Normally, he would consider this to be yet another waste of an evening, with people who bored him.People who thoroughly enjoyed the most superficial political discourse, complaints about their trade being curtailed, pointless griping about health issues, and bland comments regarding the weather.
Nonetheless, he arrived precisely on time at the corner of Bishopsgate and Threadneedle Street at the London Tavern.Fully aware of how unfashionably early he was compared to most of those who would attend, Jonathan didn’t give a fig.He wished to be there whenshearrived.
Miss von Ostenfeld had practically invited him herself.
Yes, there was only one reason he was going.One blue-eyed reason.
At the Bishopsgate entrance to the building, the broad stoneporte-cochèresheltered his phaeton as he handed its care over to Alfie, his tiger, who led the horses away even before Jonathan had gone inside.
The door was held open to him, and he strode into the high-ceilinged hall with its massive Argand chandelier, smokeless due to the whale oil it burned.A wide, shallow staircase of Portland stone carried him up one floor, his feet silent on a red Turkish carpet.He wished Miss von Ostenfeld was on his arm.
The “pillared room,” as people called the Great Ballroom, welcomed him into its expanse.It was ripe with the fragrances associated with the merchants’ prosperity, such as beeswax from the hundreds of candles warming the space and illuminating the dance floor — never tallow!— as well as hot-house flowers, wilting gently in their urns dotted around the perimeter.
As Jonathan had predicted, scarcely anyone had arrived yet, apart from the musicians.These were arranged on the raised orchestra gallery, with a rich crimson curtain behind them.
To one side of the ninety-foot-long room, the wildly prosperous hosts and their associates stood chatting, each with a drink in hand.Jonathan caught
He imagined the faint musk of wool and the rich aroma of tobacco clung to these gentlemen who had made their fortunes in trade rather than inheriting them in land.In turn, those aromas lent a subtle merchant’s dignity to the ballroom where they held such grand events.
Nodding to anyone who took note of his singularly early appearance, Jonathan strolled the room’s length, lined with mirrors.Lise would shine more brightly than the enormous chandeliers reflected up and down the room.He was looking forward to dancing with her under the blue-green painted ceiling that reminded him of her intelligent eyes.
Helping himself to a glass of punch that smelled potently of rum and ambition, he took up a position near a pillar wreathed in ivy.Then he told himself he was not watching the door.
He was, of course, watching the door.
Guests were beginning to arrive to a party that probably cost as much as what would be raised in charitable funds.It was yet another place for those with wealth to be seen being generous to those without.Too early for the nobility, but soon, men in KGL uniforms, both the scarlet jacket of the line and light infantry, and the deep blue dolman of the cavalry, of which Henrik von Ostenfeld was one.
Naturally, Jonathan focused on the blue coats, knowing Lise would be close by her brother.
Having spoken with Henrik more than once, he’d appreciated the lieutenant’s frustration at using inaccurate maps of places where war might be won or lost.More than that, the officer disliked so much preparation and so little action.
“We are at war, and yet I spend my days drilling in Hyde Park,” he’d fumed at the dinner party after the ladies had left the dining room.
Six months earlier, Henrik had endured garrison duty in Ireland.He and his fellow KGL members had been used for British defense preparations while learning their own homeland had become overrun by French soldiers.Now, it was likely he’d be sent to the Baltic, perhaps to help neutralize the Danish fleet.
Each time Jonathan had spoken to Henrik, he’d come away admiring the man, who’d joined the King’s German Legion when the Hanoverian Army dissolved.Henrik could have gone home and enjoyed being a wealthy man’s son, but he chose to fight.In that, they shared a trait of needing to do something, rather than sitting back and watching others.
After only one glass of punch, albeit strong as the devil, he saw her, and the air left his lungs in an exclamation of appreciation.Lise wore a gown of pale green silk, high-waisted in the fashion, with short puffed sleeves and a bodice cut just low enough to suggest the full curve of her breasts without demanding attention.
Although they had his attention!
He was actually relieved to see her manner of dress was nothing like Lady Hartwell’s outrageous gown from his parents’ dinner party.His mother had sent him a brief missive via her footman the very next day saying “that woman” was banned from the Castleton home until St.Geoffrey’s Day, which was never.
“Moreover, dearest son, if you have any interest in Lady H, you had best change your mind.”
He’d assured his mother he had none at all.
Unfortunately, his interest was all for a desirable female about to take a packet ship back home across the North Sea where some lucky betrothed was waiting.That didn’t stop Jonathan from taking note of the dark green velvet ribbon that circled beneath Lise’s perfectly-filled bodice, begging someone to tug at its bow.
Her hair was dressed simply, held up by some feminine magic and probably combs, too.He knew well-enough how to make a woman’s hair tumble down about her bare shoulders with the swift removal of small ivory combs.
As he stood up straighter, he banished the thought of seeing Lise in such a saucy state of déshabillé.That honor would rest with that same fortunate man who’d already asked her to be his wife.He had a distinct dislike for him already.
Jonathan had spent the better part of each day since he’d last seen her reminding himself that she was off limits.Engaged.Promised.Spoken for.A woman of honor, bound by a contract that was none of his affair.The disconcerting attraction he’d already felt for her, one that was doomed to begin with, had ramped up, however, once he’d learned not only distance but also another man stood in his way.
Wanting and not having was an unfamiliar feeling.He never took advantage of his impending earldom, not where women were concerned.But that didn’t mean he hadn’t come across a fair lady or two — or half a dozen — who believed letting him enjoy a flyer with her against a library wall or even in a rickety hackney would move her a step closer to becoming his viscountess now, and his countess someday.That was hardly his fault.
However, he couldn’t use his rank to sway Lise into a tryst.And wouldn’t, if he could.
