Tonight, she’d shown them all. He’d never been as proud to lead a lady to the dance floor as he had been tonight.
There’d been a few whispers and glares, yes— thetonwas theton, after all —and some of the same mocking laughter that had so upset her before, but this time, she hadn’t run from it. She’d held her head high as she’d braved the people who’d tried to make her feel small, to make her cower.
She’d faced them all, and she’d danced.
As soon as he’d taken her into his arms, all the whispers had faded to silence, and all the staring eyes had vanished. It had been just the two of them then, whirling around the dance floor, her hand on his shoulder and his arm around her waist.
And now… he opened his eyes and glanced around his empty bedchamber.
What did he do with himselfnow? What did a man do, after such a dance as that? What became of a man, after he’d held such a lady in his arms? After he’d felt her every breath as if it were his own? He could feel her even now, as if she were still clasped in his arms, her skin warming him through the silk of his gloves.
He was in love with Euphemia Templeton.
He shook his head, a short laugh tearing loose from his throat. It was madness. Pure madness, but when had love ever made any sense?
As little as a few short weeks ago, he’d thought she was someone else, but it didn’t matter. None of that mattered, because somehow, in just those few short weeks, he’d becomehers.
Whether she’d becomehis… well, that was something else.
He braced his hands on the windowsill, his forehead against the glass, but there were no answers for him in the darkened gardens below.
Only shadows.
He didn’t deserve her, but when she’d gazed at him tonight as they’d danced together, there’d been something in her eyes, something that made his heart surge with hope.
There was nothing to be done about it tonight, however. Tomorrow, he’d speak to her, tell her he was hers now, heart and soul, and beg her to be his in return.
But tomorrow was hours away yet, an eternity?—
Tap, tap, tap.
He jerked upright, turning toward the door.
Someone was knocking, at this hour?
He took a hesitant step away from the window, his heart pounding, but no, it couldn’t be. It was too much to hope for. No, it was likely just Crosby, come to collect his evening clothes in one of his fits of organization.
Tap, tap, tap.
He crossed the room, his heart in his throat, grasped the knob in his hand, and slowly, without daring to hope, he opened the door.
It wasn’t Crosby.
Euphemia stood there, half lost in the shadows. “I beg your pardon, Lord Fairmont, but I forgot to… I couldn’t fall asleep until I-I need to say something to you.”
He stood there, mute. The azure gown was gone. She was wearing only a white night rail, the thin cotton billowing around her calves, her feet bare.
He blinked, terrified he’d conjured her from his fevered imagination, and she’d disappear, but she didn’t. Instead, she inched closer, her long, dark eyelashes hiding her blue eyes.
“May I come in?”
There were a dozen reasons why he should turn her away at once. A thousand reasons she shouldn’t enter his bedchamber, but not a single one could stop him from reaching for her.
He took her hand and drew her over the threshold.
She closed the door behind her, and leaned back against it, her gaze holding his.
And he… God, he wanted to wrap his arms around her waist and rest his cheek against her belly, but he didn’t dare touch her, because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to let her go.
