by Donna Hatch
This was the stern man who’d so warned her against infidelity, the man who’d asked her if she might be with child because he thought her an immoral hussy.
She must remember however cheerful he appeared to his peers, he was unyielding.
“Lord Averston.” She curtsied.
“Lady Elizabeth, I would be pleased if you’d do me the honor of standing up with me for the first dance.”
Moistening her lips, Elizabeth inclined her head and found her voice. “Of course, Lord Averston. It would be my pleasure.”
As he turned to her sister, the corners of his eyes crinkled just a little. “Lady Joanna. Be sure you inform me if you require assistance fending off the dozens of admirers that will no doubt hound you at every turn.”
Joanna laughed gaily. “I will indeed, my lord.”
Clearly, he found her sister more charming than she—just like every other gentleman. Tristan alone hadn’t shared that opinion.
But as it is, I live and die unheard…
Lord Byron seemed to know.
As Lord Averston’s gaze shifted back to Elizabeth, he inclined his head. “Until later, my lady.”
Before she could further consider his words, Lord and Lady Einsburgh approached. His wife, half his age, glided next to him, her features as set and hard as they were beautiful.
Elizabeth greeted an endless sea of faces, until the string quartet struck up a lively country dance and a tall form appeared beside her.
“May I claim my dance?” Lord Averston stood with a hand extended.
Breathless with trepidation, she placed her trembling hand in his. He led her out to the dance floor and stood tall and straight as other couples lined up next to them, leaving them as head couple. Elizabeth twisted her shoes against the floor to spread around the chalk on her soles and refrained from fidgeting with her gloves.
Lord Averston leaned into her, causing the light to ripple over his black hair. “Are you cold?”
“N-no.”
“You’re trembling.”
She pressed her lips together and studied the shoe flower on her dancing slipper. As the music began, they waited for their cue to begin the dance.
He leaned in. “You look lovely.”
“You’re too kind,” she replied.
“I was sincere.”
She faltered, unnerved by his focused stare. She didn’t for a moment believe his flattery, nor did she care for his opinion overmuch. “Thank you, my lord. I’m gratified to have earned your approval.”
Oh dear. The sarcasm in her heart made it into her voice. Perhaps he hadn’t detected it. She made a point of adjusting one of her gloves and glanced at him.
His face was utterly void of expression. “Are you mocking me?”
The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold. “Never, my lord.”
“Don’t look so alarmed. I won’t take you to task.” His mouth quirked at the corners briefly and his expression thawed. At last.
The musicians struck up the number and her feet automatically began the dance steps. With his hand touching hers, he moved with confidence through the dancers, his steps light and fluid. Naturally, a man like him with such discipline and exacting standards would excel at everything, including dancing.
Each time they joined hands, he held hers firmly, guiding her through the sequence and placing her in the correct position to take the next dancer’s hand. They reached the end of the line and had a moment to rest before they would be drawn into the formation again.
“You dance very well,” he said.
She shrugged off the praise since he was only making small talk. “As do you, my lord.”
“Yes, well, I am to be your husband soon. Let’s leave off all this ‘my lord’ business.”
She blinked in surprise. “That seems inappropriate.”
His head tilted to one side. “Why? We are to marry, after all. No one can accuse us of becoming too familiar.”
“My parents always call each other by their titles when they converse.”
“Even in private?”
“I do not recall them ever addressing each other by their Christian names.”
“Mine did, but only in the comfort of our home. Still, you needn’t use ‘my lord’ with every sentence you speak.”
“If that is your wish.”
The next repetition drew them back into the pattern and all conversation stopped. As they danced, he moved with precision and grace, weaving in among the other dancers, returning to her.
“What is that fragrance you wear?” he asked as they touched hands and danced in a small circle. “I smell rose and violet, but there’s something else.”
“It’s called angelica, my lord—er…” She trailed off.
“It’s a unique combination.”
She couldn’t resist teasing him just a bit. “Uniquely unpleasant or uniquely good?”
His eyebrows rose as if her pert question surprised him, but his eyes took on what appeared to be a twinkle. Was that a sign of humor?
“Quite pleasant, I assure you,” he said.
When the set ended, she smiled up at him, breathless from vigorous dancing. He returned a smile that transformed him into an approachable, warm human instead of the statue he so often appeared. Her pulse quivered.
Unless Tristan came through for her, this handsome man would be her husband, a man whom she’d thought was as cold and unfeeling as granite. Until now. Had she been altogether wrong about the earl?
He lifted her hand to his lips. “Thank you, Elizabeth.”
She found her tongue but not her voice, and her words came out as a croaked whisper. “My pleasure.”
He escorted her back to Mary who stood in a circle of other ladies, affected a bow, and moved away.
Mary squeezed her hand, her eyes shining. “See? All will be well.”
Elizabeth’s trepidation regarding her upcoming marriage to Lord Averston must have been obvious. Then again, Mary could often read Elizabeth, sometimes uncomfortably so.
The next few dances passed in a blur. To her surprise and delight, Elizabeth danced many sets. She’d never exactly been a wallflower, but tonight she seemed to have more offers than normal. Caught up in the pleasure of dancing, her fears lifted and she enjoyed herself. Lord Averston also stood up with many ladies, some pretty, others plain, and he treated them all with equal courtesy. His smile, though less unrestrained than Tristan’s, was dashing and often warm.
As she and Mary stood together sipping lemonade, a waltz was announced. Mary’s husband arrived. “My lady, do stand up with me now, I beg you.”
Mary grinned. “How could I refuse?”
Lord Brinton drew Mary out onto the floor and into his arms. Gazing into each other’s eyes, they swept out of view.
Elizabeth sighed at the happiness shining in Mary’s face.
Lord Averston appeared next to Elizabeth. “If I may have this pleasure.” His low voice rippled over her.
She looked up at him, visually measuring the distance between her head and his chin. He was a little taller than Tristan. “Of course.”
Without breaking eye contact, he led her out to the dance floor. His hand encircled her waist. There was something keenly sensual about that simple gesture. She shivered as he led her through the waltz.
After a moment of silence, he said, “Your younger sister appears to have made a splash.”
Elizabeth glanced at Joanna who had a dozen hopeful suitors following her around like so many lovesick puppies.
“Of course. She and Mary always do.” Then fearing she might sound jealous, added, “I’m pleased for them both.”
One corner of his mouth twitched. “Finding yourself in the middle must be difficult.”
His observation drew her attention to his onyx eyes. She moistened her lips. “I don’t enjoy attention as they do.”
“Oh?” He raised a brow.
“I’m uncomfortable with so many eyes on me.”
“Are you? That su
rprises me. You carry yourself with poise.”
“You’re too kind, but in truth, crowds make me a bit unsettled. I prefer smaller groups, providing I’m not called upon to perform, that is.”
“Perform? Do you play an instrument?”
“I play the harp, and every time I must do so for others, I fear I’m going to be ill. At my last musicale, my hands shook so badly I could hardly find the correct strings. It was humiliating. Duchess was outraged I’d disgraced her.” Elizabeth shuddered at the memory of Duchess’s wrath.
“Then I must do what I can to shield you from unwanted attention.”
The concern in his voice captivated her. She could not draw her gaze from his. Stunned by his unexpected show of compassion, she managed, “I would be in your debt.”
His mouth curved and his eyes softened. “Not at all. It’s my duty as your future husband to protect you.”
She looked away. He may yet prove honorable. Kind even. But he would never be Tristan.
His voice slipped around her. “My sister Selina played the harp for a time, but she has a preference for art over music.”
“She’s in France, I hear?”
“Italy, actually. She’s with my aunt painting to her heart’s content. Tell me, Elizabeth, what else interests you? Do you also sew? Ride?”
She faltered. Then, deciding to throw out caution, answered truthfully instead of how she ought. “I do ride. I also love to read—poetry especially, but also novels and the newspaper, and even scientific periodicals.”
That brow shot up again. “Really? You’re a bluestocking?”
She sniffed. “No, of course not. Of late, I’ve been following the work of reformers and their efforts to help those who wish to better themselves by finding honest work. I’ve also read a great number of discussions concerning the railroad.”
His mouth curved. “I have as well. Tell me, what do you think of the railroad?”
He was teasing her, but she looked him full in the face. “If we can keep out the charlatans who created false canal ventures, one day the railroad will be a preferred way to travel, as well as transport merchandise.”
“Most people think it a passing craze at best, and a fraud at worst.”
“Most people resist new ideas.”
He chuckled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners and banishing the last of his sternness. How handsome he looked when he smiled. “True.”
“What do you think about it?” she asked.
“I am persuaded, as you say, that with the right people in charge, it could be a profitable venture.”
“Then perhaps as a member of parliament, you could find the right people to put in charge.”
He grinned and she almost missed her step at the beautiful sight. “I could. Perhaps I will.”
She couldn’t resist smiling in return.
“Pray tell,” he said, “what other news has caught your attention?”
Taking a moment to consider, she paused, enamored with the unique position of a man actually asking for, and listening to, her opinion. “I’ve been following the mysterious Mr. Black whom they are calling the King of Crime.”
He nodded. “That story has caught my attention, as well.”
“Did you read about the series of thefts in Mayfair? They robbed four houses all next door to each other. They even attacked the servants.” The article in the paper had outlined how the thieves had terrorized the servants as they’d stolen jewelry and art. She shivered at the thieves’ violence.
He nodded grimly. “All credited to this Mr. Black. I’ve hired extra hands to help guard my house in London until the law can catch him.” At what must have been a worried expression of her face, he squeezed her hand. “Bow Street is leading the investigation. I’m sure they’ll find him soon, not to worry.”
Until they caught this King of Crime, he would only grow in power. Elizabeth missed her step and turned her mind back onto the music’s rhythm and her step. As she focused on dance and music, and on her attractive partner, her tension faded.
The music ended. As he led her off the dance floor, he drew her aside and bent his head close to hers. Her heart thudded and her gaze strayed to his lips. Would he kiss her? Surely not. They were in a crowded ballroom, and she doubted her very proper husband-to-be would engage in a public display. Could she bear to kiss him when her heart belonged to another?
“Thank you for the dance, Elizabeth. I enjoyed it very much.”
“I did as well…Richard.”
He bade her good evening and moved away, his back straight and strong. As she cooled her heated face with her fan, she squashed her burgeoning admiration for Richard Barrett, Earl of Averston. There should only be room in her heart for Tristan.
Chapter Nine
With Elizabeth’s hand still warm from the gentle pressure of Richard’s touch during the waltz, she watched him thread through the crowd. He stopped, his head turned toward the balcony. Curious, she followed his line of sight. Leticia Wentworth stood at a balcony overlooking the ballroom from an upper story. Miss Wentworth’s head lowered, clearly looking down at Richard. Even at that distance, her expression filled with such yearning that a sympathy pain pierced Elizabeth’s heart.
“Ah, a lover’s gaze,” came a voice from behind her. “Impossible love is so romantic.”
Elizabeth turned to see two ladies standing together, watching Lord Averston, their gazes so focused on the romantic tragedy that they seemed unaware of Elizabeth’s presence.
The elder frowned at the younger. “Don’t make it sound so idyllic. They’re victims of circumstance and are doomed to live with broken hearts.”
“Always longing for one another, forbidden to touch.” The younger lady sighed.
“They’d be married, they say, if it weren’t for the duke’s promiscuous daughter.”
The blood drained from Elizabeth’s face, leaving her cold. Through her actions with Tristan, she had caused heartache for others. She’d been so consumed with her own disappointment, she hadn’t spared a thought for the lovers who’d been torn apart.
The elder woman continued, “She succumbed to one of the most dissipated young bucks in England. Now look how her foolishness has destroyed the happiness of this would-be couple.”
“Well, you must admit,” said the younger lady, “Tristan Barrett is very charming, and even more handsome than the earl. Difficult to resist, indeed.”
The older lady let out a snort. “She should have more sense than to be led astray by a rascal. Lord Averston is a man of honor and will no doubt marry her quickly since she may be with child—his brother’s child. I doubt he’ll ever love her.” She nodded to punctuate her statement, sending her ostrich feathers bobbing on her headdress.
“Of course he won’t love her; his heart belongs to another.”
Unable to hear more, Elizabeth turned away. She’d hurt Lord Averston in a profound way. To have brought such heartache and disappointment upon Miss Wentworth, who’d always seemed so kind, made Elizabeth want to crawl under a rock. How they both must despise her!
What a bitter marriage she and Lord Averston were doomed to have, both longing for another. It wouldn’t be merely a marriage of convenience; it would be a marriage of loneliness.
Thus far, Tristan had failed to make his intentions known. Had she imagined his unspoken promise?
With weighted heart, Elizabeth left the ballroom, seeking refuge through the doors opened to the cool night air. Couples strolled by arm in arm, their voices low and intimate. She looked away at the reminder of her moments with Tristan and how horribly wrong it had all gone. After finally reaching a place of privacy, she sank onto a stone bench below an arbor of climbing roses; she let out a strained breath.
She’d brought grief to the man she had agreed to marry. Lord Avertston had been gallant to hide it. If Tristan failed to elope with her, she could cry off, of course, which would free Lord Averston to marry Miss Wentworth. No doubt, he prayed she would.
Duche
ss would be furious if another scandal tainted the family. The familiar sickening fear clutched her stomach like a fist at the thought of Duchess’s fury. Besides, Martindale might go forth with the duel with Father’s blessing. That she could not abide. Worse, she would disappoint Father.
No. Unless Tristan came for her quickly, she would have little choice but to marry Lord Averston. In time, they would grow to care for one another. In time, he’d stop wishing she were Miss Wentworth. In time, she’d stop wishing he were Tristan.
Perhaps she was the greatest fool ever.
“Oh, Tristan, where are you?”
Another horrifying thought struck her with such force that she nearly fell off the bench. Richard’s kindness on the dance floor could have been merely some kind of act to quiet the gossips. He might not feel any tenderness for her at all. In fact, he might despise her. What if he turned out as bad-tempered and disapproving as Duchess? That image certainly fit with the earl of the house party.
She must not think of that. Instead, she recited innocuous lines of poetry about birds and flowers, visualizing each image. A few moments in the garden breathing the scented air and focusing on poetry restored her spirits. Though reluctant to leave her solitude, her duties as host’s daughter required that she mingle with the guests. Wishing she could return to the haven of her room, she headed back through the open doors and into the crowd.
A soft, feminine voice called her. “Lady Elizabeth.” Leticia Wentworth stood behind her.
Oh, no. Not her, of all people.
Miss Wentworth gestured to the hem of her ball gown where a torn length of lace dragged the floor. “I wonder if you might direct me to the retiring room. My gown is in need of repair.”
“Of course. This way.” Elizabeth led her to the room where a maid waited inside with a sewing basket for just such a purpose. After ensuring her guest was receiving adequate care, Elizabeth turned to leave.
“Lady Elizabeth,” Miss Wentworth said, stopping her. “May I speak with you?”
Elizabeth cast a glance at the maid, but as a long-time servant of the family, she’d proven herself discreet in all matters. Swallowing hard, Elizabeth turned back to take whatever Miss Wentworth saw fit to deal her, and allowed all her guilt and sorrow to show in her expression. “You must despise me.”
