The Heartbeat Thief Read Online Free PDF Page A

look at the blue petals. Contrived blossoms, trapped in the semblance of eternal spring. When she looked into her reflection, when she looked deep into her own eyes, she saw no such season.
    Only a growing distance between her presence and her happiness, measured in paces, each step marked in fear.
    Fear of the approaching season’s end.
     
    The Fyne carriage arrived at the Yuletide ball an hour after the first waltz had commenced. Mr. Fyne saw no reason his wife’s wishes for fashionable lateness could not be indulged. He also apparently saw no reason for Senza to shred her kerchief, and told her exactly that. It was just a ball, after all.
    But Senza fretted, her nerves taut like willow switches. It was never just a ball.
    Senza passed through the archway into the great hall, where the gathering was in full uproar. Everywhere hung garlands of holly and ribbon, great fir boughs dotted with paper ornaments, the very best candelabras ablaze with light. A nicely-tuned orchestra had struck up a Polonaise and the dance floor was full to capacity. Senza preferred to enter mid-dance, when guests were thus pre-occupied; it made the oppression of the first glances much more tolerable.
    But a Polonaise? The procession, unfortunately, stepped toward the entrance, giving each and every dancer a look at the newest arrival. Eyes widened and mouths disappeared behind fans, one couple at a time.
    Those who were not dancing turned to mark her entrance. Faces turned in waves, like a crack spreading on a frozen pond. Senza saw the quiet exchange of comments and even though she could not hear them above the sounds of dancing, she could imagine what they said.
    She forced a smile to manifest, her cheeks flushing with heat. She knew it only enhanced the fairness of her complexion, a rosy glow on the apples of her cheeks. Her discomfort was a beauty balm.
    Everything about her would be fodder for discussion. The mothers would murmur praises for her fine hand, her needlework and her gardening. Young ladies would whisper exaggerated praise for her proficiency at dancing and selecting the perfect gown, the most fashionable ornaments. Men of all ages would nudge each other, sharing significant glances because saying anything at all would not be proper.
    And all who knew of her circumstances would invariably finish with her father’s promise that, upon her marriage, she would have five thousand.
    Self-made men would be lucky to claim five thousand a year, and would be hunted down like rabbits by the fox-driving mothers in society. But for a woman—and a remarkably beautiful one, at that—five thousand would make her the only woman worth pursuing. It did little to encourage friendship amongst the other young ladies of her circle.
    Except for one.
    Felicity was already in attendance, engaged in what looked like a lively discussion with her partner. Her partner didn’t seem to mind her impropriety in the least; by the looks of it, he seemed quite intent on monopolizing her company for the entirety of the evening. Little did he know, Felicity preferred her dance card full of variety, an unfortunate side-effect of growing up in such a savage, untamed country like Australia.
    The dance concluded, and a barely-restrained Felicity was escorted by her partner to where Senza stood with her parents. Felicity would have charged straight off the dance floor without second thought for an escort. Senza doubted her scandal would have even raised an eyebrow. Felicity’s partner looked convinced that she could walk on water if she chose, escorted or no. Senza and Felicity curtseyed to him as one, dismissing him, before turning and weaving into the crowd.
    “There must be at least three hundred here,” Senza said.
    “Anything less would be too intimate for polite company.” The youngest daughter of a Melbourne gold-trader, her voice had the smack of an Australian colonist. Felicity spread her fan, keeping her comments private, and fluttered her wide,