and the balls had swelled to numbers that tested the limits of even the largest home. Though her mother abhorred the idea, Grace longed for the day that balls were done the “New York way”—renting out entire restaurants or halls to host a ball.

A few of the New York City elite had dared to do so, and after much ado about the new trend, it was gaining popularity. Trying to make her way across the crowded music room toward the blissful relief of an open window that overlooked the back end of the home, Grace could understand why. A few others were already gathered there to partake of the cold breeze, and Grace was eager to join them.

“Did you like the rose?” The voice from behind startled her.

She whirled to see a handsome, tall man in finely tailored garb. His thick, jet hair swept back from his face, and trailed down over the back of his collar. His dark eyes sparkled, and a smile played about his lips.

“It was you!” she exclaimed. “Yes, it was lovely, thank you. But I must admit, I’m surprised that a man such as yourself would feel the need to send a rose anonymously.”

“A man such as myself?” A hint of concern passed over his face.

“Yes…I half-expected someone unattractive, or very short,” she laughed.

“Then you think I’m attractive?” His smile was undeniably fetching.

“I…I meant…” she was flustered, and reached for the easiest excuse “…that is, it’s unusual for a man to pluck a rose from an arrangement and send it to a young lady anonymously, rather than just ask her to dance directly.”

“I’m terribly embarrassed. You figured me out. I had hoped you’d believe that I ran out into the cold and woke a florist from his bed in order to purchase it for you.” He laughed, then leaned in with a low voice. “However…I haven’t asked you to dance.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks burned, and she glanced around to see if anyone had just witnessed her humiliation.

“Not that I don’t want to,” he rushed to add, “but I prefer conversation to dancing…dancing is not my forte. Why else would I have sent the rose, rather than invite you to dance?”

She narrowed her gaze. “Something tells me there’s more to the anonymous rose than a mere lack of dance skills.”

A shadow passed over his eyes, but it was gone before she could make note of its meaning.

“Forgive me for intruding.” Clara appeared at Grace’s side, leaning in to whisper. “Mother is looking for you. Likely she has a particular ‘victim’ in mind.”

Grace’s stomach churned. She wouldn’t be forced away from a man who actually intrigued her, to meet whatever boring rich man her mother had in mind. “Mr. Gladstone, may I introduce you to my youngest sister, Miss Clara Barstow.”

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Gladstone.” Clara dipped in a slight curtsey.

Mr. Gladstone returned the gesture with a bow of the head. “The pleasure is mine, Miss Barstow.”

“Clara, please tell Mother that I’m otherwise engaged. Mr. Gladstone just invited me to dance.”

“I…did?” He was taken aback, then recovered. “That is…I’m glad you’ve accepted.”

“I’ll tell Mother.” Clara nodded, taking her leave.

“Thank you for being gallant. Mother will spend the entire evening trying to match me up with someone wholly unacceptable, if I let her. I apologize for taking advantage of your kindness.”

“If pretending that I asked you to dance will keep you at my side a few minutes longer, I’m happy to oblige.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you don’t understand.” Grace smiled sweetly. “If my mother doesn’t see us on the dance floor, she’ll send Clara back immediately.”

“You mean…you really want to dance?”

“If you don’t mind. I’m just eager for a break from her motherly concern. You don’t think me bold?”

“No, not at all. It’s just…” he gazed at the dance floor, swallowing hard.

“Don’t fret. Just ignore everyone else and pay attention to me.”

“When you put it like that…” he smiled, extending a hand to her.

She took it, and followed him back into the library, where a new dance was just starting. He took her into his arms, whirling her about until they melded with the crowd, stepping and turning in time to the music.

“I fear I’ve been fooled, Mr. Gladstone. Your dance skills are far better than you let on.” Though his movements were stiff and his posture rigid, his footwork was practiced, and more than passable.

“You flatter me.”

“No, it’s true. You’ve not stepped on my foot once. You had me thinking that you’d pummel my poor toes, the way you paled at the mention of dancing.”

He grinned. “It’s early yet…give these clodhopper feet of mine a little time.” He looked away, growing serious. “I suppose I don’t care to be watched when I dance. I was taunted a bit as a lad. I grew taller sooner than the other boys, and my long legs made learning to dance an awkward experience. I worked hard to improve, but I fear somewhere inside I’ll always be that shy lad whose friends jeered him at lessons.”

“You shouldn’t. I doubt anyone is noticing at all.”

“More the pity…I had hoped that
you
had finally noticed me, after all these years.”

“Have we met before?” Gazing at his face, she noted that he
did
look somewhat familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

“Not in years. I was present for the Winter Ball a few years back, after your coming out.”

“Oh! Did we dance? I’m afraid my memory is terrible.”

He chuckled. “No, we did not. As usual, I hesitated in asking, for fear you’d think me a clumsy dancer. We did meet briefly, but before I could gain my courage, you were whisked away by someone you’d promised a dance to. I’m afraid your dance card was quite full that evening. You were the belle of the ball.”

“That night is one of my fondest memories.” She blinked away the tears that threatened, upon remembering that wonderful night four years prior. “I’m sorry we didn’t get a chance to dance. I’m sure I’d remember you if we had.”

“You would. My dancing was even less refined back then.”

“Oh, stop,” she laughed.

“Now that you’ve seen my mediocre skill on the dance floor, dare I hope you will save me at least one more dance later on?”

“Of course.” She blushed…though she’d danced several times, her dance card was by no means full that evening.

“I’m rather surprised you’ve had a chance to rest at all. A beautiful lady such as yourself…you should be besieged with admirers.”

Her blush deepened. He
had
noticed her long spell spent standing beside her mother. “Yes…well…with a new batch of girls having just come out—my sister among them…there are many pretty girls to dance with. Girls much younger than myself.” She looked away, forcing her face into a pleasant mask. The man clearly wasn’t aware that she was fresh out of mourning, and it wasn’t a subject she was eager to discuss.

“I’m sorry, how rude of me to mention it. I’m merely surprised that the other men aren’t fighting over you…but I’m delighted as well. I’ve finally got my turn.”

Looking up into his eyes, Grace found herself lost in their depths. She didn’t much care whether his dancing was smooth or not. It had been well beyond a year since her feet had moved across a dance floor…and just as long since she’d felt a man’s strong arms around her. It felt so natural, so easy, that she felt guilty for enjoying it so much.

She forced her thoughts to more mundane things, before she could let her emotions run wild. “You never did tell me your name. Forgive me, but four years is a long time ago.”

He shook his head. “It is
you
who should forgive
me
. I’m the epitome of poor manners tonight. I’m Garret Gladstone, Esquire.”

“Esquire? You’re an attorney?”

“And soon to be a politician, if Uncle Edgar has his way.”

“Edgar Dwight?”

“Indeed. He’s my father’s brother. My father passed away years ago, and Uncle Edgar has been like a second father to me.”

“I’m so sorry to hear of your father’s passing. My own father passed just this year.”

“How awful. I know how difficult it must be for you. We’re both too young to lose someone so close to us.”

She looked away, at the clusters of attendees at the fringes of the room as she and her partner sidestepped and turned. “I couldn’t agree with you more.”

They danced in silence another moment, before Mr. Gladstone shifted the subject. “You haven’t told me
your
name yet.”

“Oh dear!” She met his gaze and smiled up at him, grateful for the change in subject. “I’m dreadfully sorry. My name is—”

“Grace Barstow,” he finished. “I know. I was teasing you a bit. I remember your name from the night we met. To be honest,
that
was responsible for my timidity that night, more than my lack of dance skills.”

“Why would that be?”

“You’re a
Barstow
. I’m a Gladstone. My father’s reputation was solid, and we are well to do, yes, but nothing compared to your family. Who hasn’t heard of Chandler Barstow? If I weren’t connected to the Dwights, I’d never have been invited to a single elite event in Boston. How could someone like me hope to dance with Grace Barstow?”

“
That’s
why you remembered my name, then?” She was crestfallen. “Because I’m a Barstow?”

“Of course not!” He was offended. “You were the most beautiful, graceful woman in the room. Your manners were impeccable, your speech eloquent, and I was taken with you long before I found out from others that you were a Barstow daughter, or more importantly, that you had a reputation for being kind to the poor and widows, and that you were considered to be the brightest among your peers.”

“I am?”

“Why are you surprised? Did you think the men flocked to you only for your beauty, or your father’s reputation? Look around you. Wealthy heiresses are a dime a dozen in this room. It’s only a matter of
how
wealthy or respectable each girl is. But a woman with a sweet and kind disposition? That is a rare gem in any group, but especially so among Boston’s elite.”

She was humbled by his opinion of her. “I can’t believe you thought so highly of me, from only a brief meeting.”

“I admit, I may have spent the better part of that night so long ago studying and thinking of you more than is polite to talk about.” His expression was sheepish. “I regret that I never found the courage to approach you again.”

“Yet we never met again after that night. Or…did we?”

“We did not. I live in New York. Or I did, until recently. My father passed away a year before you and I first met—just after I’d finished law school. My mother wanted to move down to New York City to be closer to her sister. I went with her, and remained there, working for a good law firm.”

“Oh, that would explain why I don’t remember you. Prior to your leaving Boston, I was too young to attend any balls. That ball was only my second.”

He nodded. “You were familiar—I’m sure I saw you from a distance at some charitable event my aunt hosted—but I didn’t know your name until I met your at your first Winter Ball. After my courage failed me at the ball, I wanted to find a way to meet you again, but I wasn’t sure how…or even if there was a point in trying. After all, my Uncle is a Brahmin, but
I
am not.”

“Yet here you are, dancing with me. What has changed?”

“Perhaps I’ve grown braver at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. Perhaps I’ve learned that taking a chance—at the risk of potential embarrassment—is better than spending years regretting that chance you never took.”

Grace felt a blush creeping up her cheeks, overtaken by a rush of emotions. It was safer to change the topic to more solid ground. “You said you lived in New York until recently. Have you and your mother decided to return to Boston?”

“I have, but my mother will remain in New York. She met a widower over the summer holiday, and they just married. It seemed as good a time as any to return to Boston, especially since I didn’t see much opportunity for advancement in my New York firm. With Uncle Edgar’s connections, I have much more opportunity here in Boston.”