“Tell me, Dorset,” she said as they resumed their circumnavigation of the ballroom, “does the heart ever fully heal after it has been broken, or is it doomed to forever remain in crushed bits?”
“You still have a heart?” he quipped. “How darling. Mine has been cold and dead for years now.”
His response, while tongue in cheek, was very much what she had feared.
“I thought mine was cold and dead,” she said, unable to keep the sadness from her voice.
She sighed, her gaze traveling around the ballroom for a hint of her dear friend Pippa, who she had hoped would be in attendance. The Marquess of Dorset was a friend, but she was not sure she wanted him to be her confidante.
“You married for love,” Dorset guessed softly. “Did you not?”
“Yes.” But her love was not returned.
She was not sure it ever would be. Did not know if Adrian could ever let down his guard long enough.
“If you married for love, then I fail to understand what you are doing here with me, alone. Where is your husband?” Dorset sipped at his champagne.
“He is…” Her words trailed off as her gaze lit upon the handsome, familiar figure. Dressed in elegant perfection, his broad shoulders draped in a black coat, a white neck cloth at his throat, his walking stick in his hand. He had come. Adrian had come to the ball. “Here. He ishere.”
“Something about this particular scene feels deuced familiar,” Dorset said, his voice dry. “If you are going to run off to him now, at least allow me to hold your champagne. I should hate for you to splash it all over that fetching gown.”
She tore her gaze from her husband and glanced back to the man at her side. “You must think me the rudest woman in London.”
“I assure you that I do not.” He held out his hand expectantly. “One of the boldest, the bravest, the most beautiful. The rudest? Hardly. Now, then. The champagne, if you please?”
She surrendered it. “Thank you, Dorset. You truly are a dear man.”
He raised his eyebrows in mock dastardly fashion. “I assure you that there is nothing about me that is dear. My soul is as dead as my heart.”
She did not believe him. But it hardly mattered now, because her gaze had once more strayed to Adrian, and he was moving toward her. His expression was unreadable, his jaw hard, a slash that looked sharp enough to cut.
“Go to your husband,” Dorset urged her.
And she did. Her feet were moving with a will of their own, flying across the ballroom floor. The world around them—the music, the laughter, the talking, the sea of eyes taking in every interaction—ceased to exist. All that mattered washim. His presence at the ball seemed like a victory. One she would happily claim, if only he would cease glowering at her.
This time, when she approached him, it was as his wife.
How wondrous the difference. If only it afforded her more reassurance than it did just now.
They reached each other, and Adrian’s frown was even more severe. “Who the devil is that man? He is the same one you were speaking with the night of your ball.”
Not the greeting she had hoped for. But he had remembered Dorset. She was not sure if she should be happy about that or if it signified nothing. Had he not made it abundantly clear to her earlier that making love had not changed a thing between them?
“You look well this evening, husband,” she said instead of answering his rude question. “I did not know you would be in attendance.”
“I came for you.” His gaze flicked over her shoulder, undoubtedly lighting upon Dorset. “Not a moment too soon, it would seem.”
“Dorset is a friend,” she said. “Nothing more.”
“He is who you were speaking of earlier?” Adrian asked, his countenance remaining stern.
She was not sure she followed. She most certainly had not been speaking about Dorset. Their entire conversation had consisted of their son’s delighted exhortations over his equine toys and a thinly veiled discussion about Adrian’s refusal to acknowledge anything had changed between them last night.
She frowned back at him. “I do not recall speaking of anyone.”
Moreover, she certainly had not been aware Dorset would be in attendance. But as they were old acquaintances, it stood to reason that he would seek her out, and she likewise. He was a good man.
“You said your company is often appreciated by those upon whom you bestow it,” he said then, his tone quiet and yet resonating with emotion. Bitterness, she thought. “You told me that if I do not wish for your company, you were certain you would find no end of others who do.”
