Octavia had noted Lord Bolton nearly as soon as she’d arrived. He had been standing on a balcony overlooking the ballroom. After he left his perch, he’d made his way through the crowd, stopping, and speaking with widows and misses on the marriage mart equally. She lost sight of him a few times, then would see him engaged in a dance, or escorting a widow from outside and then she’d lose sight of him again.
Then, as if just thinking about the earl conjured him, Octavia noted Bolton slowly approach her family.
He was more handsome now than he’d been twelve years ago, or it could be that his confidence had grown. Yes, he was quite striking indeed with intense, dark brown eyes, high cheekbones, full, firm lips. His black hair was thick, but neatly combed. The son of an English father and an Italian mother, he had inherited the best of their features.
Bolton didn’t just walk or stride but sauntered, fully assured of his place in Society, exuding confidence.
Her heartbeat increased while taking in his broad shoulders, flat stomach, and long gloved fingers holding a glass of wine. Seduction in formal wear, but Octavia once perceived her deceased husband in the same manner. That opinion changed within a year of their marriage.
Gentlemen may be able to exude all that a woman may want, but Octavia no longer believed what was presented. Gentlemen may need to mate, a deep-rooted need to procreate. Women did not, which she had soon learned. Yet, nature designed females to respond with a physical need for the male, which led them to be seduced, then usually, but not always, disappointed when the act was concluded.
It wasn’t the wanting to be bedded that ruled her decisions because Octavia was certain that she could live a full and happy life without ever participating in the act of intimacy again. It was the pleasure and being blissfully satisfied that she sought. Passion! The very reason why she would be quite selective in who she chose as a lover.
“Lord Augustus, I am happy to see that you have returned to London and with your lovely sisters.”
His voice, while friendly, was low and held a warmth.
He then turned his attention to Aurora and asked for her dance card.
“I apologize, Lord Bolton, but all my dances have been claimed,” Aurora answered politely, much to Octavia’s relief.
“That is a shame,” he answered. “Perhaps another time.”
He then turned to Octavia. “Lady Kepple, it is good to see you again.”
“And you, Lord Bolton,” she answered honestly.
“Might you have a dance available?” he asked.
She stared into his deep, warm brown eyes. Why did she feel that he was asking for more than a dance?
Because he was a bloody rake, and she was a widow. Perhaps Bolton wasn’t even aware that he put off more than his words.
Or, perhaps she was reading more into his request because of what she desired and knew of his reputation.
Octavia nearly handed him her dance card but held back because she didn’t wish to appear too willing to dance with a rake so early in the Season, especially since she did not yet know his purpose. Did he want her, or recognize that as an older sister, she would need to be won over to pursue Aurora? Was he being polite in asking her after being rejected or was it so easy for him to set a potential wife aside and turn his attention to the type of women previously associated with his name—widows? Until she knew his purpose, and had warned him away from Aurora, Octavia would proceed with caution.
“I am sorry, Lord Bolton, but I have no intention of dancing this evening.”
“Why is that?”
“I must watch over my sisters.”
“Certainly, your brother can be tasked with the duty for at least one dance.” He held out his hand and smiled, as if he expected her to hand over her card.
Rakes, such as Bolton, were used to getting what they wanted. Octavia was not certain yet if she was the one who would give him what he sought. Even if she did, it would not be given as easily as he may be used to.
Or, perhaps he wanted nothing more than a dance. If so, then he had changed since she was last in London, and the gossip was wrong.
Regardless, she must accomplish one objective before she decided if he was the rake she would want for a Season. “Perhaps a turn about the room,” she offered.
Bolton hitched a brow, then slowly nodded, and offered his arm. She rested her arm on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her away from her siblings. As he neared the doors leading to the dark gardens, she stopped. “I am not so foolish as to leave the ballroom with you, Lord Bolton.”
He grinned down at her. His dark eyes held a wicked gleam. “It is such a lovely evening. For once the sky is clear and stars sparkle like diamonds in the sky.”
This time it was her turn to arch a brow at his persuasive words. “I am certain such a silver tongue may work on others, but not me.”
“I am but stating a fact.” He gestured to the sky.
