Had Lady Oxbury and her niece left the ball? He’d looked for them the last ten minutes and had seen no sign of either of them.
David resisted the urge to take out his timepiece once more. He’d been getting far too many interested looks from Alvord’s guests—particularly those of the feminine persuasion; he didn’t wish to cause everyone to speculate why he kept pulling his watch out of his pocket. Best to try for patience. If they hadn’t left—and God, he hoped they hadn’t—they would have to appear in the ballroom eventually.
He stepped to the other side of a ficus tree to avoid a very intent-looking mama and her debutante daughter.
He should not be avoiding them—he should be speaking to them and to all the other ladies in the room. He should not be concentrating on Standen’s daughter. Alex was right—life would be much simpler if he could find a pleasant woman without a history linked to his blasted father.
Yes, he liked Lady Oxbury’s niece’s appearance—Zounds, how he liked her appearance! He was growing shockingly enthusiastic just thinking of her appearance…but he hadn’t met her. She might smell of garlic or have a voice as shrill as a fishmonger’s wife.
He forced himself to look around the ballroom. There were plenty of matrimonial candidates present. They all had two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a quantity of hair arranged in ringlets and curls. Not one made his…ahem…heart leap.
He was as bad as a hound that had caught the scent of a fox. Lady Oxbury’s niece was all he could think about.
If only she weren’t the Earl of Standen’s daughter. Or if only her father were a reasonable man. Did Standen actually blame him for Lady Harriet’s death? Impossible. Many women died in childbirth. Hadn’t Standen’s wife died trying to birth the man’s stillborn heir?
And surely Standen didn’t hold him accountable for his father’s actions? People might think he looked like Luke Wilton, but no one had ever blamed him for causing his parents’ elopement.
He snorted. He could have caused it, he supposed, but he’d always been given to understand he’d yet to be conceived when the young couple had made their dash for the border—though they’d certainly not wasted any time in seeing to his creation.
Or did Standen simply consider him bad seed from bad seed?
Anger coursed through his gut. The bloody fool. If anyone had a right to bear a grudge, it was him—but he didn’t blame Standen for his father’s death. He didn’t blame anyone, though if there were guilt to be apportioned, he’d lay some on the doorstep of Lord Wordham, his mother’s father. If the man hadn’t tried to force his daughter to wed Standen, the whole sorry train of events would not have been put in motion.
He relaxed his jaw, unclenching his teeth. Lord Wordham was dead; it was useless to expend any more anger on him.
He would just have to persuade Standen he was the perfect husband for his daughter. He should be able to do it—he’d lived his entire life proving to the world he was nothing like Luke Wilton.
He allowed himself another glance at his watch. Where could the ladies have gone? There was still no sign of them. He might have to concede defeat for tonight. But he would search for them again at the next gathering. He looked forward to it—and that in itself was something to celebrate. He hadn’t looked forward to anything since his grandparents’ damn carriage accident.
He closed his eyes briefly. He was definitely doing better. He’d finally accepted the fact Grandda and Grandmamma were gone. He’d accepted that he was now baron and needed to attend to those duties—all those duties.
He smiled. And tonight he’d made the next step. He no longer just accepted the need for a wife and heir, he looked forward to winning the wife and getting the heir.
Another debutante and marriage-minded mama were heading his way. He should talk to them; dance with the girl…
He couldn’t. He stepped out the door to the garden.
Where was Grace? Kate scanned the ballroom. Music spilled over her and, despite her need to find her niece, Kate’s heart lifted. She used to love to dance. She watched the couples gliding around the room, waltzing. It was scandalous, men and women touching each other like that. Completely scandalous.
What if the waltz had been danced when she’d had her come-out? What would it have been like to have waltzed with Alex all those years ago?
Regret darkened her heart like the sooty London air. She saw him still standing by the palms. He was looking at her…
She looked away. She had to find Grace. She couldn’t think about Alex and the past.
She couldn’t think about anything else.
She was still beautiful.
Alex took another gulp of champagne. He much appreciated Alvord’s verdant decorating scheme. This vase of flowers, for example, was very strategically placed among the potted palms. His skin-tight breeches left nothing to the imagination, making painfully clear to any casual observer exactly where his imagination had strayed.
Painfully clear, yes—with the emphasis on pain. He had to think of something other than Kate. There was little hope he could ease this ache tonight.
But if he could—
It was very, very fortunate the floral arrangement before him was a splendidly bushy collection of vegetation.
He squeezed his eyes shut briefly, but that didn’t stop the memories. Twenty-three years ago, at a ball given by the previous Duke of Alvord, he’d asked Kate to marry him. He’d known who she was, yet he’d still let himself fall in love with her. He grimaced. Could he have been any more mutton-headed?
No. It was not possible—unless he surpassed himself tonight.
He looked at Kate again. She was standing alone by the windows to the terrace now, fanning herself. Standen’s daughter had vanished.
Tsk, tsk, Kate. You need to be more vigilant. You know what can happen in the duke’s garden.
Madness. He’d taken Kate into Alvord’s garden all those years ago and had asked her to marry him. It had been the only spontaneous, daring thing he’d ever done in his life. She’d said yes, even though, as he learned later, she was already engaged to Oxbury.
And then he had kissed her. It had been a rather chaste kiss. She’d been a virgin, after all, and he, not much more than one.
He smiled slightly. God, how that kiss had haunted him. It had been awkward and short, barely more than a brushing of lips, but full of longing and possibilities. A promise of future passion—a promise sadly unfulfilled. The next morning when he’d called to ask for Kate’s hand, Standen had let him know in no uncertain terms that hell would freeze over before a Wilton would marry a Belmont. Kate had already been packed off to the country.
He hadn’t seen her since—until tonight.
She was a widow now. Perhaps she missed male companionship…
He took another swallow of champagne. He could use some liquid courage.
He’d swear she hadn’t changed at all. She still looked as fragile, as sylphlike, as she had that first Season.
Would she go with him into the garden? Would she let him kiss her again? But this time the kiss he gave her wouldn’t be in the least bit chaste—it would be wet and hot and carnal.
He downed the rest of his champagne, hid the glass in the greenery, and stepped out of the palm fronds. It was time to put his hopes to the test.
Kate looked at the window. The candlelight and dancing couples were reflected splendidly, but as for the terrace outside…She couldn’t see a thing unless she stuck her nose to the glass and cupped her hands around her eyes to block the light from the ballroom.
She