But that was what John was for—to launder and mend his clothes. It was John, after all, who’d persuaded him to stand and be tortured by that pin-pricking tailor in Saville Row in the name of “bringing my master up to the latest fashions so that he might live in the manner that befits the Devereaux name”—or whatever nonsense he’d spouted at the man.
His mind made up, Charles lifted his leg over the balustrade. Then he paused as the newcomer stepped onto the balcony, shut the door, and promptly burst into tears.
Bugger.
There was nothing more guaranteed to draw a crowd than a sniveling woman. And the last thing any man wanted was to be caught climbing over the balustrade in an attempt to get away from one.
That sort of encounter never ended well for the man.
Chapter Eight
The next timeOlivia glanced about the ballroom, the mysterious, brooding stranger had disappeared. She drew her shawl about her to temper the shivers rippling across her skin at the anticipation of his dark gaze meeting hers once more. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps he’d been a figment of her imagination—a demon materialized from the darkest depths of her soul to taunt her inadequacy and inferiority. And, in truth, she’d have preferred a demon from Hades to the flesh-and-blood tormentors in the ballroom tonight.
Excepting Mr. Arnott, who’d been gallant enough to ask her for aseconddance! It was almost too good to be true. Nearly every ball Olivia had attended, she’d been without a partner all evening. For a handful, she’d been partnered once—though an offer from one of Montague’s married friends, given with sympathy and doubtless at her brother’s insistence, didn’t altogether count as a genuine offer. But tonight, she was to dance a second time. It was almost enough to make all those dance lessons worth the effort.
She caught sight of him, leading Miss Peacock about in time to the music. Miss Peacock glanced across the room, her eyes glittering with spite, then resumed her attention on Mr. Arnott. Olivia allowed herself a smile. Miss Peacock’s spite would be tempered when her partner exchanged her for Olivia at the end of the dance.
As the dance continued, Olivia rose and circled the perimeter of the ballroom, compelled by the need to observe the party. At least,that was what she told herself. A little voice in the back of her mind whispered that she wished to set eyes upon the dark demon again—or, at least, confirm whether he existed—much as a deer wished to court danger by approaching the lair of the wolf.
She caught sight of the familiar figure of Mrs. Stowe sitting alone. Dressed in a plain gown of dark blue muslin, her graying hair fashioned into a simple chignon, Mrs. Stowe exuded an air of crumbling elegance and exhaustion.
“Miss Whitcombe, is it not?” she said, rising. “What a pleasure. Have you danced tonight?”
“I have, ma’am. And you?”
The older woman gave a smile of amusement. “My dancing days are done, I’m afraid.”
“Is there no one here with whom you’d wish to be partnered?”
Mrs. Stowe glanced at the company, and Olivia caught a flicker of apprehension in her eyes. She followed her gaze and caught sight of two men deep in conversation—Earl Staines and the Duke of Foxton. The duke glanced toward them, his lip curled in a sneer, before resuming his attention on the earl.
Mrs. Stowe sighed. “Balls are for the young, Miss Whitcombe,” she said. “But my charge is dancing, as you see.”
She gestured toward a young woman in the center of the dance floor, dressed in a gown of pale yellow that complemented her rich auburn hair.
“Miss Turton’s mother was taken ill, and I offered to chaperone her. I couldn’t see the young woman deprived of the last ball of the Season when she’d been looking forward to it so much.”
“You’re too kind, Mrs. Stowe,” Olivia said.
Mrs. Stowe let out a soft laugh and resumed her seat. “I am more enterprising than kind, Miss Whitcombe,” she said. “Lady Turton expressed her gratitude with twenty guineas. Which came at an opportune time, as my son is in need of a new suit before he returns toOxford.” She gave a smile of affection and indulgence. “Suits are so expensive, and my darling boy will insist on growing. He’ll be taller than your brother if he grows any more—or even that rather imposing man I spotted earlier.”
Olivia’s heart gave a little flutter. “Which man?”
“I cannot see him now. Perhaps he left. He looked decidedly out of place and not at all happy. A distant cousin of our host, perhaps. I’ve not seen him about Town before.”
“I-is your son enjoying his studies?” Olivia asked, maintaining her composure despite the frisson of disappointment.
“I believe so. Of course, I possess a mother’s indulgence and am therefore all too likely to exaggerate his academic prowess if asked. But he’ll not want for friends or acquaintances when he finishes his studies next year. I fancy everyone here tonight has an Oxford education.”
“Everyman,” Olivia said, unable to disguise the bitterness in her voice. “Don’t you think it unfair that men are given the opportunities for intellectual advancement that are denied our sex?”
“Ha!” a male voice barked, and Olivia glanced up to see Sir Heath Moss standing before them.
“May we be of assistance, Sir Heath?” Mrs. Stowe said, her voice hardening. “Or is there anything in particular you wished to say?”
“No, madam,” he said, his handsome mouth curled into a sneer, “I was merely expressing my surprise at the notion of providing a woman with an education.”
