It was also the one and only rule Titus unapologetically ignored.
The rest of the beau monde’s absurd codes of conduct? Not a problem. Titus adored rules. The more the merrier. Rules made the world go ’round. Rules were the track at the hippodrome, and the crack of the starting pistol. How else would you win the race if you didn’t know when and where to run?
Titus excelled at rules. He was unparalleled in creating them, adhering to them, enforcing them. Yes, he refused to be a husband or a father, but he was otherwise a perfect earl. And as such, he needn’t explain his motives or reasons to anyone.
Including his meddling godmother.
Reminded of her absence, Titus sent a halfhearted glance about the brimming ballroom before returning his focus to the young lady standing between the refreshment table and the closest row of potted plants.
Her gaze was on the swarming dance floor, not on Titus, which was why he still could not discern the color of her eyes—despite apparently having taken several more involuntary steps in her direction.
His unusual behavior was rash and nonsensical. Or on the contrary, perhaps simple enough to explain: he was a man consumed by loneliness. A motivator even stronger than duty, and the real reason he threw himself wholeheartedly into the House of Lords. A busy man did not have time to be lonely.
A constant personal refrain he would never admit, even under pain of death.
Why should he? Titus didn’t need anyone. Which was a good thing, since he didn’t have anyone. Solitary was better. Solitary was simple. Solitary was safest for everyone.
But his gaze flicked back toward the young woman, who was still standing—inconceivably—alone.
All right, he would give it fifteen minutes. If his godmother arrived within the next quarter hour, Titus would forget the beautiful young lady, deal with his business, and go directly home.
But if a quarter hour passed and his godmother still hadn’t arrived…
Titus might saunter just close enough to make out the color of the young woman’s eyes and put paid to the mystery. The solution to an idle riddle. Nothing more and nothing less.
And if the young lady chanced to meet his gaze… If, god forbid, she spoke to him… What would happen then?
For once, Titus had no idea. Thank heavens she had not yet spied him watching her. For the first time in decades, the Earl of Gilbourne found himself without a comprehensive plan.
He’d just have to see what happened next.
Chapter 2
Miss Matilda Dodd hovered between a towering pile of cakes and an even taller row of dense potted ferns. From this position, she was perfectly visible—if you happened to be at the refreshment table or on the dance floor. Her great-aunt was at neither of these locales, making it the perfect place to hide in plain sight.
Moments earlier, they had entered the retiring room side by side. But as soon as Aunt Stapleton ducked behind the first folding screen, Matilda disappeared from the retiring room altogether.
Who could blame her? Matilda had lived her entire life in a hamlet even smaller than Marrywell, which was, at first glance, a charming town positively overrun with fashionable lords and ladies. Or at least, merrymakers significantly more fashionable than Matilda herself.
At this unwelcome reminder of her humble appearance, she dipped her fingers into her previously overstuffed reticule, withdrew yet another tiny square of candied fruit peel, and popped it into her mouth. Lemon. Delicious. Who could feel overwhelmed and panicked with the sensation of sweet citrus exploding in her mouth?
Fortunately, Matilda wanted this experience. She had never been to a ball in all her life, and now that she was here, she wanted to enjoy it. Was that too much to ask?
Apparently yes, if your name was the Earl of Gilbourne. Matilda’s unwanted new guardian. Oh, she was sure he was a perfectly fine man. According to Aunt Stapleton, her godson was “regal” and “reserved”, which Matilda interpreted as handsome and shy.
Shyness was something Matilda deeply understood, and was actively trying to change about herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people. She adored crowds, and yearned to be the life of the party. Matilda just didn’t know how; what to do, what to say. Until today, she’d never had the opportunity to learn, or even to try.
According to Aunt Stapleton, the singular opportunity might not repeat itself. Aunt had arranged the transfer here, so that Matilda could at least glimpse what an active social life might be like, but she’d warned her that the reclusive earl would whisk her away the moment Matilda was in his clutches. He’d never step foot outside his London town home again.
After almost twenty years of provincial boredom, followed by an even darker year of heartbroken mourning, the last thing Matilda wanted was to lock herself back inside a bedchamber and stare at the ceiling in loneliness all day.
The earl would no doubt be able to forcibly remove her from this assembly room once Aunt presented him to his new ward. Which gave Matilda no choice but to evade them both, and drink in this colorful new environment whilst she still could.
In short, she was blatantly eavesdropping.
“Was that the Duke of Southbury in the garden?” whispered one debutante to another as she piled a plate with cakes.
“Of course not,” said her companion. “The Duke of Southbury is not looking for a bride, and if he were, he would do so at Almack’s, not here.”
