“No,” she said at last, firm and sure. “I have dithered for too long. Let things happen to me instead of taking the reins of my life. This is what I must do. He will know precisely where I stand when all is said and done.”
John studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly, as if recognizing the steel in her spine. “Very well. Then let us proceed.”
She drew in another breath, gathering her resolve, and together they climbed the steps to the solicitor’s office. The polished door swung open to admit them, and Alice stepped inside. At last, she was taking the necessary steps, she had a plan. And even if it was scary, the certainty filled her with courage.
CHAPTER 33
Nathanieladjustedthestarchedwhite cuff at his wrist and glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece of his mother’s London drawing room. It was a few minutes past nine; the ball had scarcely begun, and already he was thinking of escape.
He had sent word ahead to Alice, a short but heartfelt telegram letting her know he would be back in London today. When he’d arrived at their Kensington home that afternoon, his chest had been tight with anticipation. With the desire to see her, hold her. Tell her about his plans. Make love to her. Only to find her gone. It seemed to be turning into a habit. One he didn’t like one bit. At least this time she had left a note, written in her neat hand, propped up on his desk:Visiting Lady Hartfield. Will see you later.
He’d waited hours for her to return. Hours. Impatient and frustrated. Until he’d had to leave to get ready for his mother’s ball.
Now, standing here amid the hum of strings and polite laughter, he refused to believe she had chosen to stay away deliberately. Surely, she wasn’t punishing him for leaving her alone these past few days? No, that wasn’t Alice. She wouldn’t sulk like a petulant child. Lady Hartfield was Ardmore’s sister, which meant she was Alice’s half-sister as well; if the two women had recently found one another, it was only natural they would wish to spend time together.
Still, damn it, he wished she had been home today. The empty hours of the past few days had stretched unbearably, leaving him restless and hollow. He missed her with an ache that gnawed at him, sharp as hunger and just as impossible to ignore.
No matter. Tonight, after this infernal ball, he would go back to Kensington. Back home. Surely Alice would not remain away all night. Tonight, he would have her back in his arms, where she belonged.
If only he could hasten the hours until then. He couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for these suffocating affairs, but he had promised his mother he would attend, and after strong-arming her to vacate Greystone Manor, he supposed he owed her this courtesy. A peace offering of sorts.
Not that his mother had deigned to do much of the moving herself. Her “assistance” had been limited to a series of sweeping pronouncements: she expected to live in every bit as much luxury at the dower house as she had at the manor, and all her favorite pieces were to be moved there at once. Leaving Nathaniel and a small army of harried servants to puzzle out what exactly constituted her “favorite pieces” and how to arrange them to her satisfaction.
It had been an exhausting few days, but the task was done. His mother was settled in the dower house with a small army of servants and the same regal air as if she had been installed in Buckingham Palace.
His sister-in-law, at least, had been far easier to please and more practical. She had decided she wished to live in London and, with her widow’s portion, intended to buy or lease a house here. He had offered his help in finding her a suitable property and suggested she stay at the Greystone London house until she did. She had accepted graciously, which suited him well enough.
He had no intention of staying here himself. His home was in Kensington, where Alice was waiting for him. Or would be once she returned.
He adjusted his necktie, squared his shoulders, and turned toward the ballroom. The sooner he made himself seen and endured the requisite number of insipid dances, the sooner he could escape. Tonight, no matter what, he was going home to Alice.
Nathaniel strode into the ballroom, his expression carefully schooled into polite indifference, the same mask he had worn a thousand times before. The air was thick with perfume and chatter, the string quartet already playing a lively country dance.
“Ah, there you are, my dear boy,” his mother trilled, gliding toward him as though she had been lying in wait. “You are just in time. Allow me to introduce you to Lady Julia, Lady Fanshawe’s daughter.”
The girl in question was barely out of the schoolroom, her fan fluttering nervously as she dipped in a curtsy.
“Lady Julia,” Nathaniel said with a bow, schooling his tone into one of bland politeness.
“She plays the pianoforte most exquisitely,” his mother supplied, her smile tight with satisfaction.
“I am certain she does,” Nathaniel replied smoothly, though he made no move to engage the girl in further conversation.
His mother was undeterred. Threading her arm through his, she strolled toward the next cluster of guests. “And here is Mrs. Ashbury,” she went on, all but towing him toward a statuesqueblonde in crimson silk. “She is recently out of mourning and would be delighted for a dance.”
Mrs. Ashbury’s smile was sultry enough to scorch. “My lord,” she purred, her gaze boldly sweeping him from shoes to necktie. “I should warn you, I am a very energetic dancer.”
Nathaniel inclined his head with a faint smile. “Then I am certain you will not lack for partners this evening.”
He shot his mother a warning glance, and her smile faltered, but she forged on. Despite her promise, this ball was turning into a repeat performance of the house party from hell. The temptation to sneak away beckoned, but he reminded himself he only had to endure this for a couple of hours. Then he would never put himself in this position again.
For the next half hour, he played his mother’s game, bowing, smiling, and making polite conversation that meant precisely nothing. He requested a dance or two, —enough to satisfy civility—but counted down the minutes until he could escape. His mother’s thinly veiled attempts at matchmaking were getting desperate. Some of the young women were barely old enough to be thinking of marriage; others were widows who watched him with predatory eyes, their gloved hands lingering too long when he took them to the floor.
None of them stirred even the faintest flicker of interest. How could they, when his heart had belonged to another woman for a decade?
He had just offered his arm to the persistent Mrs. Ashbury when the butler’s voice rang out from the entrance:
“Lord and Lady Hartfield!”
