Finally, Hazel’s voice returned to her and she pulled away from Bernard’s grip. “I don’t know what in heaven’s name you thought you were doing, but you’ll have us both ruined. If anyone saw what just happened—”
Bernard put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest forward. “What? A servant? You’re hardly ruined, Haze. I still want to marry you, so consider yourself quite set.”
For a moment, another life flashed before her, a life in which she begged on the streets, moved to Yorkshire, posed as George Hazleton forever. Maybe she could become a midwife, the mad lady in a tiny cottage in the woods with a stocked apothecary of roots and herbs and foul-smelling teas, who helped women in need. She would be a surgeon, a teacher, a witch—a cautionary tale told in threat to trembling debutantes before their coming-outs. A myth.
But the flash of an alternative life only lasted for a moment before it disappeared like powder in an open palm on a windy day. There was no life for her except to become the Viscountess Almont, to marry Bernard. His would be the first and final kiss she would ever know.
Bernard leaned forward and kissed Hazel again. “Come on,” he said, grabbing her arm once more. “Let’s go back to the party.”
Hazel let him escort her back through the servants’ entrance and into the golden din of the ballroom. She floated numbly, paying no mind to Bernard as he strode over to the band and whispered in the ear of the lead violinist, who then stopped the music.
The dancers stumbled for a beat and tripped over their skirts. Bernard held aloft a crystal goblet and struck the side a few times with a knife to get the room’s attention. Lord Almont stood nearby, beaming.
“Hello, hello, all,” Bernard said in a voice effortfully deep. “Yes, hello. My father, the viscount, and my mother, the viscountess, and I wish to thank you all for joining us at our little get-together. The annual ball is a tradition that I so greatly enjoy and one that I hope will continue for years to come. My apologies for interrupting the festivities, but I have a little announcement to make. The lovely Miss Sinnett and I are engaged. Or at least, we are but a moment away. Hazel, my dear, will you marry me?”
Hazel’s vision became a tunnel, dark and fuzzy at the edges. A ringing echoed through her ears, and her tongue turned to sand in her mouth.
All eyes in the room turned and found Hazel, and the smiles of the crowd grew wolflike. Hazel’s dress was suddenly unbearably hot, so itchy at her neck and her sleeves that she felt hives rising beneath the fabric. The room was quiet but for the tinkle of champagne glasses. They were waiting for her to say something, to give her answer.
Unable to manage anything else, Hazel lifted the sides of her mouth into what might have been a deranged half smile.
“Aha!” Bernard shouted.
The applause sounded like gunfire. Hazel deflected the well-wishes and pats on her hand. She found that she had trouble breathing in her dress. Maybe it wasn’t the dress; maybe it was the room, the house, her life. The black at the edges of her vision was growing, and the syllables on her tongue sounded thick and heavy as she tried to tell somebody that she needed to leave.
“Poor thing must need something to eat!”
“Must’ve had too much champagne! Har har!”
“Get the poor dear to bed.”
“Heaven knows she won’t get much rest once it’s her wedding bed!”
Some gentle soul guided Hazel back to her carriage. “Please give Bernard my apologies,” she heard herself mumble to whoever it was, before her driver cracked the whip over the horses. The carriage lurched forward, taking Hazel back to the safety of Hawthornden. But she knew safety was temporary. Her future was coming for her even as she was riding away from it, pulled by four horses, as quickly as she could.
21
IN HER NEW MAKESHIFT LABORATORY, HAZEL had cleared the table, prepared a blank page of her notepad, and replaced all the candles with fresh tapers in anticipation of Jack Currer coming to make another delivery that morning at ten o’clock. She was in a foul mood. The events of the Almonts’ Ball kept replaying themselves in her brain, no matter how much Hazel tried to push those thoughts away and focus on the impending examination. The examination needed all her time and attention. The Bernard situation could wait.
But with Jack Currer coming, Hazel found her mind was too restless to study. By half past ten, Hazel had resharpened all her quills and laid them flat on the table, shortest to longest.
By eleven o’clock, most of the candles had burned down to waxen stumps. Finally, just before the bell rang noon, Hazel heard a knock on the door to the dungeon. “Finally,” she murmured to herself. “Come in! It’s unlocked.”