It would forever be hers.
“I am,” he forced himself to acknowledge. “Little good it does me if I cannot trust her. After everything I have endured…”
His words trailed off. He had no wish to think about prison now. To remember the forced silence, the loss of his freedom, hell, the loss of himself, his name and identity. All the time he had been denied with his son. It was too much to bear. Had she been the cause? Or had Tilly been as innocent in what had befallen him as he had been?
What if the truth was plain and simple? That the only villain had been Longleigh?
“My mother always said that everything that happens to us as we walk this earth is for a reason,” Northwich said, as if sensing the direction of Adrian’s thoughts. “Often, we cannot see the reason at the time of our trials, but it is there, waiting to be discovered. You went through hell, Hastings. But now you are married to the woman you love. You have a son. Find the purpose in what happened to you. Forgive your wife. Forgive yourself. Do not allow life or love to pass you by.”
Northwich was being damned perceptive. But then, when was he not?
He drained the rest of his brandy. “She is going to a ball without me tonight.”
“Then you know what you need to do. Go to the bloody ball.”
She had not even delivered the news of her plans to him herself. Instead, they had been delivered via a servant. She was vexed with him after the manner in which he had all but fled the chamber this morning, leaving her sleeping and alone, and he knew it. The words they had exchanged in the drawing room had not improved matters. He could not blame her. His instinctive reaction had been to withdraw from her and maintain a distance. To keep his walls in place. But now… Now, he was willing to admit he had been wrong.
Wrong about everything.
Whether it was the brandy or the talk with his friend, he could not say, but his heart felt lighter in his chest than it had in as long as he could recall.
He was going to go to the ball.
Chapter 17
Fortune will smile upon you for the work you do, my friend.
~letter from the Duke of Longleigh to The Honorable Mr. George Shaw
“You are solemn this evening,” observed the Marquess of Dorset as they took a turn around the glittering crush of the ballroom.
Tilly had not known Dorset would be in attendance this evening when she had decided, on a whim, to attend the Duke and Duchess of Westmorland’s ball. However, she had been grateful indeed to see a friendly face. Although it felt like a lifetime had transpired since she had last seen him at her own ball and now, it had only been the span of less than three months.
“I am not good company, I fear,” she told him. “You should find someone else, lest my mood proves catching.”
“Perhaps I can be entertaining enough to distract you or to brighten your disposition,” he said gallantly. “Can I not persuade you to dance, at least?”
Dorset was a rakehell, but he had a good heart; she had long known that about him. “I fear I would make a poor partner.”
“Champagne, then?”
Before she could respond, he left her side and plucked two flutes from a tray, presenting her with one. She accepted it obligingly. “You are too kind.”
“I am suffering from ennui.” He raised his own glass to her. “Besides, you are far too Friday-faced for a woman who is newly wed.”
Yes, she was.
Her mind returned to the blazing passion, the incredible sense of closeness she had achieved with Adrian the night before, only to have it thoroughly dashed this morning. Had he even cared she was attending a ball without him? She very much doubted it.
“I suppose my marriage has been fodder for the gossips,” she said calmly, knowing it was true.
She had read an ill-disguised item about a certain duchess who had been in a hurry to wed again following the death of the duke. It had referenced a mésalliance between the duchess and her new husband.
Tilly had tossed the column straight into the dustbin where it belonged.
“At one point or another, we are each of us fodder for the bloody gossips,” Dorset said, his tone grim. “Some fare better than others, but everyone is afforded his or her turn to be tongue-lashed.”
She knew he referred to his own plight. These days, Dorset was an infamous rakehell who was debonair, handsome, and broken. But he had not always been a reckless charmer. His heart had been broken by Lady Anna Harcastle, who had become Marchioness of Huntly some time ago.
