If Celia weren't malicious and self-centered, Penelope would've admitted the woman to be beautiful. Yet something about her aura oozed with iniquity, morphing her features into something unbearable.
Her presence instantly claimed the room, her mask not enough to hide her true identity. Her gown was a vision of calculated extravagance, fashioned from layers of pale lilac silk so fine it seemed to float rather than fall. The bodice clung with deliberate precision, embroidered in silver thread that curled into delicate floral patterns that caught the light. The neckline dipped just enough to suggest allure without impropriety, adorned with a string of perfectly matched pearls that gleamed against her skin while the skirts flared gracefully from her waist, cascading in soft, rippling folds.
Her gloves reached past her elbows, and in one hand she carried a feathered fan dyed in matching tones, which she flicked open with effortless elegance. Even her mask was a masterpiece; a sculpted piece of ivory lacquer, edged with silver filigree and adorned with a spray of lilac feathers that arched delicately over one brow. It framed her eyes like a crown, drawing attention to the sharp gleam within them.
Every detail was deliberate and every inch of her declared superiority. And beside her, Lady Whitmore moved with equal refinement, though it was Celia who drew the greater share of attention, precisely as she intended.
Penelope saw it all in a single glance, and just as quickly, she turned away.
The gentleman before her still held out his hand, obviously patient and expectant. If her mask wasn't truly disguisable, she would have doubted his patience for someone like her.
For a fleeting moment, Penelope hesitated… but only for a fleeting one. Then, with a soft breath and a decision made not out of impulse but necessity, she placed her gloved hand into his.
"Of course," she said. Her voice was calm, measured yet unrecognizable even to her own ears.
The gentleman's fingers closed gently around hers, and he guided her toward the dance floor just as the music swelled into a new arrangement.
It was perfect timing.
As they stepped into the shifting sea of dancers, Penelope allowed herself one final glance over her shoulder. Celia's gaze swept the room, meticulously sharp and searching, pausing briefly… dangerously close, but Penelope was already moving. She didn't know why she was avoiding her watch, but something within her told her if she didn't, this night might not only be jeopardized, but ruined as well.
And she wasn't going to let that happen.
The dance claimed her at once. Silk brushed against silk as couples turned and glided in practiced harmony, the rhythm of the orchestra wrapping around them like an enchantment. Her partner drew her into the first turn, and she followed without falter, her skirts flaring softly with the motion.
"You are newly arrived," he observed, his grip confident but not unkind.
For the first time, Penelope looked at him. Truly looked at him. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed, being carried away by avoiding Celia's gaze rather than the gentleman before her.
He had quite a sharp jawline, hardened in every angle, full lips, and cool observant muted grey eyes. A straight aristocratic nostalgia lent his face an air of severity. He was not a handsome man in the conventional sense, yet there was something undeniably imposing in the way his features seemed carved by duty. Even with the mask on, Penelope couldn't help but recognize his identity; Lord Pembroke, one of the men who'd so openly mocked her, save for the rumor.
"I am," Penelope replied, her voice softened just enough to maintain intrigue.
They took another step, another turn, another shift… and just like that, she was gone from Celia's sight, swallowed by movement and protected by anonymity.
A quiet thrill stirred beneath her ribs. For once… she was not being watched.
"A pity," he continued, guiding her into the turn. "I pride myself on knowing every lady worth noticing,"
Penelope's lips curved faintly. Worth noticing, she thought. "I shall take no offense," she said lightly.
"You should not," he replied. "It is merely the truth."
All of a sudden, her mood switched from avoidant, to silently infuriated. As much as she hated to be here, Penelope knew she'd risk her chance of remaining out of sight from Celia. And if that wasn't enough, abandoning a gentleman on a dancefloor could bring unnecessary attention, one she clearly didn't want.
So, "And what do you consider… worth noticing?" she asked, her tone casual, though her mind sharpened.
He smiled beneath his mask. "A lady of beauty, of course. Youth, above all. A certain grace in bearing, and naturally, a family of standing,"
Penelope's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly. The way he listed them as though they were items bought instead of human beings. "And… disposition, my lord?" She pressed.
He shrugged slightly. "Pleasant enough. Though too much wit can be… tiresome."
Of course it could. To men like you, she thought.
Penelope smiled politely, though something colder settled behind it. "And in a wife?"
He did not hesitate, twirling her, before closing the distance, their movement in accordance with the music. "She must be agreeable, and quiet. A lady who understands her role. A lady who understands her position as well."
An asset, she thought, not as a partner or companion but merely something to possess. "And why should a wife always be agreeable? What if the husband could be wrong?" She continued, thankful her voice appeared harmlessly more curious than savage.
He released a soft chuckle, one that didn't sound genuine but was a mockery. "The men are never wrong. We always know what ought to be done, when it must be done, and precisely how it should be done. Women, on the other hand, are rather inclined toward sentiment and confusion."
Good heavens, if vanity had taken human form, it would surely have borrowed his face, she thought. Thankfully, the music drew to a close, and Penelope withdrew her hand gracefully.
She never knew what peace truly was until she was away from him. "Thank you for the dance."
"The pleasure was mine," he replied, though his attention had already begun to drift elsewhere naturally, and she took the opportunity to slip away.
The moment he realized he hadn't gotten her name, "Hey. I didn't get to know your name…" But Penelope was far away from sight, into the crowd.
The second gentleman was no better. If anything, he was worse.
His mask was dark green, his demeanor sharper, and his words more deliberate. "A wife must be an investment," he said plainly as they danced. "One does not enter marriage without expectation of return."
Penelope's brows lifted slightly. "Return?"
"Connections. Dowry. Fertility." His tone was matter-of-fact as he listed, eyes bright in greed. "Sentiment is… quite secondary. There's no use of marriage without the primary functions, my lady,"
Her stomach turned faintly at his words, the way he so open-mindedly communicated as though the belief was non-negotiable.
"And what of affection?" She asked, though she already knew the answer.
He gave a short laugh like he found whatever she said funny. "Affection grows where it is required," he simply said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Required, she thought. Not felt.
Penelope forced a small smile, though her chest felt tighter with each passing moment. "And her… age?" She continued.
"Not less than two-and-twenty," he replied at once. "Too young and they are foolish. Too old and…" He trailed off with a dismissive tilt of his head.
Penelope's breath faltered, just for a second. Two-and-twenty, she thought, the absurdity ringing sharply in her ears.
She said nothing, allowing silence to become their conversation as the music led onwards. But the words still lingered in her mind, a line quietly drawn across her future.
As soon as the dance ended, she curtseyed gracefully. He offered a charming smile that seemed tight across his features, and she modelled one, which appeared worse than she'd expected. His smile faltered, and before he could say anything, Penelope turned and walked away, leaving the man unable to catch a name.