The gravel driveway of the Hamilton estate, usually so quiet and orderly, had become a river of expensive noise.
It was a few days later. The night of the ball.
Carriage after carriage rolled to a stop, their black lacquered sides gleaming under the light of a hundred torches. The horses stamped their hooves, impatient in the cool evening air. Footmen in the Hamilton uniform moved quickly, opening doors and offering gloved hands to the ladies descending.
The air was alive. There was the soft, continuous swish-swish of heavy silk skirts brushing against the stone steps, and the low, buzzing murmur of excited chatter.
"Lady Dalton!" the butler, Huxley, boomed, his voice echoing off the high, painted ceiling of the entrance hall. "And Lord Dalton!"
Ines stood next to her brother. She was the lady of the house. She was the hostess.
