They were dull, predictable, and far too easily enamored with her. Even though she did not entertain foolish thoughts of love in matrimony, she still could not hold with the idea of being espoused to someone uninteresting.
She sipped the lemonade, cool and tangy, and found a quiet seat upon the green velvet ottoman along the wall. Most days, she would be dancing by now. Or examining the sugar sculptures with her quizzing glass. Or leaning close to her chattering friends as they made blushing remarks about the dandies or told scandalous stories of the girls not present.
But Father’s words doused her spirit.Try.
In the center of the ballroom, couples joined another set, the orchestra played a familiar cotillion, and the hum of conversation lessened as gentlemen and ladies became engrossed in watching the dance.
“Miss Gresham?”
Isabella twitched in surprise—and glanced up into the face staring down at her.
Lord Livingstone. He was dressed in a double-breasted frock coat, black pantaloons, and a cravat knotted to perfection. His hair and side whiskers were dark, glistening, with a hint of silver at the roots that seemed premature for his young face.
But his eyes were what startled her. They did not ask nor beg to be held—they demanded. Intensity rippled from his being, in a way that was both discomfiting and intriguing.
He turned to Mr. Hornyold—an Oxford man whom Father had once encouraged her toward—and urged him to make an introduction.
Mr. Hornyold frowned but obliged. “Miss Gresham, this is Lord Livingstone. Lord Livingstone, Miss Gresham.” Then, as if aware he was no longer needed, he skulked away.
Lord Livingstone stepped closer. “I admit I had ideas of your beauty after spotting you in the window this morning.”
A rush of heat moved to her cheeks. Mercy! How bold to speak of such a thing, the rogue.
“But I daresay, you far exceed what I had imagined.” Without waiting for her to respond and likely sensing she wasn’t sure how even if she could, he held out his gloved hands. “Will you allow me your company and the next dance?”
He asked the question, but with a confidence that seemed to expect only one answer.
She gave it to him, a little to her own surprise. “Yes.”
Lights from the windows stabbed the night, glowing orange against a world turning blue and dark.
William approached the timber-framed inn. Wind whistled through the wet trees, misting the air with moisture and sending a chill through him. “Come on, Duke.” He led the horse to a one-room stable, the structure as splintered and grey as the inn itself, and left his horse with a scruffy-faced youth.
Then he entered the inn. Harsh lights pierced his eyes—candles lit at the crowded wooden tables, pewter sconces on the dingy taproom walls, a blazing fire in the hearth.
William coughed against the heavy smoke and odor of unwashed bodies. He eased his way through the room without bumping anyone, then pressed close enough to the hearth that the heat burned away some of his cold.
Miss Ettie flashed to his mind. He tried not to think of what she’d said, or how she’d looked when she found William missing. She’d probably gone to the nursery. Locked herself inside. Wept for him, as if she’d never see him again.
But she would. William would be back. Rosenleigh was his—the first thing in his life that had truly beenhis—and as soon as he gleaned answers from Edward Gresham, William would return.
Whether anyone tried to stop him or not.
“A toast, me men!” On William’s left, a man clambered upon a wooden chair, sloshing the ale from his tankard as he thrust it into the air. “To the marauders wot been brave enough to take from them that has plenty. Long life to the lot o’ them. And long life to me!”
A drunken applause filled the room, loud enough that William’s head split with pain. He would have faced the fire again, but something stopped him.
Filthy men, some bearded and most ragged, chortling and emptying their earthenware tankards and shouting and staring at the man on the chair—
Except one.
A man in the corner, elbows on the table, hair bushy under a ratty continental hat, and eyes narrowed enough they might have been closed.
But they weren’t. They were deadlocked on William.
“Lodgings for ye, gent?” A small, shorn-headed man approached, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. “Two pence it be, and more if ye be wantin’ fed.”
William pulled the coinage from his pocket, then followed the man to a doorway, up a creaking flight of stairs, and into an unlit hall.
