A Smile That Pierces the Heart
Carlyle and Hunter walked side by side toward them.
“He’s here to greet Mabel!”
Friends who had been leaning against marble pillars or lounging comfortably on benches straightened up at once and tidied their hair.
“How are we supposed to stand so close? My knees are trembling!”
“She’s here for Mabel—why are you melting?”
“Exactly. You’re already engaged, Junia.”
Arabella warned them.
“Shhh, everyone! What if someone hears?”
New York society was a tight, closed circle. Relatives and acquaintances intertwined so thoroughly that one could trace an entire family tree across a single handshake.
Amid the stagnant waters of that world, a man who resembled the sun god appeared like a comet.
After the revelation that the Baron de Rocheret, a French aristocrat, was the owner of the grand new Château built on Fifth Avenue, the fascination knew no bounds. Rumors grew more colorful by the day.
Conservative families narrowed their eyes and tightened the reins on their daughters. Forgeries had infiltrated high society before, and they would not risk another scandal.
But their daughters were different.
Warnings that an unknown foreigner should be ignored fell on deaf ears.
The socialites of families rooted in New York for generations lived like an isolated island. They grew weary of faces they saw every day and thirsted for something new.
Was he a villain posing as a noble, or a noble playing the villain?
Would he shine like the sun, or lurk in darkness?
At that precarious border, the pampered flowers of Fifth Avenue were helplessly captivated.
At last Carlyle and Hunter stood before them.
Mabel slowly rose from the bench and faced Carlyle. The hidden stares from the crowd pricked her like needles.
“I am deeply grateful that you came to my debutante ball, Baron de Rocheret.”
As hostess, she extended the formal greeting first.
“It is an honor to be invited, Miss Darlington.”
He bowed slightly in return.
At that moment, the orchestra began the prelude to the first piece of the second act. Beside Carlyle, Hunter offered Arabella his hand with a playful smile.
“Dear Mrs. Hamilton, you promised me the first dance of the second act and the last dance, did you not?”
“Captain, really…”
Arabella flushed and took his hand, leading him to the dance floor.
Envious glances followed their retreating figures. They were the rarest example of a successful “love marriage”—more precious than a Cattleya orchid.
Mabel looked up at Carlyle with hidden expectation.
Perhaps… he is about to ask me to dance?
She had deliberately skipped her dance card for the evening. Since partners changed midway through dances anyway, there was no need to cling to one.
At the very start of the second act’s first piece, Carlyle stood before her. She was ready to accept if he asked.
When their eyes met, a faint smile touched his lips, and he gave a crisp nod.
“Then I wish you a pleasant evening.”
He turned without hesitation.
Mabel blinked in a daze, watching his back. From somewhere, Lavinia appeared and blocked his path. Her silky voice floated over the lively fox-trot rhythm.
“Carlyle! I thought you weren’t coming.”
Mabel exhaled the breath she had been holding and sank ungracefully onto the bench.
“Did you hear? He called me ‘Carlyle.’ Are they that close already?”
“…”
Mabel answered absently.
She pressed a hand to the faint ache in her chest.
Why was this happening?
When he had accepted the debutante ball invitation, she had secretly hoped for something—though she could not name what.
When he turned away so coldly, her heart felt as if it had dropped to her feet.
Was he disappointed that he had not asked her to dance?
But why…?
Mabel did not particularly enjoy dancing. Besides, there had always been plenty of partners without Carlyle.
She did not understand the emotion stirring in her chest for the first time in her life.
“Maybe he’s interested in politics?”
Junia blurted out.
“…”
“What do you mean by that?”
“From what I know, the hosts of parties he’s attended this season are mostly involved in politics.”
She ticked off her fingers.
“Mill’s Ironworks, Governor Miller, Roosevelt’s aide, Mayor Hill—and tonight, Customs Commissioner Darlington himself. It seems he prefers politics over marriage.”
Mabel released a small sigh and straightened her shoulders.
Politics or whatever—he’s not interested, so neither am I.
She had barely stood when someone approached to ask for a dance.
“Miss Darlington, may I have this dance?”
Brown hair, green eyes, a mischievous smile.
A faintly familiar face. For a moment Mabel’s eyes widened.
“…”
“Leslie?”
She muttered his first name without realizing it and clapped a hand over her mouth. Fortunately, no one nearby had heard.
“I mean… Mr. Winthrop. Yes, of course.”
Leslie chuckled and offered his arm.
Mabel placed her hand on his and walked to the dance floor.
“It’s been a while, Mabel.”
He winked and murmured close to her ear.
His boyhood face was identical to her memories; she could not help smiling.
Leslie Winthrop.
Arthur’s closest friend and son of the Darlington family physician.
As children, Leslie had played at the Darlington house every day, only returning home five blocks away when evening meal time arrived. Outsiders believed he had two sons in the family.
The last time Mabel had seen him was when she was twelve.
She still vividly remembered hearing that he had gone to boarding school in Massachusetts, then bursting into tears when Arthur told her.
Dr. Winthrop had occasionally shared news, but it had been eight years since she had faced him directly.
“I heard you’re attending Columbia Medical School… Leslie. No, Mr. Winthrop.”
“Call me Leslie.”
They smiled at each other with bittersweet eyes.
Without words, Leslie understood that she was thinking of Arthur too. Unexpectedly sharing a memory brought a sharp sting to her nose.
Approaching the dance floor, Leslie glanced her over and tilted his head.
“You’ve grown quite a bit. I remember you as small.”
He gestured toward his waist.
Mabel gave him a fond look.
“I wasn’t that small.”
Leslie extended his arm and awkwardly formed a waltz frame. He nodded with a serious face.
“Shall we?”
“Wait!”
Mabel stopped him urgently. A memory surfaced.
“What is it? Are you uncomfortable?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
At twelve, Arthur and Leslie had practiced waltzing in school and then taken turns with her as partner.
How many steps had they worn out that day?
“Your waltz skills have improved, haven’t they?”
Mabel asked doubtfully.
Leslie quickly erased the guilty look and flashed a confident smile.
“Of course!”
He stepped boldly forward.
Before long, Mabel burst into laughter at the center of the dance floor.
“Oh my, Leslie!”
Heads turned. She bit her lip to stifle the sound and shot him a glare.
“Sorry, sorry! I’ve been neglecting practice lately. Medical school keeps me so busy…”
Leslie laughed sheepishly and offered excuses. Then, as if confessing a secret, he tilted his head.
“Actually, the last time we practiced was when we were twelve. I haven’t done it since.”
“Pfft.”
“Cluck.”
They both swallowed their laughter. Mabel pressed her lips together and looked down; Leslie bit his teeth and stared at the ceiling, shoulders shaking. Loud laughter on the dance floor was poor etiquette.
After breathing deeply to calm herself, Mabel lifted her head.
Over Leslie’s shoulder, a dancing couple entered her line of sight. The instant their blue eyes met, the laughter folded neatly into her eyes froze solid.