Mrs. Long was happy. Even a stranger could see that. But she had been shunned by London society. It had Ellen thinking. What if she had been attempting to place her eggs in the wrong basket all along? What if people like Lady Margaret Grosvenor never accepted her? Who were Mrs. Long’s friends now, and what sort of society did they keep? Perhaps they would—
“I am so terribly sorry that I’m late.”
Ellen’s musings were stopped in an instant by the sound of Joseph’s voice. She turned to find him striding down the hallway and past the long line of guests waiting to be announced, and immediately her heart skipped a beat.
Joseph looked amazing. He walked with purpose, his posture perfect and his stride commanding. He wore the most expensive of the suits he’d bought the day they’d all gone shopping, and apparently, he’d had it tailored to fit him perfectly as well. His grooming was impeccable, and there was a light in his eyes that had Ellen’s heart threatening to beat right out of her chest.
Never mind the fact that he’d behaved horribly to her. Never mind that he was more concerned with Montrose at the moment than her. He was, simply put, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on.
And then he paused in front of her, glanced over her, and his expression pinched momentarily before he asked, “Is something wrong? You don’t seem quite right.”
Ellen’s heart and hopes crashed down around her. He was supposed to tell her how beautiful she was and that she would surely be the belle of the ball that evening.
“I’m fine,” Ellen said, sighing slightly, as she had when Lenore had asked the same question. “Why does everyone think there is something wrong with me tonight?”
“I’m sorry,” Joseph said, surging forward and taking her arm. “That is not what I meant at all. I am very happy to see you.”
His smile made up for his lack of compliments. It was the very best compliment of all. But it didn’t go all the way to making Ellen feel confident.
“Mr. and Mrs. Phineas Mercer,” the footman announcing guests introduced Phineas and Lenore to the swirling crowd in the ballroom. A moment later, Joseph and Ellen stepped up and presented their invitations, and the man called out, “Mr. Joseph Rathborne-Paxton and Miss Ellen Garrett.”
Ellen didn’t know why she expected a reaction, but there was none. None at all. Conversations continued, the orchestra went on tuning, and as soon as she and Joseph stepped into the ballroom, they were swallowed into the anonymity of the crowd.
“Truly, Ellen, I feel as though something is wrong with you,” Joseph said as they began to follow Lenore and Phineas around the ballroom.
Ellen snapped to look at him with wide, angry eyes. “Perhaps something is wrong with you instead,” she said.
Joseph’s brow knit for a moment, then he seemed to understand. He softened into regret. “No, no, I didn’t mean it that way at all. There is nothing wrong with you. I think you are wonderful. I was just concerned you might be ill.”
For some reason, the comment brought Ellen close to tears. Frustrated tears.
“It is just that….” Joseph let out a breath and pulled her closer as they made their way around a trio of gossiping old hens. Joseph leaned in and went on with, “I know you have been looking forward to this ball for so long, but now you’re here, you don’t look happy.”
Ellen wanted to argue, as she had with Lenore, but she couldn’t. She wasn’t happy. But she didn’t know why. It was as if she’d won a gold bracelet at the county fair only to examine it closely and find it was burnished tin.
“Lady Margaret Grosvenor,” the footman called out from the ballroom door.
Immediately, all conversations hushed, the orchestra went silent, and all eyes turned to Lady Margaret. She took a step into the room—looking resplendent in bright yellow—and tilted her head up as though she deserved every bit of praise directed at her.
Ellen wanted to weep. “Why isn’t that me?” she whispered.
A moment later, she snapped her mouth shut and glanced anxiously to Joseph. She hadn’t meant to speak that thought aloud. She hadn’t been entirely certain she had the thought at all until it surprised her. But perhaps the problem was as simple as that—she would never be happy, because she was not Lady Margaret Grosvenor.
As soon as Lady Margaret entered the room, the orchestra began to play the first waltz. As if the whole thing had been choreographed for the theater, a finely-dressed gentleman stepped forward to take Lady Margaret’s hand and lead her to the center of the ballroom. The crowd parted for the couple, and as they took their positions for the waltz, everyone watched. They began to dance, and after the first several bars, more couples joined in. The ball had well and truly gotten underway.
“Would you care to dance?” Joseph asked, lifting his brow a bit and nodding to the center of the room, where more and more couples were joining in the waltz.
Ellen hesitated. She bit her lip. She glanced around to see if the other young ladies were dancing. Her mind flashed to memories of town dances at the Cattleman Hotel—to the way she’d been left hugging the wall while the handsomest ranch hands and most promising young business owners asked every other girl to dance before her. That same, forgotten feeling filled her now, even though Joseph stood right by her.
She wrenched her eyes away from the London ladies who had been lucky enough to be snapped up by titled gentleman, and forced her thoughts away from the slights of her past. She had Joseph now. He was right there, asking her to dance. They were engaged, and if she played her cards right, she would never have to feel alone again.
“Yes, alright,” she said, smiling through the uneasy swirl of emotions that pounded through her. She should be happy, more than happy. So why did she still feel as though she’d failed at one of the most basic lessons of life?
Joseph tried to smile at her in return, but his expression flitted through too many emotions before they reached the edge of the dancers and he took her in his arms for the waltz.
“Truly, Ellen, something is wrong,” he said once they were moving around the floor together. “I wish you would tell me what it is.”
“I—”