That had shocked Marcus deeply.Any faint remaining shreds of tenderness he’d felt for the girl turned to disgust and revulsion.
Harry’s beating had resulted in a lucky escape for Marcus.And marked a change in his attitude towards his formerly despised half-brother.
Lady Anthea had married some other rich, titled unfortunate, but rumor had it that she slept with everyone, from her husband’s friends to his servants and even the stable-lads.
The whole distasteful affair had been an object lesson for Marcus.Before his eyes had been so shockingly opened, he’d thought Lady Anthea a sweet, charming, innocent girl.
And ever since, he’d observed dozens of sweet, charming, innocent-seeming girls, and wondered what they were really like behind their delightful, deceptive facades.
No, if Marcus ever took a wife it would be someone who stirred his senses not at all—that way madness lay.If he did choose a woman to wed, it would be as a pleasant companion, someone well-born, of course, who wouldn’t lead him a merry dance, and who would be happy to spend most of the year at Alverleigh.
And—he thought of his mother—someone who wouldn’t be constantly demanding his attention and requiring him to prove his love for her over and over.He shuddered.
In recent years, seeing his brothers so content in their marriages, he’d occasionally wondered if perhaps he might risk it.Find some young woman who would be a companion, and who wouldn’t stir his senses.But how could he be sure that any woman he considered would be suitable?Society courtships worked to ensure there was no way to really get to know a young woman, not until after the wedding.And by then it was too late.
His friend, Barney, droned on, something about an exceptionally cunning fox.There was a slight stir at the entrance, and the crowd’s attention shifted toward it.There was a perceptible hush and then a buzz of conversation rose.Marcus glanced across the room, faintly intrigued.
Three people had entered the ballroom, a man and two women.The man was Marcus’s own age or a little older, thin, elegantly dressed and with an air of sophisticated dissipation.The older of the women trailed behind, bearing all the hallmarks of a duenna or companion, rather than a wife.But it was the young woman on the man’s arm who caught his eye.
She was perhaps twenty-three or four.Of medium height and very slender—perhaps too slender—she was exquisite looking, with pale, almost luminous skin, and silver-gilt hair pulled back in a smooth, sleek chignon, not a hair out of place.Her face was a perfect oval, a little on the thin side, or was that the effect of her high cheekbones?Her nose was small and straight, her eyebrows delicate arches.He couldn’t see the color of her eyes from where he stood, but they were large and striking.Her mouth, full-lipped and deep rose red, was the only color about her.
The very sight of her stole his breath.He’d never seen such a beautiful woman, her expression serene, almost blank, looking as remote as the moon.
Her dress showed just the palest hint of lilac, silk from the sheen of it, and cut low across her small breasts.It was very plain, without a frill or flounce or contrasting trim.But even a man such as he, unversed in female fashions, could tell it was superbly cut, for as she moved it floated with her, emphasizing her slender curves.
She wore no jewelry at all, which again was most unusual.She should have looked plain, but instead she made all the other ladies present look overdressed and fussy.He knew he’d never seen her before—he would never forget a woman like her—and yet something about her tugged at his memory.
He turned to Barney, who was the sort of fellow who knew everyone.
“And then the blasted fox dived right into a bramble thicket, and m’horse—”
Marcus cut off his friend in mid-chase.“Barney, who is that?”
“Eh?What?Who d’you mean?”Barney blinked and looked around.
“Over there, just come in.The blonde in the lilac dress.”
Barney looked.“Hah.Out of her weeds again, I see.She’s oddly punctilious in observing her mourning.Her year must be up.”
All Marcus understood from that was that the woman was a widow — the rest made little sense to him.“But whoisshe?”She seemed somehow familiar, and yet he was certain he’d never seen her before.
Barney shook his head.“Don’t even think of it, my friend.That’s Lady Hewitt, the Ice Widow.She’s beautiful, I grant you, but”—he shuddered—“cold as ice, and venal as all get.”
The Ice Widow?Marcus watched as she glided through the crowd, serene—indifferent?—her hand resting lightly on her escort’s arm.She made no attempt to engage anyone in conversation.The man she was with did all the talking, all the greeting—and he spoke only to other men.No women spoke to her, none greeted her, and the few who looked at her did so with sour expressions, murmuring something to their companions—something even from this distance Marcus could tell was disparaging.
She just stood there looking beautiful.Seemingly indifferent.And, admittedly, cold.
“Who’s her escort?”
“Her brother.”Barney gave him a curious look.“Don’t you recognize him?It’s Blaxland Major, from school.”
“Blaxland Major?You mean Edgar Blaxland?”
“That’s the one.Not the younger brother of course.Died at Waterloo, I heard.Pity.He was the best of that family.And Blaxland Major is Lord Blaxland now: the father died a few years ago.”
Marcus stared at the woman and her escort.His head was reeling.It couldn’t possibly be ...
But if she was with her brother, Edgar Blaxland, ithadto be.
