Lucy smiled at that. “I see you’ve shaved, too. You look quite handsome, Christian. The new crop of lovelies this Season will be certain to notice you.”
Christian stroked his smooth chin. “I’m happy to hear that. Because I’m going to the Hollisters’ ball tomorrow night for the beginning of the Season and I intend to find myself a wife. One who isnotalready betrothed to another man.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bother. Bother. Bother.Sarah wasnotenjoying her evening. Meg had spilled chocolate on her gown and had rushed off to the ladies’ retiring room to see to it. That left Sarah standing near the refreshment table at the Hollisters’ ball, listening to Lavinia Hobbs, the eldest daughter of the Duke of Huntley, take swipes at her.
“Well, of course, we all thought the worst,” Lavinia was saying. “When you were gone so suddenly. Imagine our surprise when it turned out that you were merely rusticating in Bath with Mrs. Upton of all people.”
Sarah sipped the tepid glass of ratafia she’d been cradling in her hand all evening. She’d long ago decided that saying as little as possible about her time away was the best course of action. Lavinia Hobbs was one of the few people who clearly didn’t believe the story Lucy had concocted. Lavinia was detestable as usual, but even her hideous company was better than some others’. Namely, Sarah’s betrothed’s.
For the moment, Lord Branford didn’t relish Lavinia Hobbs’s company any more than anyone else did, so Sarah was actually safe from him if she remained with the spinster. Snide comments were preferable to closing walls.
Sarah was about to suggest to Lavinia that she refill her ratafia glass and volunteer to undertake the task herself when a commotion by the entryway to the ballroom caught her attention.
“Who’s there?” Sarah asked, craning her neck to see above the throng.
Lavinia waved a dismissive hand in the air. “No doubt some popular young lady who’s just made her come-out. Every Season there’s always someone new to make a fuss over. I hear this Season it’s set to be Lady Claire Marchfield.” Lady Lavinia’s eyes narrowed to blue slits. “Don’t betoodisappointed that you’re no longer the belle of the Season, Sarah. That distinction is always fleeting,” Lavinia finished with a smirk.
“Oh, I’m not disappointed,” Sarah replied. Good heavens, Lavinia probably couldn’t keep herself from being rude even if she tried.
“Why would you be?” Lavinia sneered. “You’ve got Lord Branford, after all.”
“Yes, lucky me,” Sarah said under her breath.
Lavinia touched a hand behind her ear. “What was that?”
“Nothing.” Sarah stood on her tiptoes, still trying to get a glimpse of whoever was causing a stir near the doorway.
“Viscount Berkeley,” the Hollisters’ butler intoned, and Sarah gasped and fell back to her heels.
“Viscount Berkeley?” Lavinia echoed, turning up her nose. “ViscountBerkeleycannot possibly be who that crowd is making such a fuss over.”
Just then, Viscount Berkeley himself began to descend the long staircase that led down to the ballroom. Sarah glanced up at him and sucked in her breath again, this time for an entirely different reason.
It was Christian all right. He was there, in the flesh. But he’d shaved. And his hair was close-cropped, and oh, God, he looked positively divine. He was wearing startlingly black evening attire, a crisp white shirt, a perfectly starched snowy cravat that had been expertly tied in a mathematical knot with a bit of a jaunty kick to it, and perfect new shoes. His blond hair was slicked back. His crystal-blue eyes shone in the light of the candles from the chandeliers, and he laughed at something someone with him had said, revealing his bright, white, perfectly aligned teeth and a smile that made her heart ache with the memory of it.
Sarah pressed a hand to her belly. She’d never seen him looking like this. He looked rested, and clean, and…excessivelyhandsome. He’d done it. He’d done what she’d suggested. He’d obviously been to Hoby’s, and Weston’s, Martin’s, and Yardley’s, for he was decked out in some of the finest clothing London had to offer. And he wore it allverywell. No doubt he smelled like firewood. The thought made her go weak at the knees.
He was standing with Lady Alexandra Hobbs, Lavinia’s younger, much nicer sister, and her betrothed, Lord Owen Monroe, Cassandra Swift’s older brother, who was known to cut a dashing figure in town. They were his friends, however, so he wouldn’t be shy with them. Wouldn’t stutter in their presence.
“Good heavens, what the devil has happened to Lord Berkeley?” Lavinia said near her ear.
Sarah couldn’t respond. Her throat had gone dry and her lips wouldn’t form any words.
He’d obviously done quite a lot to change his appearance, but Sarah knew it would take more than that to turn him into the bachelor of the Season. The good looks and fine clothing were a fine start, but he needed reinforcements. Immediately.
She spotted Meg slowly wandering back from the ladies’ retiring room. Sarah quickly excused herself to Lady Lavinia and hurried over to her friend.
Meg was dressed in a gown that had at one time been white, but after much use she’d been forced to dye it pink to hide a few of the stains. Tonight, a blob of chocolate had landed squarely on her bosom, and it seemed her efforts in the retiring room had served only to smear it.
“I’m hopeless,” Meg said, her bright jade-green eyes sparkling and her dark blond curls bouncing as she stared down unhappily at her décolletage. She quickly lifted her head again, however, a wide smile on her face. That was another thing Sarah loved so much about her friend. Meg was irrepressibly happy, even with many reasons not to be. “Who is that who just came in?” Meg asked. “He’s causing quite a stir.”
“That is Lord Berkeley,” Sarah replied, nodding toward Christian and his friends.
Meg’s eyes turned as wide as tea saucers. “YourLord Berkeley?”
“Well, he’s not precisely mine, no. But if you mean the man I’ve been telling you about, then yes.ThatLord Berkeley.”
