Behind the Scenes Read online

  Not hesitating, Permilia moved into motion and burst through the foliage she’d been hiding behind. Her gaze took in the sight of Temperance lying on the floor, obviously a victim of an overly long hem, before she switched her attention to the pillar Temperance had apparently bounced against. To her horror, that pillar no longer simply teetered but began to topple, sending the plants on top of it cascading to the ground.

  Dashing forward, she put her shoulder against it, praying that would be enough to set it to rights again.

  To her dismay, the pillar turned out to be far heavier than she’d anticipated. As her feet began to slip out from underneath her, she called a warning to the guests closest to her, right before she completely lost her balance and slid to the floor. Lifting an arm to cover her face, she squeezed her eyes shut and braced herself for the pain that was certainly to come.

  Chapter

  Three

  Pausing in the midst of a conversation he was enjoying with some delightful young ladies, all of whom had obtained their lady-in-waiting costumes from his store, Rutherford & Company, Mr. Asher Rutherford blinked as what could only be described as a catastrophe-in-the-making began to unfold right before his eyes.

  A decorative pillar was teetering in a most concerning manner, the teetering sending some of the potted plants adorning the top of it tumbling to the ground.

  As the first plant hit the marble floor, guests scattered every which way, but amidst all the scattering, a lady dressed in a shimmering gown of white darted out from behind a clump of ferns. To his disbelief, she charged right up to the pillar that was now tilting, not teetering, and placed a slim shoulder against it, one that certainly wasn’t strong enough to stop the disaster about to happen.

  When her feet began sliding against the polished floor of the gymnasium, he immediately found the incentive to move, rushing forward and reaching the pillar right as the lady lost her balance. Meeting the falling pillar with a shoulder of his own, but one that was certainly broader than the lady’s, he shoved with all his might, sending the pillar on a different course, one that didn’t have it grinding anyone into the ground. When it hit the floor, it broke into numerous pieces, the sounds of the pieces tinkling across the marble floor overly loudly in a room that had grown remarkably quiet.

  Silence settled over the gymnasium as a few leaves from the potted plants drifted through the air, until a lady standing near him—one who was sporting a most unusual hairstyle and wearing, curiously enough, what appeared to be chicken feathers attached to a wide swath of her costume—began clapping enthusiastically as she beamed a bright smile his way, her actions having the entire room bursting into applause.

  Being a gentleman who’d never been uncomfortable with attention, Asher smiled and presented the room with a bow. As the applause began to fade away, he directed his attention to the rash young lady who’d certainly had good intentions but had behaved in a manner at distinct odds with her innate feminine nature. That young lady was still lying on the floor, her face almost entirely hidden beneath a gloved hand.

  Leaning toward her, he took in the sight of well-coifed red hair that was a most unusual shade, given that it was mixed with a good deal of gold, and . . . it was a shade he’d only seen on one lady before.

  His smile dimmed ever so slightly as he realized that the lady stretched out on the floor in front of him was none other than Miss Permilia Griswold, a lady he wasn’t overly familiar with, but who evoked rather unusual emotions in him all the same.

  Those emotions ranged from annoyance, exasperation, frustration, and even to grudging respect—all of the emotions, curiously enough, having come about during the two times he’d found himself in her company.

  The first time he’d spoken to her had been in Central Park, providing skates—at a price, of course—to the many New Yorkers who’d braved the elements in order to enjoy the beauty of a snow-blanketed day. Miss Griswold had arrived at the park in the company of Miss Wilhelmina Radcliff, recent fiancée to his very dear friend, Mr. Edgar Wanamaker. Before he’d been able to do more than greet Miss Radcliff, though, Miss Griswold had begun to take him to task over what she’d felt were inflated skate prices.

  Being a gentleman who made it his business to know the worth of every object he sold—and the worth of the service he extended to his customers that went with that object—he’d found himself at a complete loss for words when first presented with Miss Griswold’s argument. He’d rallied quickly, though, when she’d begun haggling with him like a common fishmonger. But before he’d been able to claim a victory—and the exact amount of money he was asking for the skates—Miss Griswold had somehow won the day, handing him the exact amount of money she felt the skates were worth.

  Before he’d had the presence of mind to protest, he was watching her stroll away, swinging her ill-gotten gains by their laces and whistling a far too cheery tune.

  The second time he’d run across the oh-so-annoying Miss Griswold had been at Edgar Wanamaker and Wilhelmina Radcliff’s engagement ball. Asher had been determined to let bygones be bygones, but when he’d attempted a polite conversation with Miss Griswold—talking about fashion, which he’d always found to be a most innocent topic and one normal ladies seemed to enjoy—Miss Griswold had gotten her back up. She was clearly irked that he’d had the audacity to question where she’d purchased her delightful gown, assuming that she’d had a renowned designer create it for her.

  Sparks had practically flown out of Miss Griswold’s brilliant blue eyes as she’d lifted a well-formed chin. She’d then informed him in a frosty voice that she rarely frequented renowned designers, finding that they charged prices that were far too steep for her.

  When he’d made the grave mistake of pointing out that her father was one of the richest men in America and therefore those costs shouldn’t truly concern her, her cheeks had turned an agreeable shade of pink right before she’d turned on her heel and stomped away from him, returning a mere moment later to make some unexpected remark about the weather. She’d then muttered something about her stepmother and trying to remember all the rules, before she’d turned back around and left his company without another word.

  Their conversation had been more than peculiar, but now, with the memory of how vocal Miss Griswold usually was around him fresh in his mind, Asher bent closer to her, his gaze sharpening on her inert form.

  Because Miss Griswold was not emitting a single sound—a concerning situation if there ever was one—alarm immediately replaced the annoyance his memories had evoked.

  Realizing he needed to get her out of the crowd circling around them, Asher bent over, scooped Miss Griswold into his arms, and straightened, letting out a grunt when she began flailing about in his arms, quite like a fish out of water. Taken by surprise, his hold on her slackened, which caused Miss Griswold to tumble right out of his arms and back onto the floor.

  Kneeling beside her with an apology on the tip of his tongue, Asher leaned toward her . . . but reared back a second later when Miss Griswold pushed herself to a sitting position. The apology he’d been intending to make was all but forgotten as he watched her rub an elbow that would surely sport a bruise come morning before she lifted her chin, caught his eye, and blinked a time or two.

  Bracing himself for the wrath he was certain was soon to come, he was surprised when instead of taking him to task for dropping her so unchivalrously to the ground . . . she smiled at him.

  Curiously enough, a smiling Miss Griswold was a lovely sight indeed, her smile having the unexpected result of lodging his breath in his throat, a circumstance that took him by complete—

  “What a delightful surprise to discover that you, Mr. Rutherford, are the gentleman who saved me from a most gruesome death” were the first words to come out of Miss Griswold’s now rapidly moving mouth.

  The warm sensation he’d begun to feel in regard to her lovely smile disappeared in a flash. “You’re surprised to discover I saved you?”

  Miss Griswold gave a n
od, the motion sending the large tiara she wore on her head listing to the left. “Indeed, especially since, as I was bracing myself to be crushed in a most horrible fashion, I found the presence of mind to ask for a touch of divine intervention, and . . . the good Lord above apparently sent you racing to my rescue.”

  “You asked for a touch of divine intervention?”

  She reached up and made short shrift of setting her tiara to rights. “I’m sure you would have done exactly that if you’d been facing a gruesome demise.”

  “Perhaps, but . . .” He paused and caught her eye. “I must admit I can’t recall a single time anyone’s ever admitted to asking for divine intervention in the midst of a society event.”

  Pursing her lips, she seemed to think about that for a long moment. “I suppose you’re right about that, Mr. Rutherford. But don’t you find it somewhat peculiar that when people gather, say, at church, matters of divine intervention are expected, but when they gather outside of places specifically relegated as places of worship, the topic of God or anything relating to Him seems to become rather uncomfortable?”

  “I would imagine that’s because people are cautious, especially members of New York society, about offending those within their social circles. And talk of religion—along with politics, of course—can be a somewhat slippery slope to navigate.”

  Miss Griswold’s eyes widened. “Ah, I imagine that’s exactly what my stepmother was trying to warn me about a month or so ago when we were discussing my appalling lack of conversational savviness.”

  She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “You may very well find this to be surprising, but I’m apparently woefully deficient when it comes to conversing well with members of polite society. Truth be told, more often than not, I find myself completely tongue-tied whenever in the midst of the more fashionable set, and if I’m not tongue-tied, I seem to always broach a subject that would be best left not broached.”

  Asher lowered his voice as well. “May I assume then, especially since I’ve not experienced the whole tongue-tied business when I’ve been in your company, that you don’t find me worthy to be considered a member of the fashionable set?”

  “Don’t be absurd, Mr. Rutherford. You own what is certain to become the most fashionable store in the city. If you’re not considered a member of the fashionable set, I don’t know who is.”

  With that, Miss Griswold pushed herself to her feet, seemingly unconcerned with the notion that young ladies were expected to allow a gentleman—if one was available, which he certainly was—to assist them to their feet after they’d taken a nasty plummet to the ground.

  Deciding Miss Griswold would most certainly not appreciate recommendations of the etiquette sort, especially from him, the gentleman who was responsible for her nasty plummet to the ground the second time, Asher began rising to his feet as well. A second later, he found himself taken aback when Miss Griswold thrust a dainty hand his way, seemingly unconcerned yet again with the idea that ladies never, as in ever, initiated an act that would consist of them hauling a gentleman to his feet.

  Not wanting to offend her, and also not wanting to draw more attention than they were already drawing, Asher took the hand and soon found himself standing right beside her.

  “Quite frankly . . . ” she began when he found his feet, “now that I consider the matter, it is rather curious that I’m able to speak freely with you.” With that, along with a nod, she began dusting him off in a remarkably no-nonsense sort of manner.

  The feel of her hands brushing, patting, and smoothing him out took him by such surprise that he found himself at a complete loss for words. He simply stood still as a statue while she continued her dusting, finally finishing her task when she plucked a few leaves from the billowing sleeves of his costume.

  “There, you’re looking dashing again, which further establishes the idea you’re a most fashionable sort, especially considering . . .” She stepped back and gave him a quick once-over. “No one but a fashionable gentleman would dare step outside his house these days wearing . . .” She gestured to his costume, her gaze lingering on the purple frock coat that just happened to be trimmed with gold braiding. “Well, all that.”

  His eyes narrowed as he tried to discern whether or not she’d just insulted him. “I’ve seen many a gentleman this evening dressed far more outlandishly than I’m dressed.”

  “Indeed, as have I. But they, Mr. Rutherford, aren’t nearly as adept at pulling off the look—yet another clear indicator that you are a staunch member of the fashionably elite.”

  “I suppose this is where I’m expected to say thank you?”

  Her brows drew together. “There’s certainly no need for that, since I was simply confirming what you along with everyone else in society knows. You’re a well-established member of the stylish set, which—” she blew out a breath—“truly does make it a bit of a puzzle that I’m able to speak so freely around you.”

  “Do I remind you of someone you’re close to? Your father, perhaps?”

  Taking a step away from him, Miss Griswold began looking him up and down before she, surprisingly enough, laughed.

  It was not a delicate, tittering type of laugh, but a laugh that came from what seemed to be her toes and drew the notice of everyone standing in their vicinity.

  “I think not, Mr. Rutherford, especially since my father started out in life as a mere miner, building his fortune through backbreaking work that involved a lot of dirt.” She shook her head. “He’s not one to wear anything other than the most boring of garments, no matter that my stepmother longs to see him dressed more stylishly.” She sent a pointed look to the thick stockings that covered his calves, an item that had been required in order to truly look the part of an aristocrat from the Regency period. “He’d never wear those, not even to a costume ball. Although . . . allow me to say that you do seem to have surprisingly well-turned-out legs.”

  Asher swallowed a laugh. “Thank you, Miss Griswold. I’ve not had that particular compliment extended to me before, but . . . since we’ve ruled out some of the more logical explanations regarding why you’re not devoid of words in my presence, perhaps—since you’ve proclaimed an admiration for my, er, legs—your admiration extends to my entire person, and . . . you hold me in great affection.”

  “No, that’s not it,” Miss Griswold said without the slightest hesitation.

  Somehow that set Asher’s teeth to grinding, but before he could contemplate why her immediate denial of holding him in any affection set his teeth on edge, she blew out a breath. “I suppose a reasonable explanation will occur to me sometime in the wee hours of the night. But since I can’t puzzle out why I’m comfortable around you just yet, and I’m certain you’ve much better ways to spend your evening than standing around puzzling over my ability to speak to you, I do believe this is where we part ways.”

  A wave of disappointment took him by surprise over the thought of parting company with her, until a solution to that disappointment sprang to mind.

  “You haven’t allowed me the honor of filling in a spot on your dance card.”

  Instead of sending him the expected response to that request, Miss Griswold hugged the fur muff attached by a string to her left arm closer to her as she began backing away from him.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Rutherford, but I assure you, there’s no need to dance with me.”

  “There’s every need,” he countered, nodding to the muff. “May I assume you’ve stashed your dance card in there?”

  “You should assume nothing of the sort.”

  “Hand it over.”

  For a second, what seemed to be clear panic flickered through her eyes, but then she shoved a hand in the muff, pulled out her dance card, looked it over, bit her lip, and then shoved the card back into the muff, pulling out another one a second later.

  “How many cards do you have in there?” he asked when she apparently took issue with that card as well, tucking it securely away before pulling out yet
another dance card.

  “A few,” she mumbled as she glanced at the card in her hand, dropped it back into the muff, gave the muff a shake, and then froze on the spot as the shake sent several dance cards, all of them maroon in color, falling out of the muff and to the floor.

  “Allow me.” Asher bent over and scooped up the cards. Straightening, he squinted at the handwriting scrawled all over them. “Why have you written what appears to be descriptions of what the guests are wearing, Miss Griswold?”

  Miss Griswold held out her hand, and when he placed the cards into that hand, she took a moment to tuck the cards back into the muff, then sent him a rather strained sort of smile.

  “I enjoy scribbling down little details at all the society events I attend, Mr. Rutherford. It makes for a pleasant way to pass the evening and will allow me to remember those evenings when I’m at my last prayers and perusing my old journals.” She inclined her head. “I do thank you for all of the assistance. However, since I’ve just recalled an urgent matter that I simply must address, if you’ll excuse me, I hope you enjoy the rest of the ball.”

  Before Asher could do more than gape at Miss Griswold, she lifted the hem of her delightful skirt ever so slightly and exposed a shoe that seemed to be made out of hundreds of glass beads, giving the shoe a frosty appearance. She then spun on that shoe and dashed straightaway into the crowd, not bothering to speak so much as another word to him.

  Chapter

  Four

  Having never before experienced anything as peculiar as a lady fleeing from his presence, Asher found himself riveted by the sight of Miss Griswold disappearing into the crowd, her shimmering gown sparkling in the light cast from the many chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling.

  When the shimmering disappeared from view, it struck him that he’d not been given an opportunity to put his name on even one of her many dance cards. Finding that to be a most unacceptable turn of events, he started across the gymnasium floor, determined to track her down again.