“So…” Felicity paused, running the edge of her tongue along the top of her lip in a practiced move. “You do approve of the gown.”
“Haven’t I already said so?” He was far more annoyed with her than he should be. Another reason to end things between them.
A satisfied smile turned her lips as a curl fell over her ear. “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”
Harry spun her about and caught sight of a young lady across the crowded ballroom, wearing a gown of indigo, with alternating panels of deep purple that flashed in the light of the chandeliers. The colors of the silk set off her hair, black as pitch, drawing attention to the pale slope of neck and shoulders. Her form, still and unyielding in her partner’s arms, flashed in and out as the crowd of dancers parted, her face averted. Chin tilted down. A curl dangled by one ear.
He drew in a slow breath. He knew that delicate profile. Dreamt of it.
Lucy.
Harry studied her a moment longer before forcing his attention back to Felicity.
Oh, bloody hell.
Miss Waterstone’s lovely features were achingly similar to Felicity’s, save for the shape of the nose. The same thick, curling mass of hair, though Felicity’s wasn’t the color of ink. Blue-eyednot the exact hue of cornflowers.Close. But?—
The resemblance, now that the two women were in the same ballroom, was apparent. His mind ran through every woman he’d bedded in the last few years—there weren’t a great many, he simply didn’t have the time. But they all possessed the same features. Coloring. Some even had Miss Waterstone’s refined air of elegance.
This was nearly worse than Dufton sniffing about Marsden.
How did I not notice?
Harry’s foot nearly smashed Felicity’s toes.
She glared at him.
He murmured an apology. He hadn’t expected to see Miss Waterstone this evening, though he should have guessed, after seeing her in the park. A few years had gone by since Granby’s house party, and Harry hadn’t caught sight of her even once. But now…well, Miss Waterstone was popping up in parks and over roast beef. And balls.
Lucy kept her eyes cast down, watching her slippers as she was swung about, so forcefully, Harry thought, she might shatter like the fine porcelain he often imagined her to be. The crowd parted again, long enough for Harry to see the gentleman who partnered Miss Waterstone.
Dufton.
He shouldn’t have been surprised, given the duchess had claimed Waterstone had arranged the match. And he’d seen them in the park together. It wasn’t any affair of his if Miss Waterstone wanted to be a countess.
Jerking his gaze away from Lucy, Harry decided he would choose his bed partners with more care in the future. Blondes only. Possibly a redhead or two for variety.
“Estwood? Whatever is wrong with you this evening?” Felicity said. “You seem inordinately angry about something.”
Ice settled along his skin when considering Miss Waterstone across the ballroom. There was also humiliation. Longing. Dislike. And the sort of arousal that had his cock aching in his trousers.
“I think I’ll play some cards.” Harry led Felicity off the floor as the dance ended to a waiting group of her friends.
“Cards?” she sniffed. “You prefer a game of whist to me?” Felicity lifted her chin, lips pursed. “Since cards take up your thoughts at present and not me.” She rolled her shoulders, nearly forcing her breasts out of their pathetic confinement, hoping to make him look.
Harry did not.
“I fear your disinterest will lead me to seek another escort home this evening.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Armstrong.” He bowed politely, ignoring her gasp of outrage. She liked threatening Harry with taking another lover whenever he didn’t accede to her wishes.
“I mean it, Estwood. You will no longer be welcome in my bed if you?—”
“Then I wish you all the best.” Harry interrupted her tirade, then turned and strolled along the perimeter of the ballroom, not the least perturbed by Felicity’s threats. He’d play a hand or two of cards so the evening wouldn’t be a complete loss and then take his leave. Glancing to the right, Harry caught sight of Miss Waterstone once more, at the far corner of the room.
Slightly hunched over, as if she could make herself smaller, Miss Waterstone stood beside her father. She reminded Harry of the snapped stem of a flower, one that had been trampled underfoot. Eyes once more on her slippers. Hands clasped before her.
Artifice. His mind hissed. Miss Waterstone wielded her excessive reserve and melancholy like a weapon.
