He stared, his mouth going as dry as dust. Had it only been a few moments ago he’d thought all English ladies looked alike?
His first confused thought was she was Lady Huntington, but he’d never met the marchioness, and this lady…
Hadn’t he seen her before?
Her face...he couldn’t have said why, but there was something familiar about her face that tugged at him, that drew and held his gaze. The delicate arch of her cheekbones, the swell of her bottom lip, the way she lowered her eyelashes to hide her expression…
Her eyes were blue. He couldn’t see them, but somehow, he knew they were blue. Not an ordinary blue, and not a bright blue like a sun-filled sky, but a deeper blue, like the darkest sapphire.
Her hair was gathered into a knot at the back of her head and held in place by a plain blue silk band, but a few loose curls escaped to brush her forehead and the sides of her face. It was simply done—plain even, compared to the other young ladies in the room—but even the modest style couldn’t disguise the lush beauty of that mass of gilded waves.
A strange sensation welled inside him as he stared at her. Had he seen her in a dream? No, that was impossible, but he was certain he’d caught a glimpse of her face before—just a fleeting impression, enough to recognize the shy, wide-set eyes, the curve of her chin.
Wherever it was he’d seen her before, she hadn’t been smiling.
Had he already passed by her tonight without noticing her? Is that why she looked so familiar? Now he’d seen her, he couldn’t believe he could have overlooked her, but then she was lingering beside that pillar, almost as if she were trying to disappear behind it.
Lachlan took in every curve and line of her, from the top of her head to the toes of her slippers, which were peeking out from beneath the hem of her white skirts. Her gown was very fine, but like her hair, it was simple. Aside from a few bits of lace here and there, and a wide silk ribbon around her narrow waist, it was unadorned.
He watched as she melted back against the column, her white gown disappearing into the curved white marble. She’d found a way to vanish, right here in plain sight. Everything about her, from her hair to her gown, to her hiding place beside the column was calculated to avoid attention.
That was why he hadn’t noticed her before. She was doing everything she couldnotto be noticed.
Yet despite these efforts, she had Lachlan’s attention.
All of his attention. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.
Aingeal.
The pale, fine skin, the golden hair, the sweet curves of her face…
She looks like an angel.
Lachlan shook his head to clear it. What the devil? He wasn’t the sort of man to fall into raptures over a pretty face. Romantic fancies were for English lords with nothing better to do. He had no business standing here and gawking at her while his brother and sister waited outside on the street.
He began to weave through the crowd, his brow lowering with annoyance as the people in his path scurried nervously out of his way. Did they suppose he’d toss them aside with a swipe of his enormous paw if they didn’t move? Christ, he hoped all Englishmen weren’t as timid as these. He couldn’t let his sister marry a coward.
He was halfway across the ballroom when the murmur rising in his wake caught the young lady’s attention, and she glanced up. Her gaze caught his, and her brow creased with a frown, as if she thought she recognized him, but couldn’t quite place his face.
He paused, almost certain now they must have met. Remembering Ciaran’s warning about his black scowl, he forced the corners of his lips to curve in an unfamiliar, upward direction.
He must have done it wrong, because she didnotsmile back.
Her mouth dropped open, and she raised one gloved hand to her lips to cover it. Her eyes widened, and the blood drained from her face, leaving her as white as her gown.
Lachlan’s half-smile faded, and he hesitated in the middle of the ballroom, confused by her reaction. Had he scowled at her, without realizing it? If so, his scowl must be as black as Ciaran claimed, because she looked as if she were about to collapse with terror.
He tried again, but she went paler still, and reached out a shaking hand to grasp the back of the chair next to her.
“Hyacinth?” The gray-haired lady who was seated there braced her cane on the floor and half-rose, her own face going pale when she saw the young lady’s expression. “My dear, whatever is the matter? Are you ill?”
The young lady didn’t answer, but continued to stare at him, her lovely face twisted with horror. She tried to back away from him, her panicked gaze darting everywhere, as if she were planning an escape, but she was hemmed in on all sides by the crowd. She jerked her head back to face him, and raised her hand in front of her as if to keep him back. “Don’t come near me.”
Lachlan stared at her, astonished. He glanced behind him, certain he’d find an ogre or a monster lurking there, but she dispelled that notion at once by pointing her finger directly at his face. “You.” Her voice was pitched unnaturally high. “I saw you.”
Lachlan shook his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve only just arrived in London—”
He broke off, his body going rigid with dread. Oh, God. Could she mean she knew him from Scotland, from Lochinver? He stared at her, into her angelic face, and saw his family’s future collapsing with a few words from those perfect pink lips. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else,” he said, his voice cold. He turned abruptly on his heel, but her shaking voice brought him to a halt.
