Taking a deep breath, she clasped her hands together. They were safer that way. ‘Well, I should return. My party will wonder where I have disappeared to and hopefully the air inside will have cleared.’ She smiled at him and moved away from the balustrade. ‘Thank you for showing me the stars. I can truly say I was not bored in the least.’
He bowed, and when he raised his head she caught the laughter in his eyes. ‘I am glad. I was not bored either. I hope you will find some pleasure in what is left of your evening.’
She curtsied in return and walked to the doors leading back to the drawing room. As she reached the threshold she couldn’t help glancing at him over her shoulder. When their eyes met she lowered her head, and attempted to hide her satisfied smile.
* * *
From the moment she’d left his side it had been impossible for Julian to look away from her. If he had looked away he might have missed that one last glance she’d given him before she entered the house. It didn’t matter that she had caught him staring like an untried boy. That last look had told him everything. She wanted him just as much as he wanted her.
Pulling his shoulders back and crossing his arms, he tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. The novelty of knowing that this woman desired him without knowing his prominent position in Society was exhilarating. Her lemon scent lingered in the air, and Julian took in a deep breath while leaning his lower back on the balustrade.
This night was turning out to be far from tedious after all.
‘Now, that’s quite odd. It almost appears as if you are smiling. But I know that can’t be, because while I’m returning from a pleasurable time spent in the garden you, my friend, are all alone.’
Lord Phineas Attwood, the Earl of Hartwick, sauntered up the terrace steps. He was dressed all in black except for his crisp white shirt. The knot of his cravat appeared askew, and a lock of black hair was draped over his right eye. He ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to comb the lock back into place. It was no use.
Stopping next to Julian, he also crossed his arms over his chest and followed Julian’s gaze to the French doors. ‘Does she have a name?’
‘Who?’
‘Whoever she is that has caught your interest.’
Julian closed his eyes and with an exasperated sigh turned his attention from the doors to his friend. ‘What makes you think it’s a woman?’
Hart raised both brows. ‘Come, now, I always tell you what has put a smile on my face. We can compare notes. I’ll tell you about my lady, and you tell me about your lady.’
‘There is nothing to tell.’
‘Very well—I’ll start. Margaret has the most amazing mouth. She can—’
‘You were in the garden with Lady Shepford?’ Julian closed his eyes. ‘You are mad. Not two hours ago you took over two hundred pounds from Shepford at cards, and now you take his wife.’
‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ Hart replied, adjusting his cuff. ‘I can’t help if she finds me irresistible, and he is positively unlucky tonight. It was impossible not to win his money.’
‘One day some husband is going to challenge you, and I have no desire to be your second.’
‘I am aware that you believe widows are preferable, but I’m not you. Married ladies are infinitely preferable to unmarried ones. At least they aren’t fishing for a title. Honestly, you worry for nothing. My coach is always at the ready, and I’m very competent with pistols and swords.’ He pushed himself off the balustrade. ‘I’m bored—let’s go to White’s. Stop scowling. You look like my old tutor.’
Julian shook his head. There was no reason to stay. He would have enjoyed spending more time with the American woman. Had she been a member of the ton he would have re-entered the Ambassador’s townhouse and immediately sought an introduction. Unfortunately, with the responsibility of his title, a relationship with an American was not possible.
When he married again it would be to an Englishwoman of prominent lineage—just as his ancestors before him and just as he had done before. Respectable English noblemen did not marry American women.
Why was he even thinking of marriage? Hart was right. It was time to leave.
Reading the Morning Chronicle should not be so difficult. Katrina had done it every morning since she and her father had arrived in London a few weeks ago. However, today she was finding it impossible to read even one article—and it was all because of that English gentleman she had talked with out on the terrace the previous evening.
The dining room in the house her father had leased in Mayfair was quiet except for the occasional tinkling of a Wedgwood cup hitting a saucer and the crinkling of paper as her father turned a page of the document the American Minister had sent over.
Feeling frustrated by her lack of concentration, Katrina pushed the newspaper aside and reached for a piece of toast from the silver rack in front of her. As she began spreading honey on the bread she couldn’t help but smile recalling their conversation for the hundredth time since last night.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She was not attracted to Englishmen—at least she hadn’t been until last night. Most of those she had met since arriving in London had been proud, patronising and too self-possessed for her taste. But this gentleman had appeared to be none of those things. He hadn’t even made any foolish comments about her being American. On a night that had begun so poorly he had managed to make her laugh and forget about the pain in her foot. And she couldn’t deny that being close to him had made her heart race.
Honey began to drip through her fingers, and Katrina shook her head as she licked away the sticky sweetness. How long would it be until she saw him again? Once he obtained a proper introduction they’d be able to speak openly, and she would finally know his name. He might even ask her to waltz.
While she had no desire to tie herself to an English gentleman, spending time in that man’s company during the various social engagements she was obligated to attend while she was in London would be an excellent diversion.
Smiling to herself, Katrina returned her attention to the newspaper and tried to concentrate on reading it one last time.
* * *
In another part of Mayfair, in a much larger house, Julian walked out of his suite of rooms and rubbed his pounding forehead. He needed more sleep. Several times during the night he had awoken from vivid dreams about the American woman. Now this lack of sleep left him very irritable—and very frustrated. What he needed was a quiet, peaceful morning.
From the sounds drifting out through the doorway of his breakfast room, there was little hope of that happening.
Crossing the threshold, he noted his mother and grandmother were deep in conversation at the elegantly set table. Grasping at his last few moments of peace, Julian passed the livery-clad footmen on his way to the mahogany Sheraton sideboard and filled his plate. The smell of ham made his stomach growl, making him realise how hungry he was. The moment he sat down coffee was poured into a porcelain cup.
Just as he was about to bring the aromatic liquid to his lips, the chatter around him stopped. His mother’s sharp eyes were focused on him, and Julian cursed himself for not taking breakfast in his study.
‘Good morning, Lyonsdale,’ she said, while refolding a note that had been lying open next to her plate. ‘How was the Ambassador’s ball?’
‘It was a crush, as usual, but surprisingly tolerable.’
‘And Lady Wentworth? Did she enjoy the evening?’
Julian