All in all, it should have been an enchanting evening.
But the weight of Captain Balfour’s presence pressed down on every lighter emotion Isla might feel.
He sat down the table from Isla. Miss Lydia Crowley, a pretty young lady with sparkling dark eyes and a far-too-generous bosom, sat to his right and repeatedly drew him into conversation.
Isla wanted nothing more than to ignore the captain completely. But the man himself made that task difficult.
First was the matter of his clothing. Not once had she seen Tavish Balfour in evening attire. Most certainly not kitted out like a Corinthian of the first stare as he was this evening. The fact that Captain Balfour wore his well-tailored coat with the practiced ease of a high-born gentleman overset her thinking.
Obviously, hewasa high-born gentleman. But Isla had never specifically envisioned him at atonevent. She had never considered how he would draw the eye. How he would stand out as a particularly spectacular example of aristocratic breeding.
Clearly, she lacked imagination.
Had she no prior knowledge of him before this evening, Isla would have found herself drawn in. She would currently be stealing furtive glances of his handsome profile. Perhaps even admiring how the crisp brightness of his neckcloth and the high collar of his coat accentuated the deep dent in his chin and the fullness of his pillow lips.
She once had tried to determine how many features of his face could hold a pencil without assistance. The perfect dent in his chin? Yes. The deep shadow under his bottom lip? Absolutely, yes.
Truly, his lips were nearly obscene. Far too full for a man. How was a woman to think of anything other than how those lips would feel atop her own? Or remember, once she had kissed them, that they felt like silk-covered goose down . . . which truthfully was a hundred times worse. Had the man no mercy?
Isla tried to concentrate on Colonel Archer’s voice in her ear. Tomake banal replies to his questions. Yes, the weather had been lovely of late. Yes, her bedchamber was to her liking.
But Miss Crowley’s tinkling laughter and murmured questions constantly intruded, particularly when Captain Balfour, those damnable pillow lips pursed into a smile, leaned his head down to better hear the lady.
Abruptly, Isla remembered being sixteen years old and giggling with Tavish as they attempted to best each other at draughts. Her mind had raced for words, anything to fuel the rumble of his laughter. Surely, her expression then had mimicked Miss Crowley’s now, flushing and gazing up at Captain Balfour with awestruck delight.
Isla feared she had lost that open-hearted girl somewhere along the way.
Granted, Captain Balfour didn’t smile the same now either, Isla noted. Not his true smile. The one that had once caused her pulse to skip with gladness. The smile that mirrored his heart in his eyes.
But what did Isla know? Perhaps Captain Balfour didn’t smile like that anymore.
He is a stranger, she reminded herself.He is not the boy you knew. Your Tavish died long ago.
If only the present weren’t so determined to resurrect the past. To force Isla to ponder the boy he had been and the man he had become. To confront and understand the changes in her own self.
But . . . this was what she had wanted. Why she had encouraged Gray to remain at Kingswell House. A week of penance to purge any lingering sentiment for Tavish Balfour.
Surely navigating the treacherous shoals of her memories would become easier as the days passed.
Unfortunately, relinquishing the men to their port and withdrawing with the ladies did not grant Isla the expected reprieve.
Lady Milmouth instantly cozied up with Lady Forsyth before the fire, leaving Isla alone with Miss Forsyth, Miss Anne Forsyth, and Miss Crowley. As young unmarried ladies were wont to do, their conversation rapidly turned to the unattached gentlemen.
“Do you not find Captain Balfour excessively handsome?” Miss Crowley asked. “I think he is the most well-favored gentleman here.”
“You are only saying that because he complimented your gown, Lydia.” Miss Anne Forsyth nodded to the pink silk of Miss Crowley’s evening dress.
Miss Crowley flushed. “Yes, but he complimented it so prettily.”
Miss Forsyth fixed her younger sister with alook. “I know you find Captain Balfour to your liking, too, Anne. You are just sore that he didn’t compliment your gown, as well.”
Miss Anne Forsyth glared. Isla had the distinct sense that, were they not in company, Miss Anne might have stuck out her tongue at her sister.
“I agree with Lydia,” Miss Forsyth continued. “There is simply something arresting about Captain Balfour. As if the entire world could fracture to pieces, and he would simply set about tidying up. I cannot imagine anything would overset him.”
“I agree. Such self-possession would be an excellent quality in a husband,” Miss Crowley added with another blush.
Oh, gracious.
