Fury flamed her cheeks. “How utterly calm and dictatorial you are, my lord.” She matched her tone to his. The only sign she’d breached his patience was the tightening of his jaw. A small but satisfying coup. With Brock, one took one’s accolades however trite they might seem.
He growled, a low feral sound, deep from his chest. “Ginny. I don’t wish to create a scene, but God knows I will.”
Yes, he would. She had no doubt. But talking left too much opportunity for breaching walls she’d carefully erected to save herself from the pain of John Brown’s attentions. “Truly. It’s time I left. Irene will worry—” Ginny couldn’t tear her eyes from his and surrendered. “Fine.” She knew a dead end when it slapped her in the face. Like gloves from the challenge of a morning appointment.
He grinned, the unabashed one from years past. The one that had stolen her heart in the loft of her family’s barn, along with her innocence. “Excellent. Now, tell me. How are Ladies Irene and Cecilia? I’ve quite missed them.”
“Missed them!” Oh, he had a nerve. The fingers of her right hand clenched into a fist at her side. She forced a steadying breath, flexed her stiff fingers. The air left her in a soft whoosh. How could she blame him for wanting to know? He’d single-handedly saved the lives of all three of them the year before.
“Certainly. I’ve kept up with them through Lord and Lady Kimpton. They went quite through an ordeal, if you remember.”
Oh, how he baited her; her temper flared. “Of course I remember the ‘ordeal.’” Like she could ever forget. But she had no wish to rehash the past. Things should stay just that…in the past.
A complicated past. The bottom line was he’d taken her innocence then left her at her parents’ mercy. And for that she would never forgive him.
He leaned in and, as if he read her mind, whispered, stirring the curls at her ears, “Can’t you see your way past my sins?”
Ginny’s gaze snapped to his and a shudder of pure desire passed through her. Oh, how she wanted to hurt him as he’d hurt her. Blast him for deserting her. But life had altered the time she’d needed him most, hadn’t it? Once again, he’d stepped in. She opened her mouth to lash out her frustration, blast him on how unfair life was, remind him their time was lost forever. Tell him the scars she bore were due tohimand him alone. She’d never break down and tell him how she’d physically fought her parents to wait two weeks for him to return. Two weeks had been a lifetime. She couldn’t talk about this now. If ever. “How is your father, my lord?”
“My father—” Something like pain skittered over his expression before his society mask slipped firmly back in place. “The duke is fine. Any news of his health or otherwise would be widely reported, as you well know.”
Yes, she did. She also knew, as did the whole of London, that he had not spoken to his grace for almost a decade. Therein lay the mystery—
“Lady Maudsley. How delightful to see you.”
With a start, the spell of Brock’s locked gaze broke. Ginny tugged her hand from his suffocating heat and turned to the newcomer, irritated at the mildest comfort she’d drawn from Brock’s touch. The uptick in her pulse. The hair-raising awareness he seemed to evoke at every possible opportunity. She despised the debt she owed him.
In an automated gesture, her left hand fluttered up to the tingling sensation on her forehead, but she managed to drop her hand before touching the artfully arranged curls that covered the barely faded scar tissue. A parting, yet lasting, gift from her late husband. “Lord Griston,” she said, with a short curtsey and a strained smile. “Thank you. It has been a very long year.”If he only knew.
“Griston.” Brock’s brusqueness surprised her.
The Earl of Griston ignored Brock, speaking directly to Ginny. “Lovely concerto tonight. It pales considerably by your very presence, my lady.”
The heat in her face was sudden and hot and likely clashed with her pale, freckled skin horrifically. “You are too kind, sir.” It was difficult not to be flattered by the attention. It had been years after all. Ten, to be exact.
The earl appeared somewhere in his early thirties. If memory served, he’d already sired an heir. The man was posh. His frame was tall and slender. His carefully mussed blond locks showed he likely spent more time on his toilette than most of the women of theton. Of course, he didn’t have the tortuous corset with which to contend.
The urge to laugh for the first time in literally years banded her chest. And not the nervous shrill that in recent past had sent grown men running and women tittering behind their fashionable fans.
“Griston, if you’ll pardon us, Lady Maudsley and I are in a private conversation.” Brock used his unending height and bulk to intimidating perfection. Lord Griston took a short step back.
Aggravated, Ginny tapped Brock’s shoulder sharply with her fan, and her laughter—the nervous shrill one she abhorred—erupted. “Don’t be silly, Lord Brockway.”
Brock gauged her with a speculative look she chose to ignore. “I beg your pardon, madam. I was under the impression it was your urgent desire to return home.”
More heat crawled up her neck. Wiping the scowl from her face, she looked Griston. “I’m certain I can spare a moment,” she murmured.
The earl’s earnest expression grew concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“All is fine, my lord.” A sheepish smile stole through her. “I…well…this is my first outing since—well…I admit, I’m concerned for my daughters. They’ve suffered much this past year.”
“Of course, my lady. If need be, I can summon your carriage?”
“No. No, need. It’s silly, really. I’m sure they’re fine. I just feel… so out of touch,” she said, hoping she didn’t sound as daft as she feared.
“You don’t in the least. Perhaps a turnabout the room?”
“Um, well—” Ginny caught Brock’s smirk and squared her shoulders. Brock’s arrogance knew no bounds. “I would be delighted, sir. Perhaps a quick turn, then, I really must go.”
