Helena forked up a bit of her fish and plotted her next move.
In the heartof the Duke and Duchess of Bainbridge’s ballroom, Huntingdon twirled with Lady Beatrice in a quadrille, his least favorite form of dance. Not that he enjoyed any dancing. It was an art that was lost on him. Overhead, hundreds of electric lamps blazed. He ought to be taking note of the sparkle in her blue eyes. Of the way her mahogany locks gleamed beneath the glow of the chandeliers. Of the pale beauty she made in her pink silken ballgown, demure and perfect. He should be admiring her elegance and grace, both of which could not be denied.
He ought not to be thinking of the last time his hands had been upon a lady’s waist.
Ought not to be thinking of golden curls, emerald eyes, and a saucy mouth.
Ought not to be thinking about how much he preferred Lady Helena’s scent to Lady Beatrice’s strikingly floral perfume.
Or the way Lady Helena’s breasts had felt, pressed against his chest.
Duty, Gabe. If you do not have your honor, you have nothing, as Grandfather always said.
But still, she was like an infection in his blood. In the week since he had last seen her, all defiant beauty on the pavements, he had been able to think of little else.
“Do you not find it so, my lord?” Lady Beatrice asked as they whirled and performed the proper steps.
Damnation, he had not heard the beginning of her query, so lost had he been in his own thoughts.
“Forgive me, Lady Beatrice,” he said ruefully. “I fear I was distracted.”
“I was merely observing the ball is a crush,” she said, and if his distraction perturbed her, there was no hint of it in her countenance. “And that the air is quite stifling. After this dance, I do believe I shall need some punch to refresh myself.”
The ball was indeed an undisputed success. Not that he cared for the social whirl. He preferred to occupy himself with more worthy matters which affected his lands and his people. He took his responsibility as the Earl of Huntingdon seriously. He had every intention of doing his grandfather proud.
“It is warm,” he agreed, inwardly taking himself to task once more for his failure to pay proper attention to his betrothed. “Would you care for a turn on the terrace?”
They spun about once more. The notion of escorting her to a darkened corner filled him with apathy. Theirs would be a passionless, loveless union based on mutual respect, nothing like his parents’ disastrous marriage.
“I do not think we should dare,” Lady Beatrice said, ever the height of propriety.
Although there would be nothing amiss with him escorting her for some fresh air, particularly since they were engaged, he was not surprised at her objection. Instead, he was relieved. There was only one lady he wanted kiss beneath the moonlight, and it was not the woman in his arms.
He cleared his throat. “Very prudent of you, my dear. This close to our nuptials, there is hardly reason to court scandal, is there?”
Three months.
Three months until she was his bride. Grandfather would have been pleased that a date had at last been settled upon. Although Huntingdon had long had an understanding with Lady Beatrice, they had not made their betrothal formal until recently. In the wake of his grandfather’s death, sorting out estate matters, along with the suitable period of mourning, a wedding had hardly been a concern for Huntingdon.
The dance finished. He bowed. Lady Beatrice dipped into a perfectly executed curtsy.
“Thank you for the dance, my lord,” she said softly.
She was so soft-spoken he almost could not hear her over the chattering of their fellow revelers and the subsequent orchestral hum of a waltz as it struck up. He offered her his arm and escorted her back to her waiting mother.
Another interminable round of conversation, and his duty was done.
A turn on the terrace alone, a bit of fresh air, would be just the thing.
Huntingdon excused himself from his future countess and mother-in-law and made his way to the opened doors leading to the night. And that was when his eye was inevitably caught by a flash of golden hair.
He knew instinctively, though her back was to him, that it washer.
She was in attendance, but the crush was so immense, he had yet to cross paths with her since she had been announced. But there was no mistaking the silhouette—tall, statuesque, curved. Or the way she carried herself. She moved with a natural confidence that most ladies could never affect, let alone possess. Her gown also gave her away—ivory trimmed with yellow flowers, matching yellow flowers in her hair. Daffodil was a color Helena favored.
But before he could reach her, she was moving. Escaping through the same doors he had intended to flee to himself. Except, she was not alone. Lord Dessington was accompanying her. She was smiling at him. Laughing at a quip he made. Clinging to his arm.
Everyone knew Dessington was a rakehell of the worst order. Huntingdon had to wonder how the scoundrel had even managed to obtain an invitation. Realization hit him.
