In the years that followed he’d been forced to accept being someone else, a different person from the one he’d been raised as. There had been little choice but for him to make something new of himself since the education his father had insisted he get wasn’t suited to proper employment. So at the age of five and twenty, Marcus had started over.
“What did you think of her?” Mrs. Lowell’s voice tore Marcus away from his reverie.
No regrets. He’d promised his sister he’d have none.
“Of Lady Louise?” Marcus asked, just to be sure he’d not missed a change in the conversation. When Mrs. Lowell nodded, he allowed himself to ponder the woman he’d met the previous evening. He couldn’t exactly call her beautiful, and yet there had been an elusive something about her that made her unforgettable. He wasn’t sure what it was but… “I like her, though we hardly spoke enough for me to form a proper opinion.”
Redding exchanged a look with Mrs. Lowell, then said, “Perhaps you could—”
“Stop right there,” Marcus said. “If you intend to try your hand at matchmaking, then I suggest you refrain. Grasmere doesn’t want me near his daughter – in fact, I’m inclined to think he’d like nothing more than for me to leave Town permanently. And besides, you’re both making too much of a brief conversation if either of you believes I’ve any romantic interest.”
“I was only going to ask you to elaborate.” Redding started collecting the paper they’d each used to wrap their food. “Interesting assumption you made though.”
“Most insightful,” Mrs. Lowell said with a grin.
Marcus groaned. He had no interest in Lady Louise. He really didn’t. Not beyond wanting to learn why she’d been conversing with a toad and if doing so was a habit of hers. It was just a slight curiosity on his part, nothing more. Because it couldn’t be. Not when he was a former viscount-turned-surgeon and she was destined for something better.
And yet, when he arrived at the Lowells’ home one week later, Marcus couldn’t quite quash his hope of Lady Louise’s also being present.
As usual, when attending Society functions, he showed up late so he could avoid the receiving line. This minimized his chances of running into people who looked down their noses at him. It also allowed him to slip inside without much fuss.
Having handed his outerwear to the butler, Marcus made his way toward the ballroom. He’d zero interest in socializing and only attended events that were hosted in homes where he knew the layout and how to avoid getting noticed.
Some, he considered as he stepped into a small sitting room immediately off the ballroom, might wonder why he bothered showing up at all when he had no wish to see other people. The truth was he came for the music and the atmosphere.
Moving with easy footfalls, Marcus crossed the sitting area and eased the door on the opposite side open. He paused for a second, then snuck unobtrusively into the hallway beyond, arriving behind an intricately carved wooden screen put in place to deter the guests from venturing into this part of the house. The lacework panels at eye level were a gift, allowing him to observe this end of the brightly lit ballroom and the guests who milled about.
A pang of sentimentality gripped his heart. It felt like only yesterday when he’d last waltzed with eager debutantes and exchanged political views with their fathers while sipping champagne. None of those people cared for what he had to say any longer. Hell, they didn’t even want him near them.
A new tune began - one he recognized as Thomas Byström’s “Quadrille”. It had always been one of his favorites, so he was glad he’d arrived in time to hear it. Of course, if things had been different, he’d have asked a young lady to dance it with him. Now he could only watch. With limited visibility.
He angled his head and told himself he was only trying to focus on the notes being played, not because he wished to catch a glimpse of Lady Louise.
“She’s on the other side of the room,” a soft voice said.
Marcus turned to greet his hostess. “Good evening, Mrs. Lowell.”
Dressed in a gown cut from honey-colored taffeta, she leaned against the doorway leading into the sitting room. Extending her arm, she held a glass of champagne toward him.
Marcus took it and drank.
“Henry is busy right now, but I expect he’ll come and see you as soon as he can. I know he’s hoping you’ll join him and the dukes for cards later. Once the rest of the guests have gone home.”
“I’d be happy to. Thank you, Mrs. Lowell.”
She smiled. “You may call me Viola, you know.”
“I do. But it doesn’t feel right.”
She said nothing to this. They both knew his reasoning. No need to reiterate it.
“Have you eaten?” she asked.
“I did so before leaving home, but I wouldn’t say no to some of those macaroons your chef is so famous for.”
“All right.” She grinned. “I’ll have one of the footmen bring you a plate.”
Ten minutes later, Marcus bit into chocolate flavored perfection. He’d returned his attention to the ballroom and was now minding some old friends of his who’d gathered nearby for a chat.
