By contrast, Elizabeth was quiet, deliberate, and more inclined to listen carefully before speaking. She had light blonde hair, which she usually wore in a dainty coil, and large eyes the colour of the sky.
She had always been very interested in fashion, and in monitoring the French fashion plates found in the ladies’ magazines – even if, for the last few years, she’d had few opportunities to wear anything so stunning to major events.
Since her return to London, Anne had hoped to gossip with her, as they had during her coming out three years before, about those new suitors who plagued her. But Elizabeth was highly resistant to discussing the subject, and refused to let Anne draw her out.
Admitting her reason for that disinterest was not an option, so Anne would simply have to cope with her silence on the matter. Elizabeth was no longer the girl of eighteen who had wanted to boast and giggle about her new conquests. She knew that Anne was worried that too much time in the country had caused her little sister’s hopes and dreams to fade away. Those dreams had certainly changed, but Elizabeth was not about to enlighten Anne on the topic.
By late afternoon, Elizabeth’s contemplation of the morning’s events had led her to a conclusion. If Blackstone was back in London to stay, then it was highly likely that she would meet him at various Balls and soirees. She would not hide, would not allow him to so affect her life – not again.
Which meant that she needed to appear always at her best.
Let him think what he might of that – he no longer had any right to expect more from her than the barest polite greeting.
*****
“The midnight blue superfine jacket, with the sapphire brocade waistcoat, I think, Rogers.”
Gavin’s valet nodded, and went into the dressing room to fetch the required clothes, soon returning with them draped over his arm.
“With the sapphire cravat pin, Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
The valet carefully laid the clothes out on the bed and turned back to his master.
“If you will take a seat, Your Grace, I will shave you, and set your hair in order.”
Gavin sat, letting his mind wander as the valet attended to him, then standing when asked and allowing himself to be dressed as if he was a child’s doll. Rogers was a genius with cravats, and had the ability to repress, at least for some hours at a time, Gavin’s thick and slightly curly hair.
The well-known process was soothing – it helped to calm his nerves about the coming Ball. When he had accepted Lord Foster’s invitation, he had expected it to be an evening of potential tedium, simply a necessary part of reinserting himself into London society after some years away. An evening during which he would smile, charm, tease, and banter, all the while deflecting the interest of this year’s flock of hopeful young women, who cared little for anything but the potential of becoming his Duchess.
Now, the evening had become a far different prospect.
Because in all likelihood, she would be there.
And if she was, he would do everything he could to get her to talk to him, to give him the chance he did not really deserve – the chance to explain.
Chapter Two
That night, Elizabeth dressed with special care. As she had decided that afternoon, she would look her very best tonight, given the chance of seeing Blackstone. For the past three years, she had hoped to, and feared, meeting him again - part of her rejoiced in his sudden presence, while another part bemoaned it and tried to stifle the spark of hope which had been brought into existence that morning. There could never again be something between her and Blackstone, but she wanted to look so good that he would regret that fact whenever he saw her.
She clasped a delicate gold necklace around her neck, in place of the simple ribbon which she commonly wore, and examined the effect in the mirror. Her gown was one which her parents had recently gifted her for her twenty-first birthday, she suspected in response to her agreeing to spend the Season in London with Anne. It had been ordered from one of the top fashion houses in Paris, her measurements taken by their representatives here in London, and was cut and embellished in the latest Grecian inspired style.
Over a sheath of creamy peach satin, layers of fine, almost translucent peach toned net fell in soft waves down from the high waist to her feet, and tiny white rosebuds trailed over the bodice and down to the hem. Even Elizabeth, devoted follower of fashion as she was, thought it was a little excessive; but somehow, it made perfect sense for tonight.
Downstairs, her sister was pulling on dancing slippers and giving George’s Nanny last minute instructions concerning the salve for the child’s scratched elbows.
“Have a good time tonight, dear,” Anne’s husband said, kissing her fondly as she made ready to leave.
David Lockhardt, Viscount Carsteade, was just as well liked in social circles as his wife; but he was rather less enthusiastic than she about social events. He was quite happy for her to go to such things to chaperone Elizabeth, so long as she did not demand that he attend every single occasion.
“I’ll miss you, David,” Anne responded teasingly. “However, I think I will actually get to dance tonight.”
They both laughed - the Viscount was actually quite a good dancer, but his wife liked to dance every single set and he often remarked that he could barely stand at the end of it all.
Elizabeth looked away, trying not to feel envious of the couple’s close relationship. Once, she had shared a similar familiarity with someone, but he had broken her trust. She was sure that there was little hope of her having that kind of rapport with anyone else again, ever.
Outside the carriage, as they moved through the London streets, things were calm and quiet. Inside, Elizabeth grew more and more nervous as they drew closer to Lord Foster’s opulent townhouse, where the Ball was taking place.
Would Blackstone be there?
Would he approach her or leave her be?
She didn’t quite know what she wanted from him.
Once they arrived, and Anne began introducing her to new acquaintances, as well as reacquainting her with old ones, Elizabeth began to relax. Although she wasn’t as outgoing as Anne, and never had been, Elizabeth enjoyed city life and the excitements that London society had to offer. She was still rather shocked that her delicate beauty drew just as many admirers as it had when she’d first debuted in society three years ago.
She hadn’t expected that – had, in fact, been quite sure that she would barely be noticed when there were so many beautiful younger women now out in society. But she found herself enjoying the flattering compliments and the conversation of the men surrounding her, almost as much as she had back then.
Of course, she also had admirers in country society, but the attention she was receiving here reminded her of her first, rather special, experience in London. Which was not what she should be thinking about. Remembering would change nothing.
She turned her thoughts to the present, and concentrated on being charming. But, soon, despite her intention not to think of him, she found herself scanning the room, looking for Blackstone.
As the crowds of people milled about, a gap opened in the throng for a moment, and she saw him.
He was breathtakingly handsome, in a deep midnight blue jacket with a sapphire waistcoat, standing across the room from her and, to all appearances, enjoying himself.
Elizabeth felt a moment of uncertainty then, forcing her smile to be brighter, she turned back to the gentleman who had been regaling her with a story about his hunting exploits, and laughed at the appropriate points – perhaps a little louder than she normally would have.
Inside, she chastised herself – she knew that she was, at least in part, trying to show Blackstone how much fun she was having without him. Which was foolish in the extreme – she doubted that he had even noticed her presence.
Blackstone was just as bright, charming, and dashing as she remembered him. He was surrounded by women, young and old alike, who made up a giggling fluttering crowd
whose exclamations could at times be heard over the din of the general conversation in the ballroom. Elizabeth was sure that his humour was just as questionably appropriate as she remembered it, judging by the frequently shocked and excited expressions of his admirers. She dragged her eyes away from him again, determined not to be drawn in. But, inevitably, her gaze drifted back in his direction.
Finally, he glanced over towards her, and Elizabeth could see that they were playing the same game, for he gave her that impertinent grin, and raised an eyebrow. She looked away furiously, the lightest of flushes rising to her cheeks.
“Excuse me. I believe I will get some air.”
She cooled her burning face by vigorously plying her fan. At her words a chorus of eager voices offered to accompany her, but Elizabeth merely smiled and waved their offers away.
She could see her sister watching her as she wove through the glittering crowd towards the doors to the terrace, and was glad that Anne would know where she was.
She went past the couples who stood, speaking in low tones, on the terrace, then down the steps into the garden, and found a dark, cool area enclosed by leafy plants and sheltered from prying eyes. Stopping, she took a deep breath and put the back of her hand to her cheek. She wasn’t upset. She wasn’t. There was certainly no reason to be upset.
“I think you might need this,” a deep voice said behind her. Elizabeth froze.
When she finally turned around, her face was composed. Blackstone was standing there, the coloured light from the lanterns which made the garden into a fairytale landscape making him seem even more handsome than ever, as it traced the planes of his face. If the light had been just a little lower and the air a little warmer, Elizabeth would have sworn that she had stepped back in time. As it was, she crossed her arms and spoke far more bluntly than was polite.
“Need what?”
He held out a glass of wine. Elizabeth deliberated for a moment, then abruptly took the glass, drained it in one unladylike gulp, then set it down upon the stone bench which was beside her. He was, damn him, right. She had needed it.
Blackstone looked pleased, the irrepressible smile brightening his face, and moved closer, beginning to say something else, but before he could get more than half a syllable out, Elizabeth spoke, her voice icy.
“Excuse me.”
She turned to leave. Blackstone put his hand on her arm to stop her, but quickly removed it when he saw the expression on her face. She could almost see the cogs turning in his mind as he tried to formulate another approach.
“It’s not like that, Elizabeth.”
He spoke as she began walking away, a note of remorse and desperation entering his voice. An angry, icy cold heat rushed to her cheeks as she rounded on him and burst out, almost at her wit’s end.
“It’s not what exactly, Your Grace? You have only been absent three years, without a visit or letter, or even a whisper…”
She gulped down the rest of her words, embarrassed that she had revealed the extent to which he had hurt her.
Blackstone had always had a talent for drawing out the fiery side of her personality, which she usually kept restrained behind the safer façade of biting wit.
Now he was looking genuinely concerned. But surely she was mistaken in that.
“You will forgive me though, won’t you, my dear?”
“I’m no one’s dear, certainly not yours,” Elizabeth snapped, putting her hands on her hips. Blackstone slowly came closer, but Elizabeth didn’t budge, even though she felt a quiver run through her, and her body demanded that she do something, anything – be that turn and run, or step towards him. “Why should you expect me to forgive you? What conceivable reason would I have to do so?” In the silence that followed those questions, the distant sound of music from the ballroom came to her, as if from another world, another time. He said nothing, and impatience flared in her. “Well?”
She took a deep breath and arched a brow. Blackstone seemed flustered at the direct questioning, which pleased her, even as it startled her. He was a man not easily discomposed, in general.
“I know I shouldn’t have kept you waiting, Elizabeth,” he began awkwardly, then swallowed before going on, stumbling over his next words a little – was it an act? Or was he truly that uncertain? “My father – well, I unexpectedly became Duke, years before I had ever thought that might happen, you know,” he went on. “And so suddenly…”
“…I wasn’t good enough for you,” Elizabeth finished lightly, an edge of pain underpinning that tone.
She had become progressively more cold and stony, the more passionate that Blackstone became. It was as if a shield of ice surrounded her, insulating her from the reality of his presence, from the intensity of her feelings.
“No, no! Of course not. I realised that I wasn’t good enough for you.”
She studied his face, doubting his words, the icy anger growing even stronger – why would he expect her to believe such a statement?
“Of course, of course,” she murmured dispassionately. “Well, I’m sure that I’ve taken up enough of your time, Your Grace, and I should return to my sister… after all, it is most inappropriate for us to be alone like this.”
“You don’t understand,” Blackstone insisted, catching her hand in his. “If I had known that you would take it this way…” It seemed that he had realised his misstep in phrasing, for his words trailed of. Elizabeth gave him her well-practiced frosty smile. “Your Grace, your activities are no concern of mine. Good evening.”
Shock was visible on his face for a moment, and for an equally short time, that filled Elizabeth with satisfaction.
But the feeling was short lived, and the familiar aching sadness swept it away. She spun away from him, before he could see any sign of her true feelings, her cheeks even paler than usual. The steps up onto the terrace seemed impossibly distant.
Anne must have been watching the terrace doors the whole time, because almost as soon as Elizabeth re-entered the ballroom, she swiftly walked over to join her.
“Are you all right?” Anne asked quietly, as they made their way to the refreshments table.
Elizabeth nodded, but spoke somewhat tersely, despite her best effort to sound unconcerned.
“I’ve developed rather the megrim, Anne. May we leave soon?”
“Certainly,” Anne looked at her, concerned, but wisely did not probe her further.
The two sisters made their goodbyes, and Elizabeth was able to muster up an imitation of her usual carefree attitude, especially when she caught Blackstone watching from near the terrace doors. Thankfully he made no attempt to approach her again, and she was able to escape the Ball without further insult or injury to her pride.
*****
He stood in the lantern lit garden, watching her walk away.
It was fitting, he supposed, a mocking echo of him having left her without a word years before.
It was obvious that he had, previously, failed to understand the depth of pain he had caused her. He understood now.
Her coldness hurt, and the fact that he was no longer ‘Gavin’, but was addressed in cold politeness as the formal ‘Your Grace’ only emphasised her feelings.
Was there any hope?
He could not give up, could not allow himself to accept her icy dismissal, or all that he had achieved since his father’s death would be meaningless. He had to get her to allow him to speak to her, to spend enough time in his presence to begin to see that he had changed – but that his love for her had not.
For now, there was nothing more that he could do, nothing but leave her to the attentions of other men, and tolerate, even charm, the hopeful young women who would cluster around him again once he returned to the ballroom.
He had, tonight, been introduced to at least thirty daughters of the aristocracy, all intent on ensnaring him. If it was not so painful to deal with, it would be laughable. But the only laughter he had allowed himself this evening was false – a bright cheerful façade designed to co
nvince society that he was happy. He needed them to believe that he was a convivial man, a responsible man, a man worthy of having stepped into his father’s place.
Unfortunately, that came also with the need to allow them to think that he might choose one of their daughters to be his Duchess.
Which was never going to happen.
He had committed his heart years before, and that commitment had not wavered.
There was only one woman who he could ever imagine as his Duchess. And she had just walked away from him.
He sighed, drew himself up, and set the charming smile upon his face again. The terrace steps seemed like a stairway to doom as he climbed them, and he braced himself mentally as he opened the door to the ballroom.
He paused just inside, his eyes finding her, unerringly.
She was with her sister, speaking to the evening’s hosts. If he read what he saw aright, they were making their goodbyes.
Pain filled him.
Far from his hopes of achieving the beginnings of a new comfort with each other, of being granted the chance to explain, he had managed quite the opposite.
He had driven her away.
Chapter Three
“Mother, I have a favour to ask of you.”
The Dowager Duchess of Blackstone regarded her son with eyes very similar to his own, and for a moment, Gavin wondered if this was, after all, a sensible idea. Then she smiled, and her normally rather solemn countenance was transformed into something far warmer.
“A favour? And what might that be?”
“I would like you to… ah… invite two ladies to dinner.”
Her expression shifted. He knew that she disliked having others in her home, that she always had, as had his father. The fact that she had not immediately said a flat no still gave him a shred of hope. He waited.
Her Determined Duke: Clean Regency Romance Page 2