by Kelly Boyce
“Come, my dear,” Auntie said, glancing back at Hen and reaching for James’s arm. “Let us take a turn about the room and ingest this horrifyingly elaborate display in the hope my eyes will become desensitized to it in short order.”
“Is such a thing possible?” James asked, her brother’s handsome expression a mirror of their great-aunt’s. “Whoever is responsible for such a garish display should be taken out and shot.”
“Lady Henrietta?”
Hen glanced up at Lord Rothbury’s tall form next to her, his arm offered to her as escort. She hesitated. He had been silent for the carriage ride from Harrow House to the Lindwells’ rented townhouse. Silent even for him, as if something had him quite preoccupied and made it difficult to force his attention back to the discussion at hand. Perhaps it was just as well, as the discussion on their travel to the Lindwells’ had centered on Lord Walkerton and how important it was that Hen behave with utmost propriety this night, given the earl’s intense disdain for even the smallest whiff of scandal. Not that Hen was known for behaving in a scandalous manner—her proposal to him notwithstanding. Though Auntie determined she had much to overcome with that one small act.
Fine, perhaps not so small. Proposing was a rather bold move. Blinding even. Perhaps even more so than the Lindwells’ horrifying choice of décor.
Hen offered Lord Rothbury a brief smile, but did not rest her gaze long upon him as she took his proffered arm and followed behind James and Auntie. They had not spoken since their discussion—for lack of a better word—in the library. In fact, he had removed himself from Harrow House completely, though he’d left Lady Margaret behind. A fact that was not missed by his young daughter.
Lord Rothbury’s displeasure at Hen’s suggestions, his refusal to even attempt to be a kinder, gentler man where his daughter was concerned, disturbed her. His thoughts on how to parent the motherless girl were nothing short of heartbreaking. In the days Hen had spent with Lady Margaret, it was clear the girl was strong-willed and remarkably intelligent, but she was also sweet and kind when treated with warm regard. Surely, if her father would only show Lady Margaret the affection she deserved, he would find her far easier to manage. Hen didn’t understand his reticence in doing so. But harping on the matter this evening would hardly add to the festive air surrounding them. Given he was James’s best friend, she should at least try to make amends, even if he was the one in the wrong. She had spent enough time with her brother to know men did not like to admit such. They preferred the illusion of being correct and in control at all times. As if such a thing were possible.
“You seem somewhat out of sorts this evening, Lord Rothbury.”
She felt his gaze upon her without needing to look up. Sharp and intense, it burned through her with a far different heat than the fire that had branded her skin. She swallowed. What was this strange effect he had on her? And why could she not stop it? The unexpectedness of it left her off balance.
“Do I?”
“Yes, you’ve been rather silent.”
“You think me rude, then?”
His bluntness startled her and she looked up, meeting his gaze. He flashed an unexpected smile. There and then gone, but the impact of it hit her in the chest and rattled her breath. “No, not at all.”
“Surly, then?”
“That seems a bit too harsh.”
He continued to look at her as they walked at a slow pace around the room. The attention they drew—he a future duke and she a visual abomination made Hen shrink into herself a bit more and draw closer to him as if his strong presence could shield her from their judgments.
“Harsh,” he said. “But accurate, as our last conversation would attest. I hope you will forgive me. I fear I was unduly rude when you only meant well.”
His gaze softened and the stormy gray of his eyes calmed. It was the most mesmerizing sight to behold. And heavens, he had the loveliest lashes, though it was his mouth that captured her attention and held it firm. How perfectly formed his lips were. Almost even in their sizing, if stern in their presentation. Would they soften when kissed? The unbidden image tripped her up and Lord Rothbury pulled her closer to steady her. A blush infused her cheeks, burning hot.
“My apologies, I—” She stopped short. She what? Was thinking of what it would be like to kiss him? Yes, by all means, tell him that.
“It appears James has found a seat for Lady Dalridge. Shall I take you to her or would you prefer to take another turn about the room?”
“Oh, to the chairs, I suppose.” Although she would prefer to hide in the nearest corner. All the easier to avoid Lady Susan that way. If there was a potted plant nearby, all the better, though potted plants seemed to be the one thing in short supply in the Lindwell ballroom.
“As you wish, but before we go, might I claim a dance?”
“Oh.” The request sent a thrill from tip to toe, but cooled quickly. He asked only as a courtesy. As James’s closest friend, of course he would do his duty and ensure her dance card did not remain empty. “Yes, of course.”
She held up her wrist and Lord Rothbury took hold of the dance card dangling from the silk ribbon, writing his name within. He was the first to do so, though she suspected Lord Walkerton would fill another spot and James as well. Perhaps if Charlie Elmsley was present, he too might be counted on for a quadrille or two. That should be enough to keep Auntie happy.
“Do you like to dance, Lady Henrietta?” Lord Rothbury asked as he reclaimed her arm and led her toward the chairs her aunt had commandeered in order to watch the goings on with an eagle eye.
“I do, though I do not often have the opportunity to indulge in such.”
“Why is that?”
She looked up and gave him a rueful smile. “I suppose it is partly due to a lack of partners and further hindered by my preference for hiding in dark corners.”
He arched a quizzical eyebrow. “And what is it you are hiding from?”
She held his gaze but said nothing, letting him figure the answer out on his own. It did not take him long.
“My sister.” An underlying anger punctuated his words.
Hen didn’t have an opportunity to answer him as they reached her aunt who sat next to Lady Franklyn and Lady Huntsleigh.
“My dear,” Lady Huntsleigh said, her smile genuine and lovely. “You are an absolute vision this evening. And Lord Rothbury, I have not laid eyes upon you in ages. Will you be in London long? I’m certain my husband will be most happy to see you again.”
Lord Rothbury offered up a polite smile and bent over Lady Huntsleigh’s hand. “I am still aghast that a rascal such as Huntsleigh managed to convince someone so lovely to marry him. And where might I find this husband of yours?”
“Up to no good, I am certain,” she said, giving a warm laugh that made her vibrant red curls bounce around the edges of her face. “I believe he is attempting to coax Lord Hawksmoor into a game of billiards, which is a great folly on his part. I don’t know why Spencer insists on constantly challenging the man. He never wins and I doubt Hawksmoor’s new marital bliss has softened him so much that such will change.”
Lord Rothbury straightened a little too suddenly, though Hen appeared to be the only one who noticed the swift change in him. “Lord Hawksmoor is in London? I thought he had retired to his country estate.”
“He had for a bit, but I think he wanted to give the new Lady Hawksmoor a proper Season, though I do not believe she is as enamored with the idea as he is. Are you well acquainted with the viscount?”
Lord Rothbury shook his head, the edges of his mouth tight. “No, not well.”
“Not that he would admit it if he was,” Hen’s aunt added. “Given Lord Hawksmoor has spent the past six years hiding out in a den of inequity, fleecing the aristocracy. Many are still reticent to warm up to him now that he has returned to Society proper.”
“Now Auntie,” Hen cautioned. “We can hardly consider it fleecing, can we? After all, Hawksmoor did not force the gentlemen to empty
their pockets at the tables, did he? And regardless, he is well reformed now and according to Madalene, attempting to sell the Devil’s Lair to an interested buyer.”
Lord Rothbury’s gaze cut to her. “You know the man well?”
She was interrupted before she could answer.
“I have heard she held him at gunpoint.”
Hen looked away from Lord Rothbury to see Lord Huntsleigh come up behind his wife and rest his hands on her bared shoulders. She reached up and covered one of his hands with hers, the touch as loving as the look they shared. Something in the tenderness exchanged in the simple gesture pulled at Hen. What it must be like to have your husband look at you with unending adoration and to be able to return the sentiment with equal fervor. Sadness swept over her. She would never have that.
Oh, perhaps in time she and Lord Walkerton would develop an affection for each other, or at the very least a sense of comfort or friendship, but it wasn’t the same thing, was it? Still, it was better than nothing. Better than spending the rest of her days alone, watching everyone around her go on with their lives while she…didn’t. Perhaps it wasn’t the kind of love she had dreamed about as a child, but those were the dreams of a young girl who’d had her whole life ahead of her. A girl who still had her beauty intact with a sea of endless possibilities laid out before her.
She wasn’t that girl any longer.
“You held the man at gunpoint?” Lord Rothbury had let go of her arm and now turned to face her, his expression a mix of incredulity and…anger?
“I had no choice. He’d burst into the house ranting and raving.”
“He did what?” Lord Rothbury shook his head as if that would somehow settle his thoughts to the point where things made sense. Given his expression had not changed, however, Hen could only surmise the action was unsuccessful.
“Do not concern yourself,” Auntie said, waving the matter off. “The matter was well in hand and Lady Henrietta was not required to do more than point the thing.”
“Just as well,” Hen said. “I’m quite certain the pistol was not loaded.”
Lord Rothbury stared at her. “Quite certain?”
She shrugged. What else did he want her to say? It wasn’t as if she had checked. There’d been no time and truthfully, she wouldn’t have known how, even if there had been. Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d intended to shoot Lord Hawksmoor. The man wasn’t dangerous; he was simply dangerously in love and had not the first clue on how to go about things in a proper way. Too much time lurking in the darkness, in Hen’s opinion, but he’d come out of it just fine in the end.
Lord Rothbury cleared his throat and turned to Huntsleigh. “Is the viscount still here?”
“Indeed.” Huntsleigh nodded toward the center of the dance floor where people had congregated prior to the first dance beginning. “He and Blackbourne are likely plotting something sinister that will come to no good end without Bowen here to talk sense into them.”
It was easy to find Lord Hawksmoor. Most members of the ton still gave the man a wide berth, save for his closest friends, such as Lord Blackbourne who stood next to him. Then again, Lord Blackbourne had enough scandal in his past to keep pace with the future earl. Two peas in a pod as it were. And Lord Huntsleigh was one to talk about nefarious deeds. The consummate charmer had once been rumored to be having an affair with none other than Lord Rothbury’s stepmother, the Duchess of Franklyn.
Hen smiled at the two handsome men, their dark heads bent together in serious conversation, though unlike Huntsleigh’s claim, she doubted any nefarious deeds were being planned. Both former rakes had reformed themselves quite well. It was amazing what love could do, really.
Another sigh escaped her before she could stop it. She really must cease such silly thoughts. She had charted her course and now that Lord Walkerton had agreed to explore the option she’d offered, there was no turning back. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone else had caught her attention.
Her gaze drifted toward Lord Rothbury but she quickly yanked it away. Heavens, no! He was a friend of the family. She had known him forever, though in truth, she supposed she did not really know him at all. He kept to himself and rarely came to town since before Lady Margaret’s birth seven years previous. The closest she came to spending any time with the future duke was when she had recuperated at Breckenridge, her injuries too severe to allow her to travel beyond that point for several months.
Despite everything she had suffered during that time, his constant presence had given her great comfort. Made her feel safe. She had never expressed as much to him. She’d been too devastated then by her injuries, too grief stricken over the loss of her beloved parents. Too stunned over the fact that her body had been destroyed and her future turned to cinder, left to smolder in the ruins of their family estate.
“If you will excuse me, ladies, I shall excuse myself for the moment and have a word with Lord Hawksmoor.” He turned to Hen. “I shall return shortly to claim my dance.”
“I expect I shall be standing right here where you left me,” she said, as the only other name on her dance card at the moment was James’s and Lord Walkerton had yet to arrive. A pity, really. As much as she did not care to be out in public, she truly did love to dance.
“Nonsense!” Huntsleigh said. “I have it on good authority that you are an expert dancer, Lady Henrietta. I insist you be my partner for the upcoming quadrille. I solemnly promise I will do my best not to trample your toes overmuch.”
“Do not listen to his foolish claims,” Lady Huntsleigh said, glancing up at her husband with an adoration that made Hen’s heart ache. “He is quite agile and only steps upon my toes with every third step.”
“Third?” Huntsleigh appeared aghast, but his clear blue eyes sparkled with humor. “I was certain it was only every fourth. But, my lady, I promise should I tread upon your toes, I shall do so lightly. You will hardly know I was even there. Come, let me sign your card. My lovely wife says it will set the ton on its ear if I dance every single dance with her and therefore must spread my talents about.”
Hen laughed and handed her card over to the charismatic earl. Was it any wonder the ladies of the ton—whether married or single—practically swooned whenever he paid them notice? He had a way about him that could not help but set one at ease, though despite his past roguish behavior, it was clear where and to whom his heart belonged. One could practically reach out a hand and touch the love that surrounded Lord and Lady Huntsleigh, so palpable a thing it was. It made Hen long for things that could not be, and that was a dangerous thing indeed.
She must be content with her lot.
She would be content with her lot.
* * *
Alex led the way to the private study at the end of the hallway, well out of reach of prying eyes or ears. This was not a conversation he cared to have overheard.
“Good God, Rothbury, what is with all the cloak and dagger? Can you not just say your piece and have done with it like a normal person? I promised my wife I would not leave her unattended for long. It turns out she is not enjoying her first Season as much as I had hoped. A frivolous waste of time, she calls it.”
Alex could commiserate with Lady Hawksmoor’s feelings in that regard.
“I do not care to share what I am about to ask you with the rest of the guests, thank you.” He turned to stare at Hawksmoor, or The Hawk, as most of the ton had come to refer to him over the years. The man lurked just beyond the light cast by the fire burning in the hearth so that only its shadows licked the sharp edges of his face. Hardly surprising. Despite his title and wealth, Hawksmoor had spent most of his adult life living in London’s shadowy underworld running the notorious gaming hell, The Devil’s Lair. Despite having recently married and rejoined Society, it seemed he still preferred to remain on its outskirts.
“And what, pray tell do we have to speak of that requires such secrecy? It isn’t as if you owe me money.”
Now that Alex had the man here, he wasn’t quite sure how
to broach the subject. Or how much Hawksmoor knew about his situation. Then again, being the purveyor of secrets that Hawksmoor was, perhaps he knew even more than Alex did.
“It is about Lady Margaret.”
“Your daughter?”
Alex hesitated. Had Hawksmoor stressed the word daughter a bit more than he should have? “Yes. What do you know of her?”
Silence filled the room, the only interruption coming from the crackle and pop of the fire behind him. Warmth pushed against the back of Alex’s legs, but the rest of him remained cold and grew colder still as the quiet between them stretched out.
“I know she is seven years of age. I know she was just shy of her first year when your wife died tragically.”
Alex’s heart pounded against his ribs. “What else?”
Again, silence. Hawksmoor’s expression gave nothing away. Had anyone entered the room at that moment, the two could have been speaking of nothing more innocuous than the weather.
“I know Lady Rothbury did not drown by accident, nor of her own accord. That she was, in fact, murdered.”
The words pierced Alex like a sharp knife. Clean and acute, the extent of the damage unknown until the blade was lifted and the blood began to seep out. For a moment, he struggled to find his breath. His voice. “Do you know who did it?”
“I do,” Hawksmoor said. “As do you.”
Was there any secret in London this man did not have knowledge of? “Do you know why it was done?”
That was the part Alex had never been able to ascertain. Ruth and Hawksmoor’s older brother, Phillip, had carried on an affair beneath Alex’s nose for nearly a year. By the time he discovered its existence, Ruth was already pregnant with the other man’s child and the affair had ended, not of Ruth’s choice. It left Alex only two alternatives—to claim the child as his own or cast both Ruth and the child out, refusing to acknowledge either. He chose the former, for no other reason than to save his family from the scandal turning her out would have caused.
His relief, when the child had been born a girl, was palpable. The loss of Edward, his son and heir, was far too open a wound to even entertain the idea of another taking his place. And a pretender, at that. If the child had been a boy, Alex would never have been able to claim him as his son. That position still belonged to Edward in his heart and he would not hand the title of future duke over to another man’s son.