Edgington followed them. They entered the ballroom, and the whirl enveloped him, hundreds of people in a too small room, but the lure of the feather atop her head was too great.
The feather stopped. Pushing through the crowd, he saw her friend had greeted someone, temporarily leaving her to her own devices. A polite smile on her face, she looked about the ballroom, her smile brightening every now and then.
Hidden in the crowd, he watched her. Now, it was obvious why he’d come to the ball—for the slight chance he would see her.
He’d heard about her return. It had been in all the papers, the triumphant return of Viscount Hargrove’s sister. They’d been full of her exploits on the Continent, the countries she’d seen, the society she’d kept. Each article he’d devoured, unable to keep the distance he maintained with everyone else, but then, that was nothing new. He’d never been able to distance himself from her.
Ten years since he’d seen her, and she hadn’t changed. Maybe she was a bit older, her hair a bit more gold, but she still looked as she did when he was a callow youth of twenty-one and more than a little infatuated. He remembered every curve of her face, the softness of her skin. The way her mouth moved under his.
Her gaze wandered to the dancing, and a wistful kind of smile occupied her face. His pulse a thunder in his ears, he wanted, quite stupidly, to ask her to dance.
Closing his eyes briefly, he shook himself. As if she would say yes. If he were to approach her, the smile would disappear from her features, as would all emotion. He knew. He’d seen it happen before.
Her gaze moved again and their eyes locked.
For a moment, a split second, her smile remained, and he had an insane hope that all had been forgiven, that, perhaps, he could approach her. Then, all expression bled from her face, and she regarded him coolly, her joy in the evening gone.
His heart sank. He’d known she’d react so, though a part of him had hoped he’d been wrong. A part of him had hoped he could approach her, could ask her to dance, could ask for her hand.
But, of course, he couldn’t. She was Sofia Hargrove. The girl he’d ruined.
SOFIE STARED AT VISCOUNT March. He had changed in the past ten years. His golden hair used to riot about his head in a tumble of curls, but now dark blond strands were clipped close to his head and slicked with pomade. His dress was sober, too, unrelieved black with a snowy white cravat, as if he knew such clothing would frame his pale skin, wide shoulders, and slim hips. His eyes would still be gray, not that she could see that from here, nor would she ever wish to confirm it. She’d be quite happy never to speak to him again, and thus forever be in ignorance if his eyes were the same shade of gray she, to her great disgust, still remembered.
The viscount—no. He must be the earl now. The Earl of Edgington. She’d read of his father’s death in the English newspapers in Vienna … or was it Prague? Wherever it had been, she’d skipped over news of him and very deliberately turned the page.
The earl stared at her. Sofie resisted the urge to check her hair and then cursed herself for even thinking it. She’d known she’d come across him eventually. The three weeks she’d been in London, she’d held her breath, certain she would turn a corner and there he’d be. Every time she’d attended a ball or a dance, the theater, even walking in the park she’d thought she’d see him. When she hadn’t, she’d foolishly allowed herself to believe she would never see him, that maybe she would pass this time in London without encountering him again, visiting her family and friends before returning to the Continent and the life she had built for herself
More fool her.
“Sofie, what are you staring at?”
Diana’s voice pulled Sofie from the earl to discover her friend regarding her, a crease between her brows.
Arranging a bright smile across her features, Sofie said, “Nothing. This ball is such a crush, isn’t it?”
Diana was not so easily dissuaded, however, and Sofie knew the precise instant her friend discovered who had captured her attention. Anger soured Diana’s expression as she glared at the earl. “What’s he doing here?”
A wave of love swept her. The hostility in Diana’s words spoke of her loyalty more than anything else could. “To be fair, it’s the biggest ball of the season. I’d be surprised if he weren’t here.”
Diana scowled. “There is no fair about it.” Her expression softened. “Sofie, are you well?”
Her smile turned bitter. “As well as can be. It was bound to happen sooner or later. I am only surprised it has not happened before now.”
“I should scratch his eyes out.”
Diana’s fierce declaration startled a laugh from Sofie. “I should think you would have to join the queue.”
“Well, point it out to me.” Diana looked at her, her expression stricken. “He took you from me, Sof. You weren’t even here for my wedding to Stephen. Why shouldn’t I scratch his eyes out? Besides, he hurt you.”
Sofie swallowed. He had hurt her. Ridiculous that she still felt the stab of it. “I survived, but I would not talk to him again, not for all the tea in China.”
“You can’t tell me you enjoyed the past ten years fully. You cannot tell me you didn’t resent having to leave England under such a cloud.”
“No, I don’t, but I cannot regret those years either.” It had started badly, it was true, but in the past ten years, she’d had more adventure and seen more wonders than she’d ever thought possible. “Where is Stephen?”
Diana waved her hand. “Somewhere. He can do well enough without me. I’m more concerned about you.” Her eyes lit. “No, I will get him. It’s time someone thrashed that man for what he did. Don’t worry; Stephen will set things right.”
Sofie concealed her smile as Diana hurried off, scowling at those daft enough to get in her way. Diana seemed to think Stephen could do anything, which was sweet in his context as Diana’s husband but vastly disturbing when he was one’s brother. She remembered quite clearly frogs in beds, dunkings in ponds, and roof-raising fights over who would get the blue croquet mallet.
The earl still stared at her. Smile dying, she looked elsewhere. She didn’t want to think about that time ten years ago, but she could think of nothing else.
She’d been so thrilled when the scandalous Viscount March had paid her attention. She’d heard all the whispers about him, about his dissolute reputation, the wild escapades, the daring wagers. She and Diana had debated endlessly what it meant when the viscount had met her gaze across a ballroom. When he’d finally approached her at the refreshment table, she’d just about expired on the spot. They exchanged words, and then he’d touched her. Nothing overt, a single brush of his smallest finger against hers as their hands rested on the refreshment table, but it had been enough to tumble her headlong into infatuation.
When he’d asked her to meet him in the garden, she’d rushed to say yes. It had been foolhardy, but she’d been seventeen and giddy with her first season. Their first meeting, she’d thought he would grab her, do wicked things, but instead, he’d simply … talked.
Over the next months in the darkened gardens of society, she’d grown to know him. She’d discovered his wit and his humor, the emotion he hid under a mask. He shared himself with her, and she did the same with him. She told him of her desire to travel, her interest in architecture, how her mother drove her insane.
The whispers changed during those months, of how the scandalous Viscount March was suddenly not so scandalous, how he attended society functions and acted with, if not quite politeness, then at least civility. She’d been smug, knowing it was because of her, and she, foolish child that she’d been, had tumbled headlong into love.
Then had come the Silverton’s ball, and everything had gone horribly wrong.
She hadn’t meant to kiss him. They’d been in Silverton’s garden, and he’d said something unbearably romantic about the stars. He�
�d been surprised at first, but then his hand tightened at her waist, he’d pulled her into him, and she’d melted. She had been kissed before, but never the way he had. Never with such passion, as if he’d die if he didn’t taste her. As she’d die without him.
Of course, they were caught. For months they’d met without incident, but the one time, the one time they’d kissed, Lady Harrison, Lady Violat, and Mrs. Wilding, the worst gossips in society, had seen them.
It had spread like wildfire, that Viscount March and Miss Hargrove had been caught in a torrid embrace. She’d stubbornly clung to the hope that he would make everything right, that he loved her as she loved him, but when he hadn’t arrived at her home, when he hadn’t paid his addresses to her father, she’d realized she was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.
Six days after they’d been caught, she’d packed her trunk, taken her maid, and set sail for France. Stephen had been touring the Continent, wreaking havoc on the unsuspecting people of Paris. Her brother had been horrified at the arrival of his younger sister at his hotel, but once he’d finished his shouting, he’d taken her in. The fact that she’d promptly burst into tears upon the end of his tirade had probably gone a ways to convincing him. He’d been so flustered to see her upset he’d caved to any suggestion she made, including that she join him for the remainder of his tour.
At first, their parents had been furious she’d seen fit to decamp. They’d demanded she return home, but when weeks had stretched into months and then years, they’d relented. She’d stayed abroad longer than intended, well after Stephen had returned to England, but there’d been nothing for her in London. Those years on the Continent had been kind to her, and she couldn’t regret it.
But she regretted him. The viscount. Bitterly.
“Miss Hargrove.”
Her shoulders tensed. He wouldn’t.
Slowly, with the fervent wish she’d misheard, she turned. Her stomach dropped, and her skin flushed as fury sped through her.
She hadn’t misheard.
The Earl of Edgington stood before her. “Miss Hargrove,” he said again, his rich, deep voice just as she remembered. “You have returned.”
A wave of emotion hit her, so tangled she couldn’t separate one from the hundreds. Did he truly expect her to respond?
No reaction crossed his features at her deliberately rude lack of response, but then he was an unfeeling automaton, wasn’t he? She had been the imbecile who’d imagined emotion behind that impassive gaze. Well, no longer. She knew his measure now, and she had no desire to renew their acquaintance.
She noted, quite insanely, his eyes were the same gray.
A hush surrounded them, as society noticed the Earl of Edgington was addressing Miss Hargrove. Whispers began, and she could imagine what they said, as they repeated the scandal to those who didn’t know, as they wondered if she would be so stupid as to believe his lies once more.
Cheeks burning, she lifted her chin. She wouldn’t allow such whispers to affect her. Not again.
Finally, the earl spoke. “Miss Hargrove, would you honor me with a dance?”
Fury exploded. Trembling with it, she clenched her fists as she fought to control herself.
He stood there with his impassive face and tall body and thought he could treat her as if nothing had ever happened? As if she had not been forced to leave this country, her home, because of his actions? A voice whispered she was not wholly blameless, but she ignored it.
Drawing herself to her full height, she poured every bit of anger she felt into her response, the only response she could possibly give. “No.”
Then she spun on her heel and left.
LEFT STANDING IN THE middle of the ballroom, Edgington watched as Miss Hargrove—as Sofie—stormed off. She did not look back, quickly becoming lost in a crowd that tittered, gossiped, and stared.
Once he could no longer see the green feather adorning Sofie’s hair, he turned his attention to the shocked, thrilled faces before him. They’d given the gossips much to discuss tonight, and no doubt by tomorrow the tale of how Miss Hargrove gave the Earl of Edgington the cut direct would be all over town.
Lifting his brows, he stared them down. Most dropped their gaze, and those that didn’t appeared suitably cowed. Satisfied, he took his leave of the ballroom, finding an empty chamber so he could let the façade slip.
Running a hand over his face, he exhaled. God. Sofie.
She was even more beautiful now than she’d been ten years ago. Her hair looked as silky as he remembered it; his fingers itched to bury themselves in the strawberry-blonde tresses. The smattering of freckles across her nose was the same, and she no longer attempted to disguise them with powder, which he found unbearably erotic. She’d held herself proudly, as if daring him to do his worst, and then she had cut him and carried herself away like a queen.
He’d wanted nothing more than to haul her against him and cover her mouth with his.
It was the same as ten years ago, the same rush of emotion clamoring through him. She made him feel … The feelings were so big, he didn’t know how to describe them. And he wanted her. Damn, how he wanted her.
That last night, he’d been desperate for her. They’d never kissed, never even so much as touched inappropriately, but he’d wanted to. Had been drowning in desire for her. Unused to restraint, he’d kept his baser instincts under ruthless control, terrified of scaring her with the strength of his passion. Then, she’d leaned over, her eyes sparkling, and her lips had brushed his so hesitantly. He couldn’t have contained himself after that.
It had all gone spectacularly wrong. They’d been caught, and he should have convinced the gossips they saw nothing, should have used his privilege to ensure they spoke not at all. Instead, he’d been so caught up in Sofie he’d let them leave, and within moments Sofie’s father had arrived to drag her away. From there, it had only been a matter of hours before it was the talk of the ton.
The next morning, he’d dressed to call upon her. He’d even gotten as far as her street before doubt crashed over him. What was he doing? He would ruin her, as he’d ruined everything else in his life. Panic had screamed through him, and he’d turned on his heel and left. He’d done her a favor, he told himself. She could not want him as a husband, not the disreputable Viscount March. When he’d heard she’d left for the Continent, he’d been certain he’d been correct. She was better off without him, and look how the years bore truth to his words.
Linking his hands behind his neck, he stared at nothing. He wasn’t better without her. He’d always known that.
A sudden thought occurred. Why wouldn’t she let him talk to her? It had been ten years. Surely, her anger should have faded by now, enough to listen to him at least. True, he’d been the wicked Viscount March and the blame for their disgrace could be laid upon him, but she’d agreed to meet him. She’d kept meeting him. She’d kissed him.
He needed to talk to her.
Turning, he left the room. She wasn’t in the ballroom or any of the retiring rooms. She wasn’t in the banquet hall or the foyer or anywhere else in the house.
Exhaling, he looked out the window of one of the dozens of rooms she wasn’t in. Would she really go into the garden? It was freezing out there, the sky threatening snow … but she’d always loved the gardens.
Procuring his coat and his gloves from a passing footman, he set out into the night. The cold hit him as soon as he passed through the door, slithering along the collar of his coat and pushing against his skin. Devoid of people, silence hung over the garden, a heavy expectation in the air … or maybe it was his own thoughts that made it seem so.
Deep in the garden, deep enough the lights of the house had faded, he found her. Her back to him, Sofie gazed out over the Thornton’s gardens, the emerald green of her gown a strip of color against the darkness of her cloak.
Stealing himself, Edgington approached h
er. “You always did like a garden at night.”
Sofie’s shoulders stiffened. She didn’t reply.
Standing next to her, he laced his hands behind him. They stood silent, the faint strains of a waltz wrapping around them.
Finally, she spoke. “Why are you here?”
His heart sank at the derision in her tone. “I wished to speak with you.”
“I do not wish to speak with you. Surely that was obvious.”
“It was.” How could he get through to her? “I wanted—”
She whirled around. “And your desires are more important than mine? Your wants? I do not want to speak with you. I want to be left alone. I am in England for two months, and I want that time to be pleasant.”
Two months? She needed to let him speak with her. She needed—
With a sound of frustration, she made to turn on her heel. His brain shut down and, panic rushing through him, he grabbed her arm.
Immediately, her expression closed. “Remove your hand.”
The coldness of her voice chilled him more than the winter night. Immediately, he let her go. “My apologies, Miss Hargrove. It was not my intention—”
She laughed without mirth. “It never is.”
“It was not my intention,” he continued, ignoring the thread of annoyance her dismissal caused, “to deprive you of autonomy. I only ask …” He paused. How to say? “I should like to explain.”
“I should think we are past the stage of explanation, Lord March.” As if realizing her error, she flushed. “I beg your pardon. Lord Edgington.”
“Nonetheless,” he said, persevering despite her glare. “I should like to explain. You did not allow me the opportunity before.”
“I did not allow you?” she said. “I did not allow you? How, sir, was I to allow you when I was dragged off by my father, half-dressed and humiliated? Was I to allow you when you did not call upon me? When you did not, in fact, seek me out at all? Tell me, sir, when was I to allow you anything?” Her lips twisted bitterly. “I believe I allowed you enough.”
SECOND CHANCES: A ROMANCE WRITERS OF AMERICA® COLLECTION Page 4