She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me. She loves me not. She… well, she doesn’t even know my name.
Actually, I don’t know hers, either.
It’s the girl I saw across the ballroom that evening, the one in the viridian gown. She was dancing the waltz with Sir Elliot Keys and seemed to desire escape. And I, trapped at the dinner table with Belinda McGowan, a boorish woman who talks with a mouth full of food, was trying to be a gentleman. Still, I was drawn to the hue of those bluish-green eyes, which—but an elegant happenstance, to be sure—seemed to sparkle in my direction.
I’ve seen her again since that night, but perhaps it was only a dream. It’s those eyes, those eyes, that have driven me to insomnia. And her auburn hair, her dignity and poise, and yes, a smile that eclipsed the gala in such radiance that I shall always mourn its waning.
No, it was no dream. She’s here outside the confectionery, pulling petals off a daisy. If I were not wed to Belinda McGowan, I would surely, surely, approach.