She could have pointed out Mama had not suffered the burden of a lame leg.
Instead, she held her tongue as she always did, for it was easier. “Of course, Mama. I am sorry your health has affected you so, and that I have been a burden to you with my inability to make a match. If any gentleman would have me, I would already be a wife and mother, and you would not have to act the chaperone for me when you are unwell and would be better served to remain at home, resting.”
Mama fanned herself again. “He has looked away now, but I do believe he and the Duke of Whitley are in conversation about you, my dear. Why, I dare not trust my own eyes, for no one has ever…”
Though her mother’s words trailed away, Leonora knew what she had been about to say.No one has ever shown an interest in you.And it was true. Try as she might, none of the eligible gentlemen she met wished to wed her. They did not want a painfully shy, quiet wife who limped and could not join them in a minuet. They wanted diamonds of the first water.
She swallowed down a lump that had risen in her throat. “I am certain whoever it is you speak of now is not interested in me either. No one wishes to wed Limping Leonora, and I cannot blame them.”
“I am sorry, my dear,” Mama said in hushed tones. “I did not mean to suggest that at all. Any gentleman would be more than pleased to make you his wife. It is merely that the Marquess of Searle is newly returned from battle, and he is being lauded as a hero, with all the talk of his time in captivity and how he was able to escape at last by building himself a tunnel with nothing more than his bare hands and burrowing his way to freedom.” She fanned herself vigorously as she concluded her rapt retelling of Searle’s reputed heroics.
“The Marquess of Searle?” Everything inside her tensed, her voice emerging as a squeak.
Leonora had consumed every story written about him with great interest. The story of the manner in which he had escaped Napoleon’s soldiers made for excellent reading. At first, she had been swept away by the romanticized accounts. Ladies swooned over the mere mention of his name, and a party was no longer fashionable unless the marquess was in attendance.
But that did not mean she was not terrified of the man. She had chanced to see him recently, at a musicale. His arresting green gaze had burned into hers, riveting her as the realization he had been watching her poured over her.
At the time, she had imagined he found her limp a curiosity. Or that he was bored. For though he had been dressed in the first stare of fashion, sporting a blue coat, fawn breeches which hugged his long, muscular legs to perfection, and a snowy cravat styled in the latest knots, he had also possessed an edge. He had seemed dangerous, as lethal as a blade.
But now, Mama claimed he was watching her once more, days later. Was one limping wallflower of sufficient interest for a gentleman like the Marquess of Searle? She could not believe so. Her hands trembled as they fisted her skirt. The material was cool and soft, ethereal as a cloud, but its opulence did not distract her now. She scarcely felt it against her palms and clenched fingers.
“Of course it is the Marquess of Searle,” Mama admonished. “Who else? Good heavens, I do believe he intends to approach us. Are you sitting straight, dearest?”
Leonora slouched. “I do not want him to approach us, Mama.”
Mama sent a look in her direction. “Sit straight, you vexing girl. No gentleman wishes to make the acquaintance of a lady who cannot even hold herself with proper deportment. Little wonder you have yet to wed.”
Yes, little wonder indeed. She bit her lower lip and cast another, frantic look around the ballroom. The dancers whirled gaily about, another set winding down. She caught one more glimpse of Freddy, blindingly lovely as she traded partners and was opposite Mr. Kirkwood again.
And then, there he was, striding with purpose, his long, well-sculpted legs eating up the distance between where she sat in unobtrusive freedom andhim. That gaze was fastened upon her, as if he could devour her with it. He had another gentleman at his side, the Duke of Whitley, and while Whitley was handsome in his own right, he did not command her attention. Not in the manner the marquess did.
Nay, the marquess was different. He stole the breath from her lungs and made her heart gallop, and not just because he was blessed with undeniable masculine beauty, from his dark hair to his slashing cheekbones. But because he was angry. There was a darkness raging inside him. She could sense it in the way he carried himself. His bearing was rigid, from shoulders to jaw, his countenance harsh, as if it had been frozen into joyless place. As if whatever horrors he had experienced at war had robbed him of any hint of softness.
“Do not bite your lip,” Mama admonished lowly as the two gentlemen approached. “You are slouching.”
“I am not slouching,” she managed to grumble, drooping her shoulders. How she wished in that moment she were as invisible as she so often felt.
“Stand,” Mama commanded her at last, rising from her chair like a ship about to set sail. “My head is beginning to ache, and I fear I am suffering from heart palpitations yet again, but if the marquess intends to court you, I shall endure all for your sake.”
If one were to compile a list of Mama’s ailments, it would prove longer than the Book of Genesis, Leonora was certain. But then she reminded herself Mama had made a great many sacrifices for her sake, and guilt instantly struck her for such an ungracious thought.
“Stand,” Mama repeated, fanning herself as if she were in the midst of July heat rather than early spring, just after Easter.
Leonora considered remaining seated, but the thought of the Marquess of Searle hovering over her like a deity made her palms sweat. So, she rose, allowing herself a grimace as a twinge of pain radiated from her ankle upward. She had been seated for too long, and the old injury had stiffened as it tended to do.
“Smile,” Mama commanded.
And Leonora would have, but she had lost the ability to think or breathe or speak. She did not even know she possessed a mouth at the moment, or lips with which to smile. All she knew was the Marquess of Searle stood before her.
“Lady Rayne,” greeted the Duke of Whitley with flawless grace. “Lady Leonora. May I present to you, my lady, a cherished friend of mine, the Marquess of Searle?”
Leonora had not even glanced at Whitley. She was trapped in Searle’s eyes, and at this proximity, they were not merely green. Flecks of cinnamon and gold striated the lush, verdant hue. His lashes were far too long for a man. And his intensity, the manner in which his gaze locked upon hers, sent a shiver straight through her, along with a shocking lick of heat.
For a moment, she could not move. She simply existed, a lowly creature pinned beneath the force of his stare, every part of her body humming with awareness until she tingled from the inside out. Sensations, so foreign and strange, radiated outward much like the ripples of a stone thrown into a lake’s still surface. A strange feeling of finality struck her, as if this was the moment in her life from which all others would spring.
As if she would never be the same from now onward.
And then she realized a question had been posed to her, and she was exhibiting an appalling dearth of manners.
