Page 15 of A Gifted Earl

His heart skipped a beat.

Surely, it couldn’t be her?

For the face he saw by that light was beautiful, surmounted by rich red brown hair and, on the forehead, only partially concealed by an artful fall of curls, was a scar – leaf shaped, and the dark reddish colour which suggested that it had been gained relatively recently. Could it be the same girl, the one he had spent so many hours on?

It seemed improbable, and yet… surely there could not be two women with a scar like that, in that exact location?

He stepped forward a little.

“I’ve not been introduced to any of them – who is she?”

Woodster turned to him.

“Perhaps it’s best to avoid introductions – if you’re not introduced, you can’t be trapped into dancing with them. But if you really want the names, give me a moment to think… ah yes – the one with the scar is Lady Venetia… something. I believe she’s the daughter of a Marquess, but lacks a dowry of appropriate size – at least that’s what the gossip says.”

He went on to give the names of two of the other young women, but Morgan barely heard them – his mind had stopped listening after gaining information about the girl with the scar. He admired her courage in being here, admired the fact that she managed to stand calmly in a room full of the ton, almost certainly knowing full well that she was being judged.

Curiosity filled him – what was she like, this young woman who had the courage to put her horse at near impossible jumps, to stand here in a room full of people guaranteed to disparage her? And… why was she here? She could have waited until the Spring before braving the ton, surely, thus giving her face more time to heal, and for the scar to fade. For her to be here now – and he realised that he had come to the conclusion that it was the same girl, that what he saw on that face was the result of his own handiwork – there must be some driving need.

He simply could not imagine a woman putting herself in such a position unless there was no other option.

Did he want to be introduced?

Or would that be unwise? Would she remember him – after all, she had been dazed, and then drugged with the laudanum, so it was likely that she had no recollection of the events of that day at all. And… what if it wasn’t the same girl – what if it was his memory which was faulty?

Woodster did not seem to have noticed Morgan’s distraction, for he went on speaking.

“Mind you, I doubt the dowry will come into it – with her face ruined like that, she’s not likely to get any serious interest. The most she’ll get is old men propositioning her to become their mistress – a woman disfigured is ruined for society marriage, and becomes fair game for the debauched hunters looking for nothing but their own pleasure. I wouldn’t be interested, myself – I’m young enough that getting a mistress who isn’t disfigured is easy – so why would I bother with the likes of her? But the old men – they only have their money to attract women with…”

A flood of anger rushed through Morgan, stealing his breath. He swallowed, striving for calm. Finally, Woodster was looking at him as if expecting some response. What could he say?

“I… I’ll bear that in mind, Woodster. I’ve certainly no interest in being trapped – into dancing or anything more – by any of these women, scarred or not!”

Woodster clapped him on the back, cheerfully oblivious to the fury that Morgan repressed.

“That’s the right attitude, Templewick. No point in being caught in the parson’s mousetrap until you’re good and ready.”

He forced a false smile onto his face and, thankfully, the men turned their conversation to safer topics, like hunting and horses, which Morgan was well suited to discussing. Internally, his mind went over the previous conversation, even as his eyes repeatedly went back to the still figure of the girl across the room, and he berated himself for not having done a delicate enough job on her face. He had hoped to save her from this sort of disparagement, but he had, very obviously, failed.

*****

Each ball or soiree that they attended drove home to Venetia, even more, the fact that a scar on the face, however small, was enough to utterly change a girl’s future, and her chances for happiness. There had been introductions to gentlemen, but very few had asked her to dance – and those who had done so tended to be older, and rather improper in their manner to her.

Her mother spoke only encouraging words, but Venetia could see the strain building in her, as the chance that Venetia would make a good match was revealed to be vanishingly small. There was, however, nothing to do but go on.

Beside her, her mother stiffened. Venetia turned slightly, looking for the cause, which was immediately obvious. A gentleman approached them. He was older, somewhat portly, and a little red in the face. His eyes were set upon them, and Venetia’s stomach twisted. He did not appeal to her at all, but by his expression, he found her quite of interest.

Next to her mother, Lady Hallam paused in her conversation, and turned to see what had distracted Lady Hardenwell. The gentleman smiled at that and, coming to a stop in front of them, spoke first to Lady Hallam.

“My dear Lady Hallam, might I trouble you to introduce me to your friend and her… daughter?”

Lady Hallam seemed to find this a perfectly ordinary request, although Venetia rather wished that she had not been so accommodating.

“Why of course, my Lord.” She turned to Lady Hardenwell and Venetia. “Lady Hardenwell, Lady Venetia, might I make known to you the Earl of Blatherfort? My Lord, this is the Dowager Lady Hardenwell, and her daughter, Lady Venetia Chater.”

The Earl bowed, and Venetia curtsied in return.

As she did, her mind slipped to the man she had seen at that previous event, the Earl of Templewick – she would far rather be being introduced to that Earl, instead of this one!