And why and wherefore no oneunderstands.
—Byron,“Don Juan”, Canto1
Ten months later
London, July 1867
Ottilie Hamilton stifleda yawn and forced herself to smile at the elderly gentleman standing before her. “I am terribly sorry, Lord Towne, but I seem to have overstrained my feet tonight. I will be retiring early. Lady Hudsyn and I were about to ask Lord Hudsyn to escort us home.”
“I’m sorry to hear it, Miss Hamilton. I hoped to have the pleasure of dancing with you. Your aunt has sung your praises, and this is the first ball I have seen you attend this year.”
“I’m afraid I only arrived in London from Canterbury a few days ago, and I am still exhausted from my journey. But I am certain we will get a chance to dance together in the near future,” Ottilie lied. She did not intend to frequent society balls during her holiday or participate in her aunt’s scheme to marry her off to someone old enough to be her grandfather.
“I do hope so, Miss Hamilton.” Lord Towne bowed and exchanged a glance with Lady Hudsyn before retreating as if she possessed the power of divine intervention and could force Ottilie to acquiesce.
As soon as the gentleman strolled out of earshot, Lady Hudsyn turned to admonish her niece. “Your behavior was uncivil. Society has certain expectations of a lady, and tired feet do not provide sufficient reason for rebuffing a gentleman. It’s unacceptable.”
“I know, Aunt, and that is why I am grateful not to be part of society. To think a lady must dance whether she feels like it not just to spare a gentleman’s feelings strikes me as absurd.”
Lady Hudsyn glared at Ottilie. “I do wish you would consider your age, dear. At six-and-twenty, your beauty will not last forever.”
“Idoconsider it, which is why I claimed my independence long ago and have little interest in dancing with Lord Towne, who is nearing fifty.”
“Lord Towne is a baron with an estate and a fortune to his name.”
Ottilie sighed. “I don’t need a fortune, Aunt. As I have told you, I am happy with the life I have chosen for myself.”
Lady Hudsyn compressed her lips as she often did to express her grave disapproval. “Well, you’d best find my son. We must leave posthaste, or Lord Towne will realize what a little liar you are.”
“Good idea,” Ottilie said, ignoring her aunt’s dig. “I haven’t seen Henry since he escorted us here, and he promised to introduce me to the notorious Mr. Bastin. It’s the only reason I agreed to attend this ball—and the delicious food, of course.”
“The writer?” Lady Hudsyn spat out the wordwriteras if it left an acrid taste in her mouth.
“Yes.” Ottilie craned her neck in search of her cousin.
“How did my son come to know such a man? And what is he doing here?” Lady Hudsyn frowned. “I am not sure I approve. Mr. Bastin has the reputation of being a rapscallion.”
“And a rather handsome one at that,” Ottilie said as she caught sight of her cousin standing next to a well-built gentleman who she recognized to be Jack Bastin. Fame had made the writer easily identifiable. Since bursting onto the literary scene with the publication of his controversial novel,The Renegade, it seemed nothing was written about him without making mention of his dangerously handsome and brooding countenance. And now Ottilie could see the depictions weren’t exaggerated. His angular face sported sculpted cheekbones, a Roman nose, and full lips. These delectable features were complemented by a head of tousled dark hair, which rested on his shirt collar and grew into long sideburns on his jawline.
Mr. Bastin appeared to be in deep conversation with a middle-aged woman who looked fetching in a dark-green silk gown. And Henry conversed with a distinguished silver-haired gentleman standing beside her.
“Do you see him?” Lady Hudsyn asked.
“He’s over there.”
Lady Hudsyn turned her head to follow Ottilie’s gaze. Her height allowed her a clear view of her son without the need to crane her neck.
“Who is he talking to?” Ottilie asked.
“Lord Enwick,” her aunt said with a hint of approval. “Lady Enwick is next to him in the green dress, talking to that handsome young man. Who is he, I wonder?”
“That is Mr. Bastin. I recognize him from his likeness printed in the newspapers.”
“Oh.” Lady Hudsyn curled her lip.
“Shall we go?” Ottilie stepped forward, but her aunt caught hold of her arm. “I do hate to disrupt Henry’s evening. Are you certain you won’t change your mind and take a turn on the dance floor with Lord Towne, Ottilie dear?” Lady Hudsyn raised her eyebrows in a questioning manner.
“Don’t judge me, Aunt. It is not you who has been pestered to death and expected to dance all night without having a moment to yourself.”
