Chapter 7
There was not much else to do. Champagne and loneliness were her sole companions in the bustling ballroom. The ringing laughter of girls, the resounding cheers of gentlemen with poker cards, the swaying skirts of twirling couples were like flashing images of a silent film. Yes, the ballroom was beautiful. Beautiful, like the light-catching crystal goblet that stood on the mantelpiece, beautiful and empty.
She should have stayed home. She should have not cared. She should have resisted trying on the dress. She should have been more firm. She should have used her head before she acted. She should have not come to Paris.
A third guest approached her, crisp as day. Music, He was called. He meandered through the lifeless, faceless characters, like a fallen leaf on a mountain stream, finally pausing gently before tipping all His richness into Tiffany's heart.
She turned, charmed by this new guest, charmed and warmed. The bare stage now hosted violinists, cellists, and percussionists. There was something about the silvery tone that topped all the solid sounds though; like it was a voice she had heard somewhere. Its short trills were smooth, yet light. Demisemiquavers sprinkled by, while long notes were flavored with slight vibrato. When the music hit the high parts, the notes glittered, like diamond sand in the sun, and the low tones resembled the mysterious wind in the trees.
Persistent with curiosity, her wide, hazel eyes panned the back wall. For the second time that evening her eyes defiantly rested on a particular spot, so that once they did, they refused to budge any further. Had she an ounce less self control, she would have wet her dress squirting out the mouthful of champagne she had just sipped. It was him.
He stood, taller than the seated orchestra behind, an end of a delicate gold piece touched that interesting mouth of his, and extended gracefully to the side, perfectly parallel to the ground. He swayed slightly with the rising of the sweet music, performing, not playing, the flute. The rose he had so softly put to his mouth before, now sat comfortably on his satin lapel. He had dark skin, yet, it was not too dark, but in a shade that was just right. The grace he presented was one of quiet chivalry, so perfect, that it made people doubt their right to approach him. There was no finer person Tiffany had chanced upon in her life.
A small gasp beside her was followed by multiple squeals of excitement. She glanced. Three girls who were around her age were staring earnestly at him, grinning so wide, it was a wonder their mouths could contain those grins. "Ooh! C'est un bel homme!" The fairest of them whispered with ill-disguised eagerness. Vigorous nods subsequently followed.
Tiffany couldn't help but smile. Girls and their reactions to guys, she mused, as she shifted her gaze back on stage. It was so quiet she realized, the wives had ceased their gossiping and the girls had abandoned their whining – their attention was all spent on his countenance and music. No one so much as stirred, save for the few couples who waltzed to the prompt beats, staring deeply into each others' eyes, and the small group of gentlemen – Lawrence included – who were oblivious to anything other than polo and golf.
Blinking in disbelief, she glanced back at him. Her heart skipped a beat. He missed a quaver. He had noticed her.
The missed quaver was quickly made up for, as his music was now laden with the single thing it had lacked before – emotion. His eyes held hers, even across the ballroom, for the rest of the concerto. The forgotten champagne had long stopped bubbling.