James Sebastian Dale was not partial to large social gatherings. He much preferred spending his evenings at home, alone, and in the company of a good book. But with his son, Michael, home on leave from university, it was James’s fatherly duty to make sure Michael improved upon his social skills. He’d need them when the time came for him to pick out a wife.
So with this roundabout way of ensuring the continuation of his family name in mind, James had arrived at the Pennington ball, offered Michael a couple of pointers, and encouraged him to ask a young lady to dance. Standing on the sidelines, he watched his son with pride. The boy cut a dashing figure in his evening attire and, James noted with satisfaction, his dance partner wasn’t the only woman who looked to be admiring him.
“I’m glad you were able to join us this evening,” James’s host, long-time friend, and former client, Viscount Pennington, murmured as he came to stand next to James. Heralding from an affluent family, James had attended both Eton and Cambridge, and was thus well-acquainted with numerous peers. “One doesn’t often have the pleasure of your company.”
“As you know, I’m married to my work, though I will admit it is good to get out on occasion.”
“You deserve to be revered,” Pennington said. “Not only for your legal mind, but for your dedication. I dare say most men in your position would rather choose a life of leisure.”
James snorted. His father was one of the wealthiest landowners in England so James had no need for employment. He could afford to do nothing, but what would be the point of that? “Such an existence would bore me. I find I relish the challenge of a good case, never mind the satisfaction of delivering an indisputable argument in court.”
“To be sure, I cannot complain. Had it not been for you I fear Mr. Hardwick would have gotten away with murder after his cotton mill burned to the ground. I’m glad he was held to account for his negligence.”
“Agreed.”
Pennington had risked his own reputation by making his dealings with Hardwick publically known, but as the primary investor, he’d felt responsible for the women who lost their lives due to negligence.
“Does Michael intend to become a barrister too?”
James returned his gaze to the dance floor and located Michael. “He’s more timid in nature than I and would rather avoid public speaking. As such, he is studying to become a solicitor instead.”
“I wish I would have followed your example with regard to my own children’s education. It would do them good to work for a living, if only temporarily.”
“They’re still young enough for you to encourage them to do so.” A glimpse of shimmering gold caught the corner of James’s eye.
He shifted his gaze and tried to locate it while Pennington proceeded to argue his point. Another hint of gold flashed in response to the bright glow from hundreds of candles placed in the overhead chandelier. James stared at the dance floor. An unfamiliar sense of expectation gripped his stomach as the dancers swirled about, repositioning themselves, until…
Every cell in his body tightened. His mouth went dry and his heart beat with increased force. Because there, smiling at the man with whom she partnered, was the loveliest creature he’d ever laid eyes on. Elegant and stunningly beautiful with her blonde curls framing her heart-shaped face, eyes sparkling with merriment, and a teasing smile curving her full-bodied lips, the lady James beheld stole his breath.
Of course, she was probably some man’s wife – the sort of woman he had no business ogling. But how could he not when her body alone, clad in shimmering silk, was so perfectly curved and proportioned. He swallowed, fisted his hands by his sides, and tried to add as much indifference to his tone as possible when he asked Pennington, “Who’s the woman in gold? I don’t believe I recognize her.”
“That would be Mrs. Hewitt. Her husband is Mr. George Hewitt, the furniture manufacturer.”
Disappointment raced through James’s veins and settled in his gut. “I see,” he muttered.
“Ah! It seems the dance is ending.” Pennington gave James a nudge. “Come on, Dale. I’ll introduce you.”
“I really don’t think,” James began, his frown deepening when Pennington walked away and left him no choice but to follow. The viscount was clearly oblivious to the reason behind his interest and did not realize an introduction would be useless given the lady’s attachment.
Muttering a curse, he cast a hasty glance in his son’s direction, noted he was now happily engaged in conversation with a couple of young men his age, and went in pursuit. Having affairs with married women wasn’t his style, so what was the point in meeting the woman?
“Mrs. Hewitt,” Pennington said, drawing her attention as he approached. “Allow me to introduce you to Mr. Dale, the finest barrister of my acquaintance. Mr. Dale, I present to you Mrs. George Hewitt.”
Hands clasped behind his back, James executed a short bow while holding the lady’s gaze. In spite of schooling his features, he doubted he managed to hide his admiration. This close, she was even lovelier than she’d been at a distance. There were finer details he’d missed before, like the length of her sooty lashes, the charming laugh-lines at the edge of her eyes, which were, he saw now, not simply blue but a merging of sky and ocean.
His heart kicked into a faster rhythm as muscles flexed and strained in an effort to hold himself steady. She wasn’t for him, but damn if he wouldn’t allow himself a moment to simply reflect on her beauty.
“A pleasure,” he murmured.
“Likewise.” Her voice was soft and slightly melodic. The edge of her mouth curved to form a partial smile, and James was lost – lost in the momentary triumph of being the subject of her appreciation.
He reminded himself for the umpteenth time that this was a married woman. They would never share more than a brief conversation. But while they did, he would drink in every second, absorb every nuance, and tuck them all away in a private corner of his mind.
“Mrs. Hewitt hails from Cornwall,” Pennington said. “She and her husband both grew up there within one mile of each other.”
“How lovely,” James said, and immediately wanted to kick himself for the bland remark. The problem was he had no desire to speak of her husband or think on the fact that theirs was a love match nurtured since childhood. He’d once imagined himself caught up in such a union. His wife had certainly been most convincing in her feigned affection for him, until they’d spoken their vows.
He tamped down that memory. Clara had been duplicitous and more than ready to jump into other men’s beds in an effort to, as she’d put it, cure her unhappiness.
