Forgotten Fiancée (London Ladies Book 3) Page 16

  “Lord Radnor, what a surprise-”

  “When did you return to London-”

  “Where have you been-”

  “Would you sign my dance card-”

  Like vultures circling a fresh kill, Miles thought in disgust, his gaze sweeping with derision across their excited faces. He might have had a kind word for them, or even placed his name on a card or two, if not for the fact that the only reason they were fighting for his attention was because of his wealth and title.

  Courtesy of his engagement to Dianna he’d never had to attend a ball as an eligible bachelor before. Tonight was not something to be enjoyed, but rather something to be endured for the sake of his sister; one small penance to be paid in his quest for redemption.

  Suddenly spying a familiar countenance amidst the sea of formally attired strangers, he raised his voice to a dull shout in order to be heard above the squealing melee. “You will have to excuse me ladies,” he said, stepping to the side. “I fear there is an old acquaintance I need to see.” Ignoring their sighs of disappointment and the advance of one particularly bold redhead, he cut across the middle of the ballroom, the heels of his boots drilling with military precision against the marble floor. All around him couples swirled in graceful unison beneath a half dozen glittering chandeliers while music played and champagne flowed freely.

  The mood was light, the laughter plentiful. After being kept isolated in their country estates for six long months, the members of the ton were more than ready to partake in a bit of celebration.

  Catching sight of Harper standing in a far corner beside a long line of chairs occupied by dejected looking wallflowers, Miles frowned and started to veer in her direction, only to come to an abrupt halt when he saw her gesture to two of the girls. They stood up, and within moments were involved in an animated discussion, the topic of which brought smiles to all three of their faces. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Miles felt one of the knots in his stomach begin to slowly loosen. If nothing came of this evening other than Harper making some friends of similar age and interest, he would consider it a great success.

  “I say there Radnor, is that you? By God it is!”

  Turning when he felt a hand clamp down heartily on his shoulder, Miles couldn’t help but grin as he found himself face to face with an old childhood companion. “Hemsworth, how the bloody hell have you been?”

  “I could ask the same of you.” Short and stoutly built with bullish features and a perpetual grin, Lionel Hemsworth, a viscount of considerable holdings, grabbed Miles’ other shoulder and gave him a hard, good-natured shake. “I’d heard you were back, but refused to believe it until I saw your ugly mug with my own two eyes. Damn, but is good to see you again!”

  “And you as well, my friend.”

  With a disbelieving shake of his head Hemsworth gave Miles one last slap on the shoulder before he rocked back and crossed his arms, straining the stitching on his black tailcoat. “Finally grow weary of living life as a free man and decided to return to the shackles of society, eh?”

  “Something like that,” Miles acknowledged. In due time he would share his experiences, but tonight was neither the time, nor the place. Looking to change the subject, he mustered a grin and said, “I must say, I never thought I would see the day Lionel Hemsworth attended a ball of his own free will.”

  “My wife adores them. A bit of a social butterfly, that one, and being the jealous sort I never like to let her out of my sight for long, especially with all these randy bucks milling about.”

  “Your wife?” Had Hemsworth told him he’d given up all his worldly possessions and become a member of the clergy Miles could not have been more shocked. In all the years they’d spent growing up together Hemsworth had never expressed an interest marriage. If anything he’d been adamantly opposed to the notion; his steady stream of mistresses unending. ‘Bedded but never going to be wedded’ had been his saying of choice, and one of his favorite pastimes had been ribbing Miles for being engaged.

  “Aye. Married two years this April.” His expression inexplicably softening, Hemsworth nodded towards a petite brunette standing several yards away. The sudden light in his brown eyes was so foreign and unexpected it took Miles several seconds before he recognized it for what it was.

  Love.

  Not the kind couples feigned when they wanted to put on a show for their peers, but genuine, down to the soul, true love.

  As though she could sense the weight of her husband’s gaze upon her, Lady Hemsworth turned in their direction.

  She was pretty, Miles observed, delicately so, with dark hair swept tidily back from her face and a sweet, shy smile. Mouthing a silent hello, she blushed bright pink when Hemsworth blew her a kiss. Giving him a stern look, she returned her attention to her circle of friends, but not before blowing Hemsworth a discreet kiss in return.

  Witnessing their open adoration of one another, Miles felt a queer tightening at the back of his throat, making it difficult to swallow. “You seem, ah, quite fond of each other,” he managed gruffly, tugging at his cravat. When had it gotten so bloody warm? The air was suffocating, and high on his forehead a sheen of perspiration began to form.

  “I love her,” Hemsworth said unabashedly. “I swear the moment I saw her I knew then and there she was the one. Took a bit more convincing on her part, but there you have it. I say, you’re looking a bit pale, Radnor.”

  Being forced to come face to face with what could have been his own present but for one selfish mistake in his past, Miles felt more than pale. “I do not like these things,” he said, gesturing vaguely over Hemsworth’s shoulder to where dozens of couples were dancing in a blinding blur of color. “Too many people.”

  His friend snorted. “You don’t have to tell me. As I said, if not for Victoria you wouldn’t catch me within ten leagues of a ballroom. Here. This will put a bit of color back in your face and some hair on your chest to boot.” After a furtive glance to the side - no doubt to make certain his wife was not watching - Hemsworth slid a sterling flask out of his coat pocket and pressed it into Miles’ hand.

  Tipping the flask up to his mouth, Miles took a liberal swallow and immediately felt his throat ignite. “Hell,” he gasped, shoving the flask back towards Hemsworth. “What is that?”

  “Scottish whisky,” Hemsworth said with a grin. “Good, eh?”

  While it was certainly something, ‘good’ wasn’t the choice adjective Miles would have used. As a man who rarely imbibed in spirits, he preferred a dark wine over brandy and almost never touched whisky, particularly the Scottish kind which was stronger than most, not to mention illegal. “It is… potent.”

  “Aye.” Hemsworth’s eyes twinkled as he tucked the flask away and gave his pocket a pat. “It is that. Let’s go outside for a bit. The fresh air will do us both some good.” Looping an arm over Miles’ broad shoulders, he steered them out of the ballroom and onto one of the side terraces. Long and narrow with wicker chairs set on either end and a glass topped table in the middle, it overlooked the elaborate gardens for which Lady Farcott was renowned. It was said no other London residence held their equal, and it was easy for Miles to see why.

  Illuminated by hanging lanterns that swung lightly in the air courtesy of a faint breeze, the gardens were an intricately planned maze of twisting walkways and ivy covered stone walls. Gentlemen stood casually conversing around a life sized marble fountain that spat out water in a shower of drops, while further in the shadows couples huddled together on wooden benches, their voices hushed as they dared far more than they would have inside a crowded ballroom.

  Sitting down, Hemsworth procured a thin metal box from his other coat pocket, leaving Miles to wonder exactly how many vices his friend had picked up during the past four years.

  “Snuff?” he offered, tapping the box briskly against his palm before flipping open the lid, allowing the strong scent of tobacco to waft into the air. When Miles shook his head, Hemsworth shrugged, took a pinch of snuff, and inhaled it up bo
th nostrils with barely a grimace. “So tell me what brings you here tonight, old friend.”

  Resting his forearms on the iron fence that wrapped around the edge of the terrace, Miles stared broodingly out into the dark. “Harper was in need of a chaperone.”

  “Your little sister? The hell you say! She cannot be old enough for a season debut.”

  “She should have made her debut last year,” Miles admitted. “And she would have, if I had been here.”

  In the silence that followed his somber statement Hemsworth exhaled heavily, the wicker chair groaning beneath his weight as he leaned back. “You’re here now. That is all that matters. If there is one thing I’ve learned, it’s that you can’t change the past. You left. You came back. What’s done is done. No use dwelling on it.”

  Easier to say than do, Miles thought silently, but he appreciated his friend’s candid advice nevertheless. “Are you and your wife remaining in London for the entirety of the Season?” he asked, glancing at Hemsworth over his shoulder.

  “Bloody hell I hope not. Victoria has family in Scotland she wants to visit. Cousins of some sort.”

  Noting his friend’s pained expression, Miles felt his mouth crack into the smallest of grins. “I take you and the in-laws are not on the best of terms?”

  Hemsworth shuddered. “God no. They think I’m a womanizing drunkard not fit to lick Victoria’s shoes, let alone be her husband.”

  “And yet her father gave you permission to marry?” Miles asked, one brow lifting.

  “Not precisely.” Having the good grace to look a bit sheepish, Hemsworth explained, “We eloped. Still not sure how I did it, to be honest, but somehow I convinced her to run off with me to Gretna Green.” He scratched his jaw. “May be a few years yet before her family comes round and decides to forgive me.”

  “Or a few decades,” Miles said dryly.

  “Aye. Although I cannot-”

  A woman’s scream, high and shrill, sliced through the night air. Miles’ head whipped around, hands bracing on the terrace railing as every muscle in his body tensed.

  “Do you know,” Hemsworth said thoughtfully, “that almost sounded like-”

  “Dianna.” Vaulting over the table in one easy leap, Miles bolted for the door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “You have the most beautiful eyes I have ever seen. They are like a lazy summer sky after a drenching rainfall.”

  Dianna looked up at the man with whom she was dancing and blinked in confusion. “You think I have a lazy eye?”

  “No,” he said hastily. His own eyes - the color of which most closely resembled mud, Dianna thought, although she would never so rude as to state her opinion out loud - widened in alarm. “No, not at all, Miss Foxcroft.”

  “But you said-”

  “What I meant to say is that your eyes are a lovely shade of blue.”

  “Oh. Well.” Her nose wrinkled. “Why not simply say as much?”

  “I was trying to sound poetic,” he admitted, and for the first time since she’d step foot onto the ballroom floor, Dianna found her lips curving in a genuine smile.

  “That is very sweet of you, but perhaps it is best if you avoid poetry at all costs.”

  “Not very good at it, am I?”

  “Horrible, really.”

  As the last strains of the waltz faded away and the couples surrounding them stepped apart from one another and clapped politely, Dianna’s dance partner retained his position, one hand gently supporting the small of her back while the other held her gloved fingers in a soft but steady grip. “You are refreshingly honest.”

  “And you, Lord…. Ah…”

  “Mr. Thomas Readington,” he said kindly.

  Dianna’s cheeks flushed with color. “Mr. Readington, I apologize-”

  “There is no need.” Releasing her, Readington took a step back and dipped into a formal bow. “I rather thought you were distracted through the entirety of our waltz. This only confirms my worst fears.”

  “Which are?” Dianna asked hesitantly.

  “That I am completely and utterly forgettable,” he said with a rueful shake of his head.

  “Oh no,” she protested, feeling a pang of guilt as she realized her growing indifference to the evening’s festivities had finally begun to reveal itself.

  Within two hours of arriving, Dianna’s excitement over attending the first ball of the Season began to wane, replaced by a growing sense of melancholy she couldn’t quite seem to get rid of. For no matter how many men asked her to dance - and her card had not lacked for signatures - none of them had piercing green eyes or a wolfish grin that caused her to go weak in the knees. None of them made her laugh. None of them made her cheeks flush with annoyance… and desire. In short, none of them were Miles Radnor - for which she was both vastly grateful and frustratingly disappointed.

  “I do not find you forgettable at all, Mr. Readington. Quite the contrary.” It was true. While she may have at first overlooked Thomas Readington for nothing about his brown hair, brown eyes, medium build, and polite manner made him any more memorable than the other men she’d danced with, she found his self-deprecation rather charming. “Would you care to step outside for a breath of fresh air?” she asked impulsively. “It seems to be getting quite warm in here.”

  Surprise registered on Readington’s countenance, followed quickly by an eager smile that brought to mind an obedient puppy wagging its tail. “I would indeed, Miss Foxcroft. I hear Lady Farcott’s gardens are quite a sight to behold. Perhaps you might enjoy seeing them by moonlight?”

  “That sounds lovely.” And precisely what was needed to salvage the night from being a complete and utter disaster. Searching for her mother’s face amidst a gathering of older women who were watching their young charges with hawk like attention, Dianna caught her gaze and nodded ever-so-slightly towards the French doors leading out of the ballroom. After giving Readington a thorough once over, Martha inclined her chin in silent permission. Readington may not have been titled, but it was clear by the well-tailored cut of his jacket and the fashionable styling of his hair - not too long, nor too short - that he was a man of wealth and substance. In short, the sort of man Martha saw her daughter marrying.

  Dianna and Readington walked side by side out onto the terrace. A wave of cool air greeted them. Goosebumps broke on Dianna’s exposed arms, but she didn’t mind. After dancing in the ballroom for what felt like hours the slight chill was a welcome respite. Their breaths formed tiny plumes of smoke in the air as they exhaled. The night was clear. The stars bright.

  “Are you cold?” Readington asked, eyebrows jutting together in concern. “Would you like me to fetch your cloak?”

  “I am fine,” Dianna said, dismissing his solicitude with an errant wave of her hand. “Would you care to start off by going to the left or the right?”

  Directly in front of them were two curving walkways divided by a stone fountain. Potted plants encircled its base, dark green leaves shining in the moonlight.

  Readington extended his arm. “I defer to you, Miss Foxcroft.”

  After only the tiniest of hesitations Dianna rested her fingers on the black sleeve of his waistcoat. How odd it felt to walk beside another man… odd, and yet somehow right all at the same time. Though she had only known Readington for a matter of minutes, she instinctively knew he was a gentleman through and through. He would never argue with her. Never make her want to pull out her hair. Never touch her without permission. Never leave her on the day of their wedding.

  How boring, part of her thought, while the other part promptly replied, how safe.

  “Let’s go to the left,” she said, looking up at Readington with a smile. He readily agreed and they began a leisurely stroll through the meticulously tended gardens, their path lit intermittently by hanging glass lanterns.

  “How is it I have not seen you at a ball before?” Readington queried as they stepped to the side to admire a sprawling display of vibrant aspers. A flower that thrived well i
nto the evening hours, the aspers were still in full bloom and Dianna blushed prettily when Readington plucked one of the larger buds and held it out to her. “For you,” he said quietly, his brown eyes searching her face.

  Accepting the flower, she twirled it absently between her thumb and pointer finger, gaze cutting away from Readington’s steady stare as she struggled to come up with an answer to his question. “Well,” she hedged, “I suppose I have not had a reason to attend one until now.”

  “I am glad you choose the Farcott ball to be your first.”

  “I am as well,” Dianna said. With a vague sense of bewilderment she realized it was the truth. Strolling with Readington through the gardens was… enjoyable. More than that, it was pleasant. He was pleasant, and while Readington may not have ignited the same burst of desire inside of her that Miles always did, the slow, steadily growing flicker of attraction she felt for him was far more comfortable and easily managed.

  Tucking the asper into the bodice of her ball gown - the blue with the pearls, just as her mother had wanted - she boldly wrapped both hands around Readington’s forearm. Seemingly unable to stop herself from comparing him to the only other man she had touched in such an intimate manner, however, Dianna could not help but note the muscles beneath her fingertips were considerably less defined than Miles’ and immediately felt a surge of guilt.

  It was a good thing Readington did not compare to Miles. What need did she have for another suitor like the one she’d had? Another man with more arrogance than kindness. One capable of hurting her as she never wanted to be hurt again. One who brought out the worst in her instead of the best. Readington made her want to act like a lady, while Miles… well, around Miles she found herself acting in a distinctly unladylike fashion.

  One glance at Readington’s kindly face told her he would never do what Miles had done and even though she might never feel the depth of passion for a man like Readington as she had for Miles, she would also never feel the despondency of complete and utter despair.