by Rose Gordon
And so was he.
For the past two Seasons, he seemed to appear in the oddest places: musicales, dances, breakfasts—he was even at the most tedious museum ever opened, for gracious sakes! He was always there. And worse yet, he was always staring at her in a way that would suggest he’d seen her naked! Which, of course, he had.
Ignoring him and those overly perceptive eyes of his, she made her way across the stuffy ballroom and into the refreshment room.
The scent of spice cake filled her nostrils and she took another whiff for good measure as she walked over to the large rectangular table in the middle of the room. On either end of the table, arranged to look like a pyramid, were little squares of spice cake. In the middle was a large chessboard of glasses, made up of an equal number of glasses of champagne punch and lemonade. Never two glasses that held the same beverage next to each other.
“Quite impressive,” came a voice from across the table.
She immediately recognized that voice as Mr. Appleton’s, and it sent a shiver skating down Henrietta’s spine. Stiffly, she nodded her agreement then eyed the door. She needed to escape without delay.
“Why do you avoid me?”
She met his eyes. “Why do you stare at me?”
Mr. Appleton poked his bottom lip out and gave a lopsided shrug. For some reason that only irritated her more, and she inwardly commanded herself to not allow him to affect her. Mr. Appleton took a step toward her. “Why do you stare at me?” he mused.
“I do no such thing! I never stare at anyone. You’re the one—” She cut off her own words when a smug expression came over his face.
He arched one dark brow. Truly he was a handsome gentleman—if not a wee bit infuriating. “How would you know I stare at you if you’re not staring at me?”
Henrietta pursed her lips.
The annoying man laughed. Loudly.
Irritation at the man and his dratted logic bubbled up inside her and she clutched her hands into her thick red satin skirts to keep from walloping him the way she’d witnessed her younger brothers Lucas and Samuel do to one another when they were at odds. She inclined her chin. “I would hardly call looking in your direction on occasion staring,” she said as smoothly as she could, praying he wouldn’t challenge her on that. “However, I find it quite unusual that when I do, your eyes are always fixed on me.”
“I don’t.”
Equal parts irritation and dread filled her at his easy words. “Let me guess,” she started with a bit more sarcasm than any proper young lady should have in her tone. “You’re hoping for another peek?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers.
She didn’t know whether to be flattered or to throw a cup of champagne in his handsome face.
She opted for neither, though denying herself the gratification of washing that smug expression away with a cool drink was sorely tempting.
“Well, that won’t be happening.” She narrowed her eyes on him. “Ever.”
“That’s all right.” His voice was soft and calm, betraying the heated storm she saw swirling in his green eyes. He took a step toward her. “I have a good enough memory.”
Scorching flames licked Henrietta’s face and without realizing what she was doing she took the nearest glass of champagne she could reach and splashed him in the face.
Unfortunately, instead of evaporating his smile and making him so angry he left her presence in a huff, his unnaturally handsome smile grew wider and the wretch laughed!
“Does nothing faze you?”
“Nothing you do,” he said, withdrawing his handkerchief from his breast pocket.
A traitorous tendril of she-didn’t-know-what began to coil inside her. She ground her teeth.
“I knew you didn’t like me, but I didn’t think you despised me this much,” he teased, as he carelessly wiped off the front of his suit of clothes.
“I don’t despise you.”
“Good.” He shoved his kerchief back into his breast pocket, his grin still firmly in place, then held his hand out toward her. “Dance with me?”
“No, thank you.”
“And why not?”
She stared at him unblinking. Was he cracked? “Shall I list the reasons?”
“Only if the list is short.” He jerked his thumb to point over his left shoulder. “I hear the closing strains of this waltz and another will begin shortly.”
If he weren’t so handsome it’d be a lot easier to detest him. “I don’t think we’re suited.”
“Does a pair have to suit in order to dance a waltz?”
“Does one have to be annoying in order to get what he wants?”
“When it involves you? Absolutely.” Simon reached for her hand, then tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her toward the ballroom, his head held high as if he hadn’t a worry or concern in the world. The wretch.
Simon led her to the center of the floor. “What’s your story, I wonder,” he mused when the music started. His voice was low, yet his lips so close to her ear she could feel his breath against her skin as he spoke.
“I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has a story.” Simon spun her to the music. “Even the poor sod who owns that ghastly museum.” He lifted his eyebrows. “You do remember that blasted museum, do you not?”
“So you do spy on me,” she teased.
“No, that was entirely a coincidence.” The left corner of his lips tipped up and he tucked his soiled handkerchief back into this pocket. “Dare I hope you had a more enjoyable experience than I did?”
“You can hope it.” Despite herself, she smiled. “Even I could have hoped for it.”
“Ah, so you can smile in my presence.”
Henrietta twisted her lips. “You make me sound like a sour old prune.”
“Are prunes sour? I always thought they were bitter.”
“Sour, bitter—” she pressed her lips into a gentle line— “neither are desirable.”
“Depends,” Simon allowed. “Sweet is usually preferred, but at least you’re speaking to me—and with the semblance of a smile at that.”
“You act as if I’m incapable.”
“You are. At least you are around me. You seemed to show no difficulty in the action around your suitor.”
“Suitor,” Henrietta choked, tripping over Simon’s foot.
Simon’s hand on her back tightened, steadying her. “Was your companion at the museum not your suitor, then?”
“No,” she said with a little more conviction than was necessary. The man had more than sixty years in his dish. He was most certainly not her suitor. “Do you think I’m one of those kinds of young ladies?” She frowned. “Don’t answer that. I already know you think I have loose morals.”
Simon opened his mouth to say something, a rebuttal if she had to guess. Fortunately, whatever statement or retort was on the tip of his tongue died with the end of the music.
“Thank you for dancing with me, Mr. Appleton,” she forced herself to say.
“Did you just thank me?” Simon asked, leading her toward the edge of the ballroom.
Ignoring the hint of humor she detected in his voice, she said, “Well, it’s not every young lady who gets to dance with the most sought after gentleman in the room,” she teased again.
Beneath her hand his arm went rigid and his face lost all expression, his eyes resembling emeralds more now than ever before. Slowly, he pulled away from her. “You’re welcome,” he clipped.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she offered. Truly, it would have been better for her if she’d have just let him stalk off with whatever bee had just flown into his bonnet. They’d already danced together and now they were talking in the ballroom—in front of everyone. And that everyone included her chaperone, Brooke, Lady Townson.
The woman was relentless with her efforts to see Henrietta married. So relentless that Henrietta had tried to outwit her by accepting Mr. Ringley’s invitation to that b
lasted museum in hopes of getting Brooke to stop pushing so hard. It hadn’t worked. Instead it had only made Brooke try harder to find Henrietta a match. If she saw Henrietta and Simon Appleton having a conversation lasting more than thirty seconds she wouldn’t be able to sleep until the local newspaper announced that Henrietta Hughes was to soon become Mrs. Simon Appleton.
Unfortunately for her, Henrietta had manners—albeit not as many as the other young ladies on the Marriage Mart. Nonetheless, whether Mr. Charming and Handsome needed her apology, he deserved one.
She blinked to clear her thoughts then blushed. He was staring at her!
“Er…” She licked her lips and wrung her hands. “I just meant that…” What had she meant? And why did he have the power to make her unable to speak just now? Throwing any remaining pride she might have had where he was concerned to the wind, she said, “I didn’t mean for that to come out the way it did.”
“And how did you mean for it to come out?” His quiet voice confused her even more.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But not the way it did.”
His eyebrows drew together. “Are you trying to be confusing?”
“No,” she said on a sudden giggle in her throat. “It just comes naturally, I’m afraid.”
“It frightens me, too.”
“Good.”
“Only you would think it was a good thing to drive away an eligible gentleman.”
“Poppycock,” came the chipper voice of Henrietta’s dread: Brooke. “Henrietta just wants to make the right choice when it comes to selecting her husband.”
Henrietta’s jaw dropped. Had Brooke just taken Henrietta’s side in this matchmaking business?
Her elation soon crashed to a halt when Brooke spoke again.
“Though, I daresay her selection has just improved greatly,” she murmured as she made no secret of assessing Mr. Appleton’s form from top to bottom.
Henrietta had the most unusually strong urge to crawl under the row of chairs along the back of the wall.
Simon, however, had as little—or perhaps less—shame as Brooke, for he stood grinning like a jackal. “I’ve been trying to get her attention for years.” He shot a wink at Henrietta. “Perhaps now that I have a champion…”
“Years?” Brooke echoed, her brown eyes nearly doubling in size. She turned her attention to Henrietta. “Why didn’t you mention that when we made our list?”
Henrietta’s cheeks burned. “Because I didn’t want him on it,” she said through clenched teeth.
“But why not?” Brooke asked, dumbfounded. “He’s young and virile and has all of his teeth and—”
Simon had never been so close to choking on his own laughter as he was at that minute. A much needed feeling, to be sure.
Only six hours ago he didn’t think he’d ever so much as smile again in his time left on Earth.
And now he was on the verge of laughing himself into tears!
In front of him stood the elusive Henrietta Hughes and Lady Townson, her chaperone, arguing over Simon’s suitability—something he seemed to fall short of with two other ladies. A sensation akin to a punch to the gut stole his humor.
No. He wasn’t going to think about either Isabelle or Lucy. At least not right now. He’d have plenty of time to think about both of them and where he went wrong tonight when he was in his bed alone. For now he’d enjoy this moment because he’d never see such a scene again, but it wasn’t both of them who were speaking so favorably of him. Only one. The married one. Of course.
No matter. It was for the best. His heart wasn’t ready to be trampled again.
“I agree. He does look a little green,” Lady Townson said, breaking into his thoughts.
Simon blinked out of his fog and almost laughed again at the worried look on Lady Townson’s face.
“Are you all right, dear?” the countess asked.
Were she anyone else he might have been scandalized at her calling him by such an endearment. But she was Lady Townson, the eldest of the three most scandalous sisters to ever grace London. Nobody expected anything less from her. “Yes, thank you. Just a little ill from all of your sugary compliments.”
“Hearing them makes me ill, too,” Henrietta muttered.
Wagging her fan at her charge, Lady Townson said, “Now, Henrietta, is that any way to speak about your future husband?”
“He is not my future husband,” Henrietta informed her.
“We don’t know that, yet,” Lady Townson chided, casting Simon a hesitant smile.
Simon returned her smile. He could definitely understand now just how Lord Townson had found himself with a wife less than two weeks after making this lady’s acquaintance. Rumors were her mother, Mrs. John Banks, was just as forward—if not more so. That poor man had the same chance of survival as a rabbit in a lion’s den.
Simon swung his gaze over to where Townson stood in the back corner of the ballroom, his eyes fastened on his wife and the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. Besotted fool.
In the three years Simon had been working with his father in investments he’d been over to Lord Townson’s townhouse more times than he could count and every single time that man wore that same expression whenever his wife was in view.
Simon had never understood it though. His parents had a love match, but they had been…different. He couldn’t place just how nor did he know why, but they’d never been as open about their affections as Lord and Lady Town—
All useless thoughts of his parents or Lord and Lady Townson’s love match evaporated in less than a second when from the corner of his eye he glimpsed another love match: Lord and Lady Belgrave.
Bile surged up his throat and filled his mouth.
“I need—” Simon choked around the burning feeling in his throat then coughed, which only led him then to wince and finally flush with embarrassment.
Lady Townson, apparently not as silly as she first appeared, reached her hand out and gently touched his forearm. “To dance,” she said softly.
His eyes flared wide, but he was powerless to do anything to stop them. Dance? That was the last thing he thought he needed to be doing.
Just then, Lady Townson flickered a glance in the direction of Lord and Lady Belgrave. “Dance with Henrietta,” she said softly her brown eyes softening. “The whole room is watching. Give them something to talk about.”
3
Give them something to talk about. That was Brooke’s mantra, indeed.
But for just this once, Brooke was right, and Henrietta knew it. Making a mental note to wax wistfully on about her visit to that atrocious museum with Lord Ringsley when Brooke tried to persuade her to encourage Mr. Appleton’s suit, Henrietta took Simon’s hand and allowed him to lead her into the middle of the floor. His eyes shone with something she didn’t recognize right away. Could it possibly be gratitude?
She nearly snorted. Simon Appleton was the last person in the world who’d be showing her gratitude. Brooke had been right in her earlier assessment of Simon: wealthy and handsome, young and charming, he was the most eligible untitled man on the Marriage Mart—and if one were to be completely honest, he was even more sought after than many of those who held a rank.
The orchestra started up and Simon and Henrietta’s bodies fell into proper stance as around them, the entire room full of people faded away.
When they’d danced previously, Simon had held her a little closer than was proper. This time, however, it was obvious. Very obvious.
She wasn’t quite certain if he was doing it intentionally or not, nor did she care to question it. For as irritating as Simon was, he was certainly a skilled dancer—and more than that, his strong hold of her made her feel safe. Not threatened or afraid, nor like he was just going through the motions of being a good dance partner while entertaining thoughts of everything else he’d rather be doing than dancing with her.
Swallowing the uncomfortable lump that had just formed in her throat, she offered Simon her best smile.
Immediately she thrust the very idea from her head. Such a thought did not belong there. Ever. She was only dancing with him as a favor to him, and he was only dancing with her as some sort of balm for his broken heart.
Henrietta glanced over his broad shoulder to the woman who’d devastated him. Ironic. Every other young lady in the room would give her best ball gown to dance with Simon, and the only other young lady in the room who had ever danced with him had rejected him. Well, that wasn’t necessarily fair to her. She didn’t reject him exactly. Lady Belgrave was married to another and had rekindled her romance with her husband.
A shiver skated down her spine. When worded like that it made Simon sound like the worst sort of rakehell. A term that would only enhance his reputation with the swooning debutantes (and Brooke), no doubt.
“Is that amusement I see on your face, Henrietta?”
Henrietta started. “Perhaps.”
“Would you care to share? I could certainly use some humor about now.”
“I probably shouldn’t…”
The corner of Simon’s lips tipped up. “Now you must share.”
A burble of laughter caught in Henrietta’s throat and Simon’s hold on her tightened a fraction, keeping her from publicly embarrassing herself. “Thank you,” she murmured.
Laughter danced in his eyes. “You can show real penance by telling me what you were thinking about.”
“You being a rakehell,” she blurted.
Simon’s mossy eyes tripled in size for a mere half-second before he erupted with laughter.
Cough, cough. He slammed his open palm against his chest. “Excuse me,” he choked around another cough. “I…can’t…breathe,” he wheezed.
Well, if the mission was to have everyone take notice that Simon had moved on from his tendre for Lady Belgrave, their mission had just been accomplished.
Henrietta’s face burned. Never in her life had she had so many eyeballs focused in her direction. Clenching her teeth, she said, “Could you please—”
