London—May 1815
‘Such a lovely girl, your sister,’ Mrs Bixby said, touching Eleanor’s arm. ‘And so unaffected.’
Did the old bat mean Sissy enjoyed herself too much? William always said she did. Eleanor forced a smile. ‘Thank you.’ Cecelia certainly sparkled like a ruby among pale pearls. Her deep-rose gown showed her dark hair and eyes to splendid advantage as she laughed up at her partner in a cotillion. Did she stand out too much, as William said? Perhaps she should have worn white after all.
‘She’s a handful,’ Aunt Marjory said on the other side of Mrs Bixby. ‘Never know what harum-scarum thing she’ll take next into her head.’
‘Really, Aunt Marjory. It is simply high spirits,’ Eleanor said. ‘Nothing more.’
‘She’s a credit to you,’ Mrs Bixby said.
Unlike herself, had Mrs Bixby known it, Sissy did indeed bring credit to the Hadley name. She was popular with her peers, also making their first Season, and the young gentlemen flocked around her without any sign of loose behaviour.
‘Who is she dancing with now?’ Aunt Marjory asked. The poor dear just couldn’t keep up.
‘Lord Danforth. Unexceptionable family,’ Mrs Bixby said. ‘He’d make a good catch, if he came up to scratch.’
‘It is far too early to be thinking of marriage,’ Eleanor said. Unless of course Sissy fell in love, which would be wonderful.
‘Speaking of coming up to scratch,’ Aunt Marjory said, ‘I haven’t seen Mr Westbridge this evening.’
‘He is most likely in the card room,’ Eleanor replied. ‘He knows I will not dance.’
Mr Westbridge, a serious man in his middle years, asked Eleanor to marry him at least once a week. He refused to believe she would never change her mind. Wouldn’t believe she was happy keeping house for William and Sissy.
Idly glancing around the room for another suitable partner for her sister, Eleanor’s heart stumbled. Head and shoulders above the man at his side, hair the colour of chocolate and his olive skin startling among the pale English faces around him, stood Beauworth. After four years she recognised him in an instant. He looked broader, more assured and certainly sterner of eye. Older, of course. All that she saw in a second. Her heart steadied, but her breathing remained irregular. What changes would he see in her, if he knew her at all? She looked away, determined not to notice.
As if compelled by some unseen hand, her head turned to once more bring him into view. Time had taken its toll. Deep lines bracketed a far more sardonic mouth than she remembered. Lean and axe hard, his face offered no quarter as he gazed with dark and cool remoteness at the world. As dark as a Moor, he must have spent years beneath a harsh sun. The legends of his female conquests, his dissipation, his hedonistic lifestyle, whispered of in salacious detail in the salons of the ton, hung over him like a dark cloud. The ladies of the ton loved hearing of his exploits. At first, she’d felt pain, a sharp jealousy. As the years passed, it had reduced to a dull ache she could ignore most of the time. To be jealous of a man she’d sent away seemed impossibly selfish. The females in the room, young and old, eyed him with barely concealed fascination, while some of the men looked strained. He was, after all, a close friend of the Prince Regent and commanded their respect, if not their friendship.
In the brightly lit room, dressed in sombre black, he had the look of a living breathing shadow.
She shivered.
Perhaps she felt chilled by the cold half-smile with which the Marquess listened to his fair-haired male companion. His gaze swept the room apparently without interest, moving swiftly and unerringly towards her corner.
Heart beating wildly, Eleanor lowered her gaze. Even if he did recognise her, he would surely not approach, not after what lay between them. Would he? Was that hope in her heart?
Dimly, she realised the set was ending. She started to rise, to go to her sister. Perhaps if she pleaded a headache, Sissy would leave. If not, perhaps she could leave her in Aunt Marjory’s care.
‘Lady Eleanor, a pleasure to meet you again.’
The deep voice with its trace of a French accent thrummed a chord low in her belly, a long-forgotten thrill. Trembling inside, she raised her head and gazed into brown eyes flecked with gold. Cold eyes. The charming smile she remembered curved his lips, his teeth flashing white. Yet he made her think of a predator, a panther, dark and sleek and hungry. He held out his hand.
Her throat dried. Heat rose in her face. Her heart pounded so hard she couldn’t breathe. If she reacted like this to a simple greeting, people would talk. They would make guesses, gossip. She must not make a breath of scandal. She rested her fingertips on his pristine white gloves for no more than a second. ‘Lord Beauworth.’
She turned in her seat to the ladies beside her. ‘Aunt Marjory, Mrs Bixby, allow me to introduce the Marquess of Beauworth.’
‘A pleasure.’ Aunt Marjory gave him a speculative glance, assessing his worth and his lineage.
‘My lord,’ Mrs Bixby said, her eyes alive with curiosity and surprise.
‘Ladies, a pleasure. May I have this dance, Lady Eleanor?’ The words were no more than a polite murmur, but the slight quirk at the corner of his mouth issued a challenge.
Stunned to speechlessness, she could only stare. To feel his arms around her again would be wonderful, awful.
She never danced.
Mrs Bixby was nodding as if it was the most natural thing in the world. How would it look if she accepted? If she refused, would people think there was a reason and talk? Mrs Bixby loved to talk.
She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, my lord.’
He brought her to her feet. Two layers of cotton separated their skin, yet she felt his touch as if their hands were naked. Did he notice the way her fingers trembled in his? Hopefully not.
The orchestra struck up a waltz. Of all things. Had he known? She glanced up at his face, thinking to cry off, but he gave her no chance, sweeping her into the steps of the dance, masterfully, gracefully, powerfully in command. He swung her around the floor in soft glides and elegant twirls. How strong his hand felt beneath hers. He guided her steps with the lightest of pressure, yet his hand was all she could feel. The room disappeared into a swirl of pastel and shimmering candles. She saw nothing but shoulders hugged by a black coat, a froth of white cravat above a pale cream waistcoat embellished with tiny forget-me-nots. The scent of his cologne filled her nostrils. The warmth of his body reached out to caress her skin, though he held her no closer than was proper.
Sissy, who had not yet received permission to waltz, stuck out her tongue as they passed.
‘Your sister is as charming as ever,’ the Marquess remarked. He sounded almost wistful, which must be her imagination.
‘Her first Season,’ she said. ‘Lady Cecelia is a huge success.’
‘I can see why. Are you also enjoying the Season?’
She glanced up, seeking assurance that this wasn’t some sort of barb. He looked merely interested. He raised a brow.
‘Seeing Sissy so happy, why would I not enjoy it?’
‘Why not indeed? You look lovely.’
‘Fustian,’ she said. ‘I look exactly what I am. A woman past her first blush of youth and firmly on the shelf.’
‘Then perhaps I should rephrase my words. You look lovely to me.’
Her insides fluttered. An instant flare of arousal, her