Fitz preferred to think of himself as fun.It sounded more complimentary.
Maybe he wasn’t a sobersides do-gooder like Robert or an annoyingly competent know-all like Arabella.They were practically saints while Fitz was more…the other thing.But personally, Fitz would rather sit next to himself at a dinner party than one of his perfect siblings—at least then he’d be sure of being entertained.
Being entertaining—beingcharming, as Mrs.Lamington would have it—was Fitz’s vocation in life.A pointless and trivial vocation it certainly was; Fitz had no illusions about that.But it was the only thing he’d ever been any good at, other than riding and hunting, and he knew the role he was expected to perform in return for being invited everywhere.
Now, more than ever, since Father had turned the full and terrifying weight of his attention to getting his wastrel of a youngest son married and settled.
That’s why Fitz was back in town before the end of pheasant season, and that’s why he was here at this exceedingly dull party where there weren’t even enough gentlemen in attendance to get up a good game of cards.
Fitz was enough of a sportsman to know when he’d been caught in an inescapable snare.And he wasn’t churlish enough to blame the other guests for his misfortune—no, the blame lay squarely upon the shoulders of the Marquess of Huntingdon.If twenty-nine years of dealing with his father had taught Fitz anything, it was that it did no good to sulk or lash out or try to meet the old man head on in open, pitched battle.
No.Fitz would need to get creative this time.And he would, for this was a fight he could not afford to lose.
If he lost, he’d find himself halfway down the aisle before he knew what he was about.And that was a fate Fitz would not wish upon his worst enemy, much less upon himself, whom he mostly quite liked.
Nothing he had seen of the wedded state had recommended it to him—not his own parents’ tempestuous dramas nor his grandparents’ famously icy hatred; not his sister’s polite distance nor his brother’s grim adherence to duty.
When it came to matrimony, taking it all together, Fitz thought he’d really rather not.
With two older siblings ready and willing to sacrifice themselves upon the matrimonial altar, Fitz didn’t see why he should be forced to marry at all.But Father would not be reasoned with.So he would have to be gotten round, somehow.
For tonight, Fitz set himself to be agreeable to the seemingly endless parade of young girls garbed in unrelenting white, to whom he was subjected by their giddy hostess.He danced every dance, scrupulously avoiding dancing more than once with the same partner.He fetched lemonade and ratafia punch and plates of cake.He did not yawn in their faces as he marveled, over and over, at the frightfulness of the weather.
And he plotted the downfall of his father’s hopes and dreams.
The hour grew late.Every conversation traversed the same, well-worn path, the social conventions of their set as tight and confining as Fitz’s finely tailored black tailcoat and his black leather dancing shoes.For the thousandth time, he wished it was permissible to wear riding boots to a ball.Or his trusty, weather-beaten brogues, molded perfectly to his foot after hours spent tramping through wet underbrush in the cool, crisp mist before dawn.
Cool and crisp, as concepts, had never felt further out of reach than at this moment, he reflected as he squired the fiftieth demure debutante to the refreshment table and handed her a cup of tepid punch before relinquishing her to her beaming mama.He was sweltering in his layers of white cotton and black superfine wool.Why didn’t someone open a window?
Christ, what he wouldn’t give for a drink of cold spring water, straight from a rushing brook.
He was fantasizing about ducking his head under that water like an overheated spaniel when the indefatigable Mrs.Lamington got her claws into him once more.
“Here he is, thecharminggentleman I was telling you about!My dear Lord Fitzwilliam, do allow me to introduce you to this charming young lady!”
Not another charming young lady, he groaned inwardly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.Anything but that.
But there was no help for it.Fitz gritted his teeth and opened his eyes—and for a brief, airless instant, the world stopped turning.
She was extraordinary.
Instead of the clusters of silly ringlets sported by most ladies of Fitz’s acquaintance, her hair was pulled tightly back into a coronet of white blonde.A thick rope of the platinum stuff coiled like a crown round her head, an unfashionable style that seemed more suited to a governess than a debutante—but the sensible, no-nonsense effect was somewhat spoiled by the corkscrews of curls that had escaped to dance about her temples.Instead of a pallid pastel, her gown was a silvery gray that ought to have looked dour and half-mourning-ish, but instead seemed to glow along the lines of her body, drawing attention to the curve of her hips and the shape of her legs.Against the silver silk, her skin was the color of wildflower honey, a warm, sun-kissed tan that spoke of time spent outdoors.
Fitz’s gaze returned, inescapably, to her face.Her extraordinarily, unbelievably beautiful face.A smattering of freckles spilled across the bridge of her nose and dappled her high cheekbones.Her chin was sharp, her mouth was wide and pink.He wanted to press his own mouth to it, to know if she could possibly taste as sweet, as fresh, as she looked.
But it was her eyes that held him captive.Large and fringed with light brown lashes, they were an unsettling, unforgettable blue so dark, it almost appeared violet.Fitz fell into them headlong, a rush like that babbling brook of his fantasy filling his ears, and he realized he could not look away…becauseshedidn’t look away.
She didn’t cast her gaze down decorously.No innocent blush stained her cheek.She met his stare with a frank curiosity and a hint of appraisal that whipped Fitz’s spine straight and his broad shoulders back.
Her lips, soft and mobile, quirked at one corner, and it dawned upon Fitz that Mrs.Lamington had stopped speaking and now a response of some sort was called for.
Marshalling his scattered wits, never a copious resource to begin with, Fitz took refuge in executing a perfect bow and proffering his arm to the exquisite girl.
“Well!”Mrs.Lamington fluttered excitedly in Fitz’s peripheral vision.“I shall leave you two charming young people to become better acquainted!”
He was vaguely aware of their hostess taking her leave, as he was vaguely aware of the existence of the rest of the ballroom surrounding them.“I beg your pardon, I didn’t catch your name.”
That quirk of her lips stretched to a real smile, her white teeth flashing.“Caroline.Miss Caroline Quick.And you are one of the sons of the Marquess of Huntingdon.The unmarried son.Forgive me if I seem a bit—it’s only, you are even better looking up close.I didn’t expect that.”
