Page 41
Her mother’s dark brown eyes widened. “That was quite a speech from you. Pray take care that you are not overheard.”
“Mama, I—”
“I strive to do what is best for you, Cordelia, and yet you do not seem to value my efforts.”
Her chest tightened, and she regretted having come. “Tonight is merely a repeat of every other ball, Mama. My attendance serves little purpose. I would far rather be at home with a good book or back in Berkshire practicing my archery.”
Her mother frowned, clearly displeased. “Nonsense. One must be seen.”
“To what end?” Cordelia asked softly. “Surely you believe, Mama, as I do, that I shall attract no suitor this Season, any more than I did in the last two. I do not wish to dampen your spirits, but I... I feel rather bereft to be here.” Her voice remained almost conversational, though the familiar ache of not belonging made each word more difficult to utter.
Before her mother could answer, Emelia appeared, positively glowing with excitement. She looked exquisite in a gown of the palest pink, complementing the creamy warmth of her complexion. Her blonde curls were arranged with effortless elegance, a scattering of tiny pearls nestled among them, while the animation dancing in her expressive blue eyes made her beauty all the more captivating. More than one gentleman had already found reason to linger nearby, their gazes straying toward her with unconcealed admiration, as though hoping fortune might grant them an introduction.
“Aunt Margaret,” she said breathlessly, “he is here tonight. I feel positively giddy with excitement.”
Cordelia frowned faintly. “Who is here?”
Emelia leaned closer, lowering her voice as though entrusting her with the most delicious of secrets. “Viscount Templeton. Oh, Cori, he is the one. His father is the Earl of Bloomfield, and it is said his son is one of the most eligible gentlemen in England. Though he is in town, he rarely attends such gatherings, but he has been seen several times about town. He even attended Lady Middleton’s ball a fortnight ago! Everyone is wondering whether he has finally decided to take a bride!”
Cordelia inclined her head politely, her interest no more than mild. Then she felt it. A subtle shift swept through the ballroom. Conversation faltered, heads turned, and whispers spread through the crowd. More than one lady raised her painted fan before her lips in the mistaken belief that the gesture concealed her gossip. For the life of her, Cordelia had never understood that particular delusion.
Almost against her will, Cordelia lifted her gaze, looking beyond the dancers toward the edge of the ballroom, where a small gathering had formed around the evening's hostess, Lady Featherstone.
Cordelia caught only glimpses of the gentleman: midnight-black hair, broad shoulders, and a familiar, effortless confidence. Then he turned. Her heart gave one hard, disbelieving beat before seeming to forget its rhythm altogether.
George.
The man whose townhouse she had broken into no fewer than five times over the past few weeks. The man whose silver-gray eyes had gleamed with wicked amusement whenever she climbed through his window armed with a rapier, equal parts defiant and flustered.
A viscount.
The realization struck with startling force. “Oh, no,” she whispered.
He stood beneath glittering crystal chandeliers, impeccably attired, conversing with the evening’s hostess as though he had never lounged in the shadows of his townhouse, delighting in mocking her notions of propriety.
For a moment, she felt distinctly lightheaded.
“Cori?” Emelia whispered. “Are you quite well? You are gripping your fan rather tightly.”
Cordelia forced herself to draw a steady breath. “Yes,” she replied, her voice faint. “Only a slight headache.”
Concern clouded Emelia’s eyes. “Would you like to withdraw to the ladies’ retiring room for a few moments?”
“No one is leaving at this moment,” her mother said crisply.
The viscount’s gaze lifted then, sweeping the room with idle disinterest. And found her. His expression scarcely changed, but something sharpened in his eyes. Then the corner of his mouth curved in a half-smile so unmistakably wicked that she nearly forgot to breathe.
Cordelia almost scoffed at her own absurdity. Even across the ballroom, those silver-gray eyes held her attention. He inclined his head to Lady Featherstone and excused himself, moving through the room with unhurried confidence. He paused to exchange a few words with several gentlemen, apparently unmoved by the attention his presence commanded. Cordelia suspected he knew perfectly well that everyone was watching.
Arrogant, she silently declared, a surprising measure of good humor rushing through her.
The viscount spoke for a few moments with another matron near the edge of the room, his posture relaxed, his expression politely attentive. Cordelia watched him without meaning to, every instinct warning her away even as her gaze followed him helplessly.
Her mother leaned closer, her expression transformed by something like reverence, her voice dropping to an awed whisper. “That lady is the Dowager Marchioness of Thornton. Viscount Templeton’s aunt. She is among the most formidable women in the ton.”
Her mother’s eyes flicked briefly toward the dowager before returning to Cordelia. “A single word from her carries extraordinary weight. She has ended reputations with a glance and elevated families with a nod. To be noticed by her is no small thing, my dear.”
Before Cordelia could respond, Emelia shifted closer, her eyes widening with undisguised excitement. “Oh,” she breathed, barely containing herself, “I do believe they are coming toward us.”
