So her governesshadventured into the maze after all. Wonders would never cease.
A giggle bubbled from Louisa’s lips. “Quick,” she said, taking the gentleman’s arm in hers now and breaking into a run. “That’s my governess. Run for your life or you shall find yourself married long before you ever intended.”
To her delight, he caught her hand in his. “This way,” he said, navigating the maze as though he knew every corner like the lines on his palm. “There is a gap in the hedge. In a pinch, you’ll fit.”
Laughter and breathlessness vied for prominence as she allowed him to sweep her along, but before she squeezed through the narrow gap in the fence, which would utterly ruin her dress and have Mother up in arms about her appearance, she twisted so she was practically in the young man’s arms.
“Before I go,” she panted, “pray tell me your name.”
Blue eyes blazed into hers, and her toes curled in anticipation as he finally said, “Henry. Henry Beaumont.”
Chapter Four
PRESENT DAY
February 1815
When Henry entered Lady Huntington’s ballroom, his mother on his arm, he knew he should be thinking about the ladies he had come there to court. With the decision to marry thrust upon him, that was his reason for attending.
Instead, all he could see was Louisa’s face when she had told him he had risked everything of hers by letting her marry Bolton. Evidently the marriage had been more miserable than he ever could have envisaged. And he was to blame. At two-and-twenty, he had been certain there was nothing he could do; now he was certain he could have thought of something had he not been so aware of his own inadequacies.
He had spent nine years missing her beyond words. Now it seemed he would spend the rest of his life regretting ever turning her away.
He and his mother passed through the double doors into the adjoining rooms, hothouse flowers draped gaily around the pillars. Entire panels of the wall were painted with historical scenes, and everything had been gilded to within an inch of its life. This was a place where ladies captured their husbands, and gentlemen chose their wives the way a farmer might choose his filly: by watching their hair, their teeth, the manner of their walk, and considering what value they might have to bring to his estate.
Henry despised that this was what he was now compelled to do.
“Well!” his mother said, delighted at the sight of bobbing feathers, low-cut dresses and fluttering fans. This was a place in which she thrived.
He wished he could leave.
She tapped his arm with her fan, a slight frown interrupting her smile. “Now you must embrace this opportunity, Henry. None of your usual scowling in a corner. You mustdance.”
“I have danced before,” he said wryly, trying not to think about his last partner.
“Not since returning to London you haven’t. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” She flicked open her fan. “How about Lady Phoebe Willoughby? She is newly out this year.”
He barely spared her a glance, curbing his irritation with difficulty. “I have no interest in a schoolroom miss.”
His mother sighed. “Very well. A lady in her second or third Season, then?”
He grunted his assent, allowing her to guide him through the room. The curtains were thick and velvety, a shade of deep blue that concealed shadows behind, and he thought he could hear giggling from that direction. Back rigid, he turned away.
“There is Miss Rebecca Crowley,” his mother said. “How do you feel about red hair, dear?”
“Indifferent.”
“What do you like, Henry?”
Louisa.
He ground his teeth against the rebellious thought and forced it away again. “I have no need for anything other than indifference, Mother, so long as she will consent to being my wife.”
“Oh, my love.” She patted his arm with an expression that seemed close to pain. “It’s not so bad to fall in love, you know.”
His family was unaware of his history with Louisa, and he had every intention of keeping it that way. “That is not the reason I’m looking to marry,” he said impatiently.
She sighed. “I wish it were.”
