He nearly tripped over his feet and hers. He couldn’t keep circling the floor as though everything were right with the world. With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her beyond the chalk circle to a vacant spot at the wall. “Are you sure of this?”
He squeezed his eyes shut. How could he even doubt it when Fancy was the most open and honest woman he’d ever known?
“Absolutely. My brother told me Beresford was in want of her dowry. It’s rather substantial. I gave my brother a good piece of my mind, I tell you, for going along with Beresford’s underhanded means. A lady should have a choice.”
He opened his eyes. “I know for a fact that the next day, Beresford met with her brother, to arrange the marriage.”
“That’s what he hoped to accomplish, but Miss Trewlove refused him. Then and there. Good for her, I say.”
Everything within him stilled. “You know this how?”
She sighed. “Several hours after the meeting, Beresford arrived at our residence, deep into his cups, bemoaning his misfortune, and my brother consoled him. I was listening at the door, as I’m wont to do. It’s the reason Lord Beresford isn’t in attendance this evening. He’s mortified she wouldn’t have him. I’m surprised you’d not heard all this. It was on everyone’s tongue for days.”
He could hardly blame Beresford for escaping into drink. Fancy was a diamond of the first water, and in spite of all his machinations, he had failed to gain her hand. But she’d told him she was going to marry the earl. Somewhere between his residence and her brother’s office, she changed her mind. Because he’d confessed to wanting to marry her? Or had she simply decided to place her own dreams ahead of her family’s?
“I’ve not been moving about in Society much.” He’d been holed up in his residence nursing his wounds, self-inflicted to be sure.
Lady Penelope angled her head thoughtfully. “I’m left with the impression, my lord, that you, also, are acquainted with Miss Trewlove, even though you’ve not attended any balls.”
In her tone, he heard no accusation, no search for gossip, merely interest. “I visited her bookshop.”
“Isn’t it the loveliest? Have you met Dickens?”
“I have.”
“He’s such a sweet—”
“Miss Fancy Trewlove!”
The majordomo’s booming voice echoed throughout the ballroom, bombarded Matthew’s soul. He swung around to see Fancy in an exquisite golden gown standing at the top of the stairs. Alone. Not a brother or sister in sight.
Standing tall, proud, and so beautiful in her glory that she fairly brought him to his knees.
“Will you excuse me, Lady Penelope?”
He barely heard her “Of course,” because he hadn’t waited for her response but was already frantically heading for Fancy, determined to ensure she was no longer facing this crowd of gossipmongers alone.
Fancy had never been more nervous in her life, or more sure of herself and her place in the world. She intended to prove that these people held no sway over her, did not determine her fate. She alone was mistress of her own destiny.
It had taken her a while to realize that. She’d done what her family asked of her for so long, occasionally slipping in a few of her own desires—her bookshop, her adventures, falling in love—that she’d lost sight of the fact that she was responsible for her own happiness, that she chose her own path. Sometimes she agreed with the dreams her family had for her, and sometimes, she had to go her own way. They’d given her the strength to stand on her own, and tonight she was putting it to use.
The announcement of her name was still booming around her when she took a deep breath and began her descent. She was well aware of couples stopping mid-waltz to stare at her, fought not to stare back, focusing her attention on the Marquess and Marchioness of Fairhaven, who waited at the bottom of the stairs. Then a stirring off to the side caught her notice, and she saw a dark-haired man pushing his way through the throng as though his life depended on reaching his destination, reaching her.
Her feet coming to a halt, she wrapped her fingers around the banister so tightly she feared she’d leave indentations. He broke free of the crowd and bounded up the steps. Dressed in evening attire, he’d never looked more devastatingly handsome, but she hardened her heart, refusing to greet him with so much as a pinch of gladness.
He stopped two steps down, which gave her the advantage in height, made it so much easier to meet his gaze head-on. “Fancy—”
“I didn’t expect you to be here.” He’d been at no other balls. Why would he be here?
His lips, that had done such wicked things to her, twisted into an ironic but slight grin. “Lady Fairhaven is my sister.”
She remembered the lady’s green eyes and black hair. How had she not seen the resemblance? But then she’d not been looking for him among the aristocracy. Still, she glanced around, imagining him visiting his sister, enjoying dinner. “Your niece is here, then.”
“In the nursery upstairs. I read one of Aesop’s fables to her before she fell sleep. I thought of you.”
A time existed when she’d wanted to meet his niece, would have enjoyed watching him read to her. A time when knowing she was on his mind would have brought her joy.
“I never think of you.” She made to move past him, and he stopped her with a gloved hand to her arm, and she was grateful it wasn’t skin to skin. She didn’t know if she’d have had the strength to resist his silken touch.
