Prada and Prejudice

Chapter 16

The carriage rolls up to the front steps of a mansion almost as big as Alex's. It doesn't have the same round window bays, or quite the same elegant flair, but it's still made of stone, and it's bigger than the biggest mansions I've ever seen back home. The long drive is lined on both sides with hundreds of glowing lanterns. Our driver circles the horses near the front. Before we can stop, there are three more carriages behind us.

Is it insane if I'm proud of how much fancier our carriage looks than the others? Many of them are only pulled by one or two horses — ours has four. I think that means something.

And I think I'm getting this whole elitist-society thing. I'm betting a duke is the equivalent of a star quarterback. So that makes Alex rich, hot, and powerful. And he's like my date. Well okay, not really, but if this were a high school prom, I'd so pretend he was.

Plus, in my fantasies, he doesn't have a stick up his butt.

There must be a hundred horses and just as many people decked out in what I'm guessing are the latest fashions: empire waistlines, fur collars, flashy colors, shiny satin — the whole nine. All the men are in suits with shiny polished shoes and even shinier buttons. The colors and styles look more like a Bollywood movie than the subdued shades of Alex's apparel. He looks like he's going to a funeral; they look like they're ready to party.

The tiny bit of relaxed posture Alex sported in the carriage disappears into a rigid spine and an upturned nose. It really is possible for him to look even more uptight. Emily takes one of his arms and I realize I'm supposed to take the other. I sigh and wrap my fingers around his elbow. His arm stiffens under my touch, and I wonder if that means escorting me up the steps is a total chore.

Why does that bother me? The guy is a jerk, even if all this gentlemanly pomp is sort of... well... charming.

The second I remember the letters, though, any sense of charm evaporates. I know what it's like to grow up without a dad around. Whoever that kid is doesn't deserve that.

And Alex is here, at a dance, instead of helping his family out. There's nothing charming about blowing off your responsibilities.

As soon as we're inside the doors, I see a dozen servants in powdered wigs lined up, accepting jackets. I untie my cape and turn around, and one of them slips it over my shoulders, then does the same for Emily. We follow a steady flow of people down a long, wide corridor. Both sides are lit up with so many candles that the entire corridor glows in a wash of yellow, the light dancing as we pass. The hum of conversation is like electric energy, and I'm suddenly buzzing with adrenaline. At the end of the hallway there are two doors propped open, and when I step inside, I'm so awed by the scene that I drop my hand from its place at the crook of Alex's elbow. He is quickly pulled into conversation with a man and woman to my left, but I'm frozen in place.

I'm in a ballroom. It must be as big as the gym in my high school, and way fancier, with white columns supporting a high ceiling with dozens of coffered squares. There are powder-blue curtains everywhere along the walls, gathered and draped with gold-tasseled sashes. A veranda in one corner holds a band; their lively music drifts over the guests.

Chandeliers and sconces hang everywhere, hundreds of flames casting a romantic glow over the crowd below. The marble floor is glossy and covered by nearly two hundred people, most of them dancing in what, to my horror, appears to be a choreographed routine. They're standing in a row, do-si-doing around one another, clapping hands, and spinning.

I just stare, remembering what Emily had said about a country-dance and a reel, and realizing she'd meant line dances.

"I—" I'm about to explain that I have no idea what all this is about when someone walks up to Emily.

He's sort of cute. A little older, like maybe twenty or so, but tall and athletic, with sandy blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes. Unlike Alex's attire, this guy's is colorful: a bright blue jacket with burgundy stripes, and a matching burgundy neckcloth tied in large, lazy twists. His eyes twinkle as he grins, as if the world is at his feet and he couldn't be happier.

I decide immediately that I like him.

He stares straight at Emily as she smiles back. "Miss Thorton-Hawke, it is lovely to see you," he says with a deep bow.

She curtsies back, so low her knees practically touch the ground, and her mint-green dress mushrooms out around her. "The pleasure is mine," she says, in a singsong voice I hardly recognize.

"Save the next dance for me?"

She nods, and then he smiles and disappears into the crowd. For a second I wonder if she's just following her own rule about accepting the first request to dance, but then I realize it's far more than that.

As soon as he's out of earshot, she squeals and grabs my hand. "Oh, I'd hoped he would be here!"

I cock an eyebrow at her.

"His name is Trent Rallsmouth. We met at a country-dance. He is the son of a wealthy merchant and the subject of my greatest adoration."

I want to say something to her, but no words come as I stare into her shining eyes.

Trent. That's it. My solution. Somehow, someway, he's the guy she should be with.

Not Denworth. It has to be Trent.

If I fail, it's not just about her being stuck with Denworth — it's about her being without Trent. I'll be denying her a smile like this one forever.

I won't let that happen. Not when I promised her. Not when fixing this could lead me home. "So, what's the deal?"

Emily gives me a blank look.

"What I'm asking is... you and Trent... are the feelings mutual?"

"I am not certain. I believe so." She looks away for a silent moment and then sighs.

"According to my father, it does not matter, for I am betrothed to another... more appropriate match. He has said that Trent is below me, and he refuses to allow me to marry anyone other than a gentleman."

I swallow and stare into the crowd like it will somehow show me the right words to say, but I end up just standing there, silent. How am I going to fix this?

The evening was supposed to be fun, and now it's turning complicated. Emily's betrothal just became real. The pain she's going to feel.. . It's real. I have to do something.

And on top of all that, I don't know these dances! And as soon as the next dance starts, I'm going to be standing here alone while Emily dashes off to dance with Trent. It's like my worst nightmare, come to life.

Turns out 1815 isn't so different from the twenty-first century, because this is exactly what would happen if I were back home. Even pretending I'm Rebecca hasn't fixed it.

Why did I think it would change? Flying thousands of miles to Europe didn't change my fate. Traveling two hundred years, it seems, didn't change it either.