There Will Be Phlogiston (4 page)

Rosamond was not enjoying the ball.

Not that anyone would have been able to tell. She
was too good for that.

It was not that there was anything wrong with the
ball itself—unless one counted a regrettable lack of care with the
guest list—but she had been to several balls, and they were all the
same.

The dresses were the same.

The music was the same.

The guests were the same.

Sometimes the very idea of attending another ball—or
another soiree, or another card party, or another opera—made her
want to cry. But she had her pride. She danced, she smiled, she
said the right things to the right people.

She was sure she was perfectly enchanting.

And she absolutely did not pay any attention to that
dreadful Anstruther Jones. Of all the nerve. She enjoyed a private
shiver of outrage at the man’s temerity.

Asking her to dance indeed.

But . . . why her?

She was not the richest debutante here, nor the most
connected, nor—bleak candour forced her to concede—the most
beautiful. And from across a room, one could not judge her perfect
manners, her dulcet tones, her many ladylike accomplishments.

Nothing that would lead the most talked about man in
Gaslight to single her out.

Unless he thought her the sort of woman easily
swayed by a lot of money, and a few scraps of fame.

Well, he was mistaken. As he would surely discover
to his cost. Somehow. In some way.

Perhaps when he saw that she was dancing with a
marquess.

A proper southern marquess, who owned land, and a
great estate, and could trace his line back twelve generations. Who
knew nothing of factories, or airships, or industry.

That
was the sort of man she could aspire to
wed.

The sort of man it was her duty to wed.

Rich, noble, and—if she was fortunate—malleable. She
had no wish of turning into her mother.

If she married the Marquess of Pembroke, perhaps he
would take her to London. Perhaps the balls would be different
there. Perhaps life would be different.

She glanced up at him from beneath her lashes. He
was young, and handsome she supposed. Certainly younger and more
handsome than the Phlogiston Baron.

Who had stood up with several, less discriminating
ladies after she had turned him down. Not that she’d been
watching.

He danced well. Unexpectedly so for such an
impertinently large man. With ease rather than with grace, but
there was something just a little thrilling about the way he
moved.

Or not.

No. Certainly there was not.

But would it make one feel fragile to be held in
such powerful arms? Or powerful too?

And fuck. The marquess was talking to her.

“Oh yes,” she breathed. “I am enjoying the ball so
very much.”

“Quite,” he returned.

After a moment or two, she offered, “I think it is
not too warm tonight.”

“Quite,” he returned.

That would probably do. She let her gaze slip past
him to the other dancers, noting with some pleasure that Lady
Mildred (Lord Copper’s second daughter) was wearing a deliciously
ill-advised gown: blue silk taffeta trimmed with so much Chantilly
lace that her bosom looked like a badly iced cake.

There was, however, no sign of Anstruther Jones.

Only his friend, Lord Mercury, who was standing by a
potted palm, looking as bored and miserable as Rosamond felt.

Men were so fortunate. They could do that sort of
thing, and everyone admired them for it. A grumpy-looking woman,
however, was inelegant and inappropriate, and nobody would want to
marry her.

Rosamond adjusted her smile. Deployed it briefly at
the marquess.

Most of the other debutantes were in love with Lord
Mercury. He had a lineage as old as Gaslight, and he was beautiful.
Too beautiful for Rosamond’s comfort. What control could she
possibly maintain over a husband who surpassed her?

When the dance was done, the marquess thanked her
for the honour, and asked if she would like to walk with him a
little.

“Oh yes,” she said again, “I would like that so very
much.”

They walked.

“You dance divinely, Lady Rosamond.”

She had perfected several useful social arts over
the years. She could cry prettily and swoon on demand, but she had
never quite succeeded in mastering the blush. She dipped her head
as though she were, which was almost as effective. “You are too
kind.”

They walked a little more.

A breeze from the terrace rustled her flounces.

The marquess paused by the open doors. “Would you .
. . It’s terribly forward of me . . . but would you care to take
the air?”

It was, indeed, terribly forward, but the marquess’s
attentions towards her had been quite marked. He always made a
point of dancing with her, and he had called upon her twice.
Twice
. She couldn’t remember a single word he’d said—or
anything she might have said back—but they’d been seen together,
and that was the important thing.

She cast a swift glance round the ballroom,
wondering if her absence would be noted. She knew she shouldn’t
dally (or at least be observed dallying) with gentlemen on moonlit
terraces, but she wasn’t going to let a marquess slip through her
fingers for the sake of propriety.

That was how spinsters happened.

She faux-flushed—faushed, as they’d called it at
Miss Githers’s Finishing School—again, and pretended to hesitate.
“Perhaps . . . perhaps just for a few moments? It is rather
stifling with so many couples . . . and I am a little faint.”

“Please, let me help you.”

Solicitously, the marquess guided her outside, and
Rosamond took the opportunity to cling to his arm, allowing the
edge of her skirts to brush very lightly against his legs. Once
outside, however, she quickly revived. The line between sensitive
and sickly was itself rather delicate, and men did not marry
inconvenient women.

“That is much better.” She presented a dazzling
smile, hoping the marquess would be able to admire it properly in
the uncertain light.

“Quite,” returned the marquess.

Rosamond stifled irritation. Truth had lent her
words an unseemly fervour, something she would have to be more
careful with in future.

But it
was
much better. The ballroom had been
hot and crowded, loud and bright, and it had reeked of sweat and
phlogiston. The night was cool and empty, and smelled of jasmine
and wood smoke. She stretched her neck—largely to demonstrate its
swanlikeness—but was surprised to see a couple of brazen stars
floating in the oily Gaslight haze.

“May I say,” went on the marquess, “how beautiful
you look tonight?”

She did something charming with her fan. “I suppose
you may.”

“You look very beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

“Your gown is most becoming.”

“Oh . . . this little Parisian trifle? My dear mama
picked it out for me.”
Like hell she did.
“I would not dream
of having an opinion.”

He gazed at her, and she suddenly realised she had
no idea at all what he was thinking. That she
never
had any
idea what he was thinking.

It was . . . disconcerting.

She peered back at him, trying to see past the
pattern of shadows that fell across his face, but his composure was
a wall she couldn’t breach. His eyes revealed nothing except that
he looked at her. His mouth was the place that dispensed his words.
Perhaps it was simply the lack of the light, but just at this
moment, the set of it troubled her. There was something not quite .
. . kind about it.

“If I were to speak to your father, Lady Rosamond,”
he said, “do you think you could perhaps rouse yourself to an
opinion of my suite? I know it is a little precipitate, but you
see, even in this short time, I have come to adore you. If you were
to do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage, you would
make me the happiest of men.”

The dallying strategy had been far more successful
than Rosamond had planned for.

She felt a little dizzy—
genuinely
dizzy.
Surely she was supposed to feel joyous, or at the very least
relieved. This was, after all, the moment she had been raised to
engineer. This was the point of . . . of . . . well,
everything.

The point of
her
.

He had said all the right things. Adore, honour
& etc. He hadn’t knelt down, but his trousers looked expensive
and the flagstones were probably cold.

Then why this . . . not even disappointment. This
nothing.

She had prepared a speech. It was perfect.

And now she couldn’t remember any of it. “Y-yes.”
She swallowed. “I will marry you.”

“I am delighted, Lady Rosamond.”

He stepped close and kissed her. Afterwards, he
seemed to be expecting something, so she said, “Thank you. That was
very nice.”

And, in response, his mouth did the thing she didn’t
like.

He offered to escort her back to her mother, but she
told him she preferred to wait a moment, so he bowed and withdrew.
It was a little bit improper to be without a male escort at a ball,
but she was afraid of drawing too much attention if they returned
to the ballroom together. Of course, soon hers would be the name on
everyone’s lips. She would be the future Marchioness of Pembroke,
after all. But being the subject of gossip and the subject of
attention were quite different things, and only fools didn’t
recognise it.

And, truthfully, she wasn’t quite ready to smile and
be perfect.

It was difficult to breathe, her corset pressing
hard into her ribs with each too-shallow inhalation, and she felt
achy, like she was coming down with a chill, except on the
inside.

Just for a moment, she wanted to be alone in the
darkness and the silence.

She gulped at the flower-scented air. Then she heard
a rustling noise and spun round just in time to see Anstruther
Jones emerging from the bushes, brushing leaves from his jacket,
and holding a cheroot in one hand.

Her undergarments seemed to tighten round her like
iron bands.

“Sir,” she squeaked, “a gentleman would have
announced his presence.”

“And interrupt such a romantic scene?”

She had the distinct impression she was being
mocked, but there was no malice in Jones’s eyes, nothing unreadable
or confusing about his mouth. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I can see that.”

He came towards her across the terrace, his long
shadow looming. For some reason, it didn’t frighten her. Perhaps
she was simply too unsettled. She had thought him plain in the
ballroom, and the moonlight did nothing to mask or gentle the
irregularities of his face. It was confusing. Unhandsome men should
surely repel attention, not arrest it.

And yet . . .

Or perhaps he was simply so ugly, she could not look
away.

That did not entirely explain why she wanted to
press her fingers to the cleft in his chin. Feel the bump at the
bridge of nose. Slide her cheek against the rough edge of his.

She scowled. “It was a very creditable
proposal.”

“It was. And a very nice kiss.”

“I would rather a nice kiss, than an un-nice one.”
She wished she had something for her arms because his closeness was
making her skin feel strange and prickly.

He relit his cheroot, cast the match aside, and blew
a cloud of smoke into the still air. “No kiss should be nice.”

“And I suppose,” she asked with the haughtiest head
toss she could manage, “you think you know all about kissing, do
you?”

“Enough.”

A single word. And she couldn’t think of a single
answer. After a moment or two, in which she felt hot and cold and
cross all at once, she tried, “You know, you shouldn’t be smoking
in front of me.”

He started guiltily. “Sorry, do you want one?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Do you want to?”

Nobody had ever asked her that. She wasn’t entirely
sure she wanted to smoke—it looked odd and it was assuredly
pungent—but the opportunity to do it was exciting. And still more
exciting was the sweet, sudden liberty of being with someone you
didn’t care about. Like her queer half brother, Anstruther Jones
was beneath her and irrelevant to her. She didn’t give two hoots
about him, and she wasn’t expected to. She didn’t have to think
about pleasing him or impressing him or acting in a proper and
ladylike fashion.

She could be whomever and do whatever she wanted.
And right now she wanted to smoke a vile-smelling artefact. Because
she could. “Yes,” she told him, and, without hesitation, he passed
the cheroot to her. It felt unwieldy between her fingers, and even
stranger against her lips.

“Don’t inhale.”

“But if I am not to inhale, what am I to do with
it?”

He made an odd sound, not quite laughing, almost
like a gasp. “Pull the smoke into your mouth, then let it out
again.”

She did as directed, cheeks swelling and tongue
burning as she struggled not to breathe or swallow. But it was
worth it when she finally surrendered and the liberated smoke burst
from between her lips in a thick, manly billow. She watched it
dissipate into the night, felt oddly accomplished, and returned the
cheroot to her mouth for another puff.

“Take care,” said Jones, smiling, “it’s a bad
habit.”

“You mean unladylike?”

“No, just bad for you.”

“Then why do it?”

He shrugged. “Because it feels good.”

She handed back the cheroot, muttering, “Now I see
why you have such extensive experience with kissing.”

But that only made him laugh. “Kissing is never bad
for you.”

“What if you’re engaged to someone else?”

“Then—” he cast the smoking remains of the cheroot
to the ground and stamped it out “—it’s their responsibility to
kiss you properly.”