His eyes turn to me. The hazel is practically mocking, and even though I don't react, there's no way he doesn't notice the way my face warms when he stares at me a beat too long.
Jo would kill me. It's enough to get it from Amy, but me too? God.
_...
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- part one -
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The party was in full swing, and I couldn't find a single one of my three sisters across the entire estate. I have four, of course, but Meg doesn't count right now because she ditched me to dance on the occasion that she 'must dance because this party is just so splendid!'
The waiter carrying around a tray of champagne glasses is purposely avoiding me I think. I've strewn myself out on one of the chaise lounges, my chin propped on one hand, wearing the dress Aunt March sent me for my birthday. It's a deep marigold—Meg was instantly jealous.
"You and Amy are my last hope," Auntie sighs, lifting a fine china glass to her lips. My tea has gone cold, and I don't have the heart to tell her.
"What about Jo?" I ask, and uncross and cross my ankles again. "I thought you were thinking of taking her with you to Europe."
"She's never getting married." She dismisses me with a wave. "You're my favorite now."
I've been asked to dance—not a surprise, considering I'm what Auntie regards as the 'only March with a face worth looking at' even though my sisters are each beautiful in their own ways.
Except for Jo. Her nose is funny.
I close my eyes for a moment, allowing the hustle and bustle of the room to wrap around me like a bubble. The squeak of shoes against the hardwood floors, tinkling laughter of ladies and booming chuckles of gentlemen, and the clatter of glasses being set on trays with their contents empty.
It's a peaceful bliss, and while my fingers tap against the velvet cushions of the sofa I find myself humming along to the upbeat of the music.
"Excuse me, madam," a voice breaks my train of thought and my eyes pop open.
It's a boy come to ask to dance. He's got a neat mass of dark curls atop his head, and the dark fabric of his coat contrasts nicely with the paleness his skin. Alabaster, almost. Smooth. His eyes are trained on mine, and his lips, a little on the thin side, are pressed into a line.
