‘I accepted my responsibility,’ he said, looking his grandmother in the eye and raising his chin.
‘Yes, you did—quite well, I might add. To my knowledge you never questioned your father’s decision.’
‘You know I could not cry off, even if I had wanted to. A man does not break an engagement. It is not done.’
She leaned in. ‘But would you have done so if you could?’
If he had, Emma would still be alive today.
He took a large swig of brandy. ‘I knew how important it was to have an exemplary woman share the Lyonsdale name. Father made an appropriate choice in Emma. There was no reason to protest.’
‘And yet even though you accepted their choice the spark in your eyes you had as a child went out when you made your vows, and it has not returned since. You need to find that spark again.’
She made it sound simple, but Julian knew that honouring the responsibility of his title meant he would be bound, yet again, to a marriage of convenience. The only sparks that mattered were the ones he could fire off in his speeches at Westminster.
‘Why am I certain you are about to tell me how I can regain what I have lost?’
His grandmother gave a slight shrug. ‘I was fortunate. I married your grandfather and we fell in love. Your father was not as fortunate. We were certain your mother would be a rose in his pocket, but she had thorns. Being married to her killed something precious inside him, and he became consumed with politics and Westminster.’ She leaned across the table and levelled him with a pointed stare. ‘There is more to life than that. It did him no good.’
His father had been the very model of what an English duke should be. Nine years had passed since he’d collapsed and died while delivering a speech to the House of Lords, and to this day people continued to tell Julian how much they had admired him. If only Julian could be half the man he had been.
‘I disagree. He helped this country achieve great things.’
‘And it cost him his life. No one will convince me that his heart did not give way because of the strain of his political career.’ She drained her glass of sherry. ‘We were wrong in preventing him from choosing his own bride, and he was wrong when he did the same to you. Life is too brief, Julian. Trust someone as old as I. Do not waste your life tied to someone you do not want.’
If only it were that easy. Out of an entire ballroom of girls the only one he had been drawn to wasn’t an appropriate choice—to say nothing of the fact that she was probably married to a man old enough to be her father. The point of taking a wife was to produce an heir. His father had told him many times that it wasn’t necessary to like the person you married. You just needed to tolerate them.
Thankfully his grandmother’s attention was back on the chessboard. ‘Oh, and Julian...? I seem to have misplaced my edition of A Traveler’s Tale by that American author—Vandenberg. Would you mind purchasing another one for me the next time you are near Hatchards?’
The Vandenberg name should not follow any conversation about marriage. He needed to concentrate on finishing this game of chess. Soon Hart would arrive, and they would be off to the Langley ball. However, tonight, he vowed, he would not search for the American at all.
* * *
Only the flutter of shuffling cards and the soft murmur of voices could be heard in the card room at Langley House. Footmen stood along walls that were hung with yellow silk damask, ready to refill crystal glasses at the mere lift of a hand. Purposely removed from the hubbub of the ballroom and the front public rooms, this drawing room was located near the end of a long hallway. Serious gambling was always done at the Langley ball, and serious gambling required concentration. It was the ideal place for a man who needed to keep his mind occupied. It didn’t even matter to Julian that he was losing miserably.
‘Perhaps a new table is in order?’ Hart suggested as he collected his winnings.
A new table would not change his luck, but Julian surveyed the other seven tables for open seats anyway. As his gaze skimmed past the doorway he caught sight of Helena, in a jonquil satin gown, its bodice cut to accentuate her womanly curves. With an air of confidence she scanned the room until her grey eyes landed on him.
The beginnings of a smile tipped the corners of her full mouth as she made her way to his side. ‘Do not tell me luck is against you tonight,’ she said in a silky voice.
‘It definitely is now,’ mumbled Hart, low enough for Julian to hear.
He shot Hart a look of reproach and turned to her. ‘I’ve had better luck,’ he replied congenially.
‘Have you been to the ballroom yet? The orchestra is exceptional.’
The American woman was probably in the ballroom—dancing with some braggart. ‘The ballroom does not interest me tonight. Perhaps I’ll try another table.’
She cocked her head to the side, exposing the pale skin of her neck. ‘Perhaps we could play together,’ she whispered.
‘Perhaps we could.’ He should have found the smooth skin of her neck enticing. He had before. However, looking at it now, he found his body surprisingly unaffected.
They were about to search for an open game when a footman approached him with a request for his presence at the Duke of Winterbourne’s table. He felt an unprecedented sense of relief in having to leave Helena’s side to join his friend.
Excusing himself, Julian followed the footman across the room.
* * *
Helena watched Lyonsdale walk towards the table full of his friends who were playing whist. As he leaned over to whisper into Winterbourne’s ear Lyonsdale’s black tail coat stretched across his broad shoulders. It was a pity the tails covered the outline of his muscular legs and his firm backside...
She could feel Lord Hartwick’s eyes on her. For the last five years he had never once attempted to hide his hatred of her. It was perfectly reasonable, considering what she had done to him. However, watching the drama unfold around her at the time had been so entertaining she refused to feel any remorse. Her only regret was that she had believed his father’s lies. He had told her that he would marry her if she helped him with his plan—a plan that she was certain had devastated the man’s son.
Why hadn’t Hartwick walked away when Lyonsdale left?
He tossed a lock of hair out of his eyes and pulled back his shoulders. ‘He will never make you his duchess. I will see to that.’
Although he was splendid to look at, his confidence grated. ‘Do not imagine you will be able to dissuade him.’
‘But I find I rather like the idea, and I don’t believe it will take much effort on my part. I suggest you search elsewhere for that elevated title you so desperately seek.’
The foolish man thought he could best her. ‘I do not follow suggestions—least of all from you.’ She shook out her fan and pasted on a sly smile, glancing pointedly across the room at the woman she knew to be Hartwick’s current conquest. ‘You should tell your friend she should not wear emerald. The colour does nothing for her complexion.’
Hartwick turned his head and followed her gaze. His lips pressed together as he took a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing footman. ‘Maybe in this instance you should follow my suggestion. I hear Ponsby is on his last breath. You might want to try him. You’d have better luck.’ He did nothing to hide the sarcasm from his voice.
Why would she want a decrepit duke when she could have a handsome, virile one? ‘It appears you are worried for your friend. Do you believe I will damage him?’
‘Your excitement is stirred by breaking people. You won’t be able to do that with