He could not help wondering if Jared’s reentry into society would be so readily welcomed given that he’d been the infamous Phoenix, after all. Even with that disagreeable thought Walker felt certain that Lord Donovan’s enormous efforts on their behalf would prevail over any remaining animosity. And hadn’t Russell said Prince George himself might make an appearance here tonight as well? In truth he looked forward to meeting the future King of England and thanking him…
Walker smiled dryly to himself at the irony of expressing gratitude for what included the cluster of mothers and their daughters who drew closer even as his gaze once more swept the room.
Lord Donovan and Jared were both as tall as he, if not more, so it would be no trouble spotting them if they had arrived, or their lovely wives. If anything might predispose him to marriage, it would be to meet as spirited and indomitable a young woman as both Corie and Lindsay had proved to be. Walker shook his head just thinking of the predicaments they had both gotten themselves into—andout of—
“Oh, Lord Summerlin, here’s my daughter Lady Caroline! She loves to waltz, don’t you, my dear?”
With a sinking realization that there appeared to be no escape from the determined mother who pushed her blushing daughter toward him, Walker handed his chapeau bras to Russell. “If you don’t mind, cousin. Don’t know what else to do with the damnable thing…”
“Not at all,” Russell murmured obligingly, though his gaze had hardened as if Walker had somehow insulted him. “Enjoy the dance.”
Walker doubted it, but he held out his hand to Lady Caroline all the same as the pretty young woman spun excitedly from her mother and reached out with trembling fingers—
“By God, man, there you are!”
Walker dropped his hand as Jared Giles pushed through the crowd toward him. With an apologetic glance at a crestfallen Lady Caroline, he went to meet his friend, who smiled with understanding as he clapped Walker on the back.
“In need of rescue? Come on, we’re in the adjoining room.”
“Another room?”
Jared laughed as they strode past waltzing couples. “Three of them…and all filled with young ladies anxious to make your acquaintance. But right now, Lindsay wishes to greet you…and Lord Donovan and Corie.”
Walker glanced over his shoulder to see Russell following close behind them. Yet he forgot about his cousin as he and Jared entered a smaller assembly room that wasn’t as crowded. At once he heard a delighted outcry as Lindsay rushed forward to greet him.
“Oh, Walker, it’s so good to see you again!” As irrepressible and stunningly lovely as ever, Lindsay embraced him warmly and then pulled him toward a group of people standing in a semicircle. “You remember Corie…and Lord Donovan…”
Walker nodded at Corie, who smiled at him as warmly in welcome, and then reached out to accept Donovan’s firm handshake. Yet before he could utter a word of thanks for all Donovan had done for him, he found himself being steered toward a shorter, rather stout gentleman who Walker nonetheless could tell was a close relation.
“We know him as Walker Burke,” Donovan began by way of introduction. “Lord Summerlin, may I introduce my brother, Nigel, and his wife, Charlotte, the Duke and Duchess of Arundale.”
For a fleeting moment Walker wasn’t sure whether to reach out for a handshake as would an American or to bow to the duke, but with a short laugh Nigel offered his hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Summerlin.” As Charlotte, a wan fretful-looking woman, offered him a thin smile, more to cover her bad teeth than out of any malice, Walker felt Lindsay once more take his arm.
“You haven’t met everyone, my lord, no, indeed.” With that, Lindsay drew him nearer to Donovan, who stepped aside even as the small group seemed to have formed a semicircle again.
All of them stood almost protectively around a young woman wearing an emerald green gown that shimmered in the chandelier’s brilliant light, her lovely brown eyes wide as she stared at him.
“My sister. Miss Marguerite Easton,” came Corie’s voice, though Walker knew he had seen her before.
Yes, three years ago in Roscoff, Brittany. One never forgot such exquisite beauty, glimpsed however briefly.
She’d been younger then, sixteen, perhaps? In truth, he had never imagined seeing her again, that is, until he’d made the decision to accept the new life that fate had dealt him. He’d thought to ask Lindsay about her—he knew she and Lady Donovan wrote constantly to each other—but then had kept silent when imagining she surely must have wed by now.
Yet Corie had said “Miss,” so Marguerite wasn’t married at all.
Might she remember him?
