Chapter Three
Graham looked around the room at the spinning couples in their finery and barely held back a sigh. He had not been to a ball in months, not since the betrayal that had sent him spiraling into himself. Now he felt uncomfortable, especially since it seemed the whole room was determined to stare at him. Judging. Whispering.
Tyndale stepped up beside him and held out a drink. “Here, to buoy your strength.”
Graham shook his head. “I doubt a watered down drink will buoy anything,” he said, though he took the offering before he looked out into the crowd again. “I don’t want to be here.”
Tyndale turned toward him, genuine kindness and understanding in his dark green eyes. “I know, mate. I really do. After Angelica died, coming back to Society was torture. The loss was still fresh and the whispers magnified it. But I promise you it will get easier the more you do it.”
Graham flinched. “It must make you sick to hear me whine about Simon and Meg when compared to your loss.”
Tyndale’s forehead wrinkled and he reached out to squeeze Graham’s arm. “Pain isn’t a competition. You have a right to the feelings in your heart. I just don’t want to see you drown in them.”
Together they looked around the room again and for a moment both were quiet. Then Tyndale glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “Why did you decide to come out tonight?”
Graham shifted. The answer to that was unexpected and complicated. After his impulsive and highly passionate encounter with Lydia Ford at the theatre, life had seemed a little less…grim. And when Tyndale had pushed him to come to the ball, the invitation had seemed less horrifying than it had the first twenty times he’d been asked to return to Society by a well-meaning friend.
“It just felt like time,” he said on a sigh. “I can’t hide forever, can I?”
Tyndale was about to answer, it seemed, when there was a buzz of commotion at the ballroom entrance. Both men turned toward it, and everything in Graham’s world slowed to half-time. A couple had entered the space and the butler was announcing them to the room.
“The Duke and Duchess of Crestwood,” the voice came.
Graham stared as Simon and Meg entered the room. Simon was smiling, that bright, mischievous grin he’d had since the first moment Graham met him. Light to his own darkness when they were boys. His chest hurt as every happy memory they’d shared bombarded him, reminding him of how close they’d been. Making him wish they could be close again, even though Simon’s betrayal still stung.
Meg clung to Simon’s arm, her face lit up with pure happiness. He hadn’t seen his former fiancée since the day they had ended their engagement and he left her brother James’s home for London.
He hadn’t seen Simon since a short time after that, when they’d nearly come to blows at White’s.
“Christ,” Tyndale muttered, interrupting his thoughts. “I’m sorry, Northfield, I had no idea they’d be here tonight.”
Graham swallowed hard past a thick throat. There was a huge part of him that wanted to bolt from the room. But he felt all the eyes of what seemed like the world on him in that moment. The room was watching with more focus and whispering with even more volume than they had when they realized he had come to the party.
If he left…well, that would multiply this scandal that had been caused by Simon and Meg’s imprudence. All of them would suffer for it.
In that moment, Simon looked across the room and met Graham’s eyes. His friend’s face lit with shock, with pain and with regret, and Graham’s stomach turned. He didn’t want to talk to Simon. Not here. Not now. Not yet.
“I have to…I have to move,” Graham muttered, more to himself than to Tyndale. He didn’t wait for his friend’s reply, but took off through the crowd, blindly reaching for escape from the situation and the feelings it evoked in him.
He had to find something to do, something to busy himself so he wouldn’t be bothered, approached, questioned, revealed. And as he edged around the dancefloor, it occurred to him.
He’d dance. He rarely did so, he’d never enjoyed the endeavor, but he was capable of it. And if he were dancing, then he couldn’t be bothered.
But the trick was finding the right partner. He scanned the watching faces around the edge of the ballroom. Most of the women were on the hunt, looking for husbands or a rich mine of gossip. Dancing with one of them would not make the situation better, but worse, for he was certain they would try to comfort him, prod him and lure him.
He didn’t wish to be lured. Just danced with silently.
So he turned his attention to the wallflowers, who were normally in a quiet line along the wall. Tonight, there appeared to be only one lady standing in her spot there, a woman with dark blonde hair pulled back severely in a plain bun. She wore small, dark-rimmed spectacles and a gown with a high neckline and a shapeless quality.
Lady…God, what was her name? His addled mind searched for it, searched for it and finally found it.
Adelaide. He would dance with Lady Adelaide. Certainly no harm could come of that. So he focused his attention and stalked toward her.
Adelaide had been watching the societal drama play out before her with a level of horror and empathy that made her chest hurt. At first when she’d seen Northfield enter the ballroom with the Duke of Tyndale, she had panicked. His return to Society so soon after their encounter at the theatre had felt anything but coincidental, and she’d been terrified he might have realized who she really was and come here looking for her.
Swiftly she’d realized he wasn’t looking for anyone, certainly not her. She’d felt disappointment as well as relief at that realization. But there had also been a small part of her that was proud of the man.
Returning to the whispers of the crowd couldn’t be easy, but he was facing it. And then the Duke and Duchess of Crestwood had entered the room and everything had come crashing down. People had started talking, staring, and then the two men had looked at each other and…
God, it was just so hard to watch. She’d wanted to rush up to Northfield and comfort him, somehow. To draw him away from the pain this blasted situation was obviously causing him. She hadn’t, of course, for it wasn’t her place. Northfield didn’t want her, he wanted an illusion. He wanted Lydia. And she didn’t want to muddy the lines between herself and the character she’d created.
So when he’d turned to come across the room and suddenly his gaze focused on her, it was like the world had screeched to a halt. His eyes were so bright and he had tamed his long hair back in a queue and trimmed his beard, though not shaved it. He was…glorious. And now he was almost with her and it was becoming less and less likely that she wasn’t his target in the room.
“Oh God,” she murmured as he reached her. “Merde.”
He stopped and smiled down at her, but it wasn’t one of those sensual half-smirks he’d given to Lydia two nights before. No, this was something false and forced, and he didn’t even meet her eyes. But God, how he smelled good. Like leather. He wasn’t even wearing leather.
“Good evening, Lady Adelaide,” he said.
She swallowed at the sound of his deep voice. It reminded her once again of those stolen moments in her dressing room, and all she could think of was his body moving against hers.
“Y-Your Grace,” she managed to squeak out.
His gaze narrowed as he looked at her face, and her heart stopped beating. Had he recognized her voice? Was he figuring her out right this very moment?
But then he shook his head and said, “I have come to ask you for a dance, my lady. If your card isn’t full.”
She stared up at him, with his false smiles and his overly solicitous tone. Everything about what he was asking now was… artificial. He didn’t want her. He wanted a way to escape and he saw her, a wallflower, as the easiest way to do that.
He was using her. Annoyance flared in her chest as she folded her arms. “Why?”
He sputtered at her response and said, “Wh-why?”
She nodded slowly. “Yes, why?”
He peeked over his shoulder at the Duke and Duchess of Crestwood. They were standing now with the Duke and Duchess of Abernathe. The duchess, Emma, was one of Adelaide’s closest friends, and Adelaide could see the concern on Emma’s face. They were all talking very closely and very obviously about Northfield.
“Because,” Northfield said, and then his countenance changed. The counterfeit pleasantness faded and was replaced by something more real. “Because I have the world staring, my lady. And I can’t run out of this room if I ever desire to return to it.”
Her lips parted at the pure honesty of that response. It softened the edge of her irritation and she reached out a hand. “Very well,” she said. “I would be happy to dance with you, Your Grace.”
Relief cascaded over his features like a waterfall and he took her hand to guide her to the dancefloor. Electric awareness jolted through her when he touched her, even though it was through two pairs of gloves. She thought again of being in his arms, kissed thoroughly, his big body hard and insistent and—
He cleared his throat as the music began, and she shook the thoughts away as best she could to focus on the steps. They moved together for a while in silence, coming in to each other, then away, for it was an elaborate country dance he’d chosen to participate in. He moved with grace and confidence, and she found herself looking at him from the corner of her eye.
“You’re good at this,” she said at last, unable to keep her tongue.
He moved in toward her, touching her palm with his as they slid in tandem. Then he swung away so it was just their fingers touching. “You are surprised?” he asked.
She shrugged one shoulder, keeping her eyes forward rather than stealing a half glance at him again. It was almost impossible, for he now drew her in a much deeper way than he ever had before. After all, she knew what he tasted like.
“I am, I admit,” she said. “After all, the world knows you do not dance.”
“I do not like to dance,” he corrected as they came face to face again.
His expression was a bit more relaxed now than it had been when he first approached her. She found herself glad of that, for she felt like she was looking at the same man who had talked to her at the theatre. The other, the one who was twisted with discomfort and pain…he was hard to look at. At least without offering him comfort he would not want.
They spun away and came back in rapid succession, and he finished, “That does not mean I wasn’t trained to be proficient.”
She sighed. “Well, of course you would be perfect at this, just as you are at all things.”
The moment the words left her lips, she longed to call them back. Especially when his bright eyes widened and he tilted his head like he was examining her closer. Once again her stomach clenched. Would he recognize her? And if he did, what would he do?
She stepped away, ducking her head as she spun aside, glad for once that the ridiculously complicated steps kept her from being in his arms. Once there, she might lose her head. Once there, her being Lydia might be too clear.
“I am not perfect,” he said softly as they moved back together.
He was not looking at her anymore, but off into the crowd. Off toward the Duke and Duchess of Crestwood. She followed his gaze, trying to read it. Trying to understand the pain that was bubbling under the surface, but she couldn’t place the source. It could be that he was just humiliated by the circumstances, but it could also be that he had cared, perhaps still cared, for the woman who had thrown him over.
A fact that made her stomach hurt.
He shook his head and his gaze flitted to her again. “You are also a very good dancer, Lady Adelaide,” he said.
She smiled and repeated his earlier question. “You are surprised?” His beat of hesitation told her the answer, and she shook her head. “My lack of partners has nothing to do with my skill, Your Grace. I actually like dancing.”
There was a moment when surprise crossed his features and she almost laughed at his confusion. Of course he would be confused. With his confidence, he likely couldn’t understand her position in the slightest.
“You should do it more often then,” he said, proving her point exactly.
Her smile tightened. “It isn’t exactly my choice.”
Once again his gaze moved away from her, back toward his friends. His mouth thinned, those full lips becoming a line of painful emotion. “No. I suppose not.”
She tilted her head, examining him as they became silent again. Now his attention kept returning, over and over to the Crestwood party, his bright eyes becoming duller and duller with each turn of the dance.
And she longed, yet again, to comfort him somehow. Or to pull him out of his fog, at least. It wasn’t her place. Even as Lydia, the woman he had all but ravished in a dressing room, it wasn’t her place.
But she didn’t give a damn about her place in that moment.
“May I ask you a question?”
He jolted, almost as if he had forgotten her being there, and turned his attention back to her. “You may.”
She swallowed hard before she asked, “Did you love the Duchess of Crestwood?”
A plethora of emotion crossed his face at that question. First there was shock that she would dare to ask it. Then pain and finally anger. Anger at them. Anger at her. His blue eyes narrowed and he speared her with a look that she had no doubt had frozen the hearts of many an adversary.
“Most would not be so bold or so foolish as to ask me such a thing,” he growled.
She supposed the low tone was meant to frighten her, but it only made her think of his sensual words in the theatre a few nights before.
She lifted her chin and fought for the confidence that came so easily when she was Lydia. “Perhaps not, but you have invited me into your dramas by asking me to dance. Now everyone is looking at me as well as you. I cannot help but be curious about what has brought us here.”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then pushed away for a few steps of the dance. When he returned to grasp her hand again, his expression had softened.
“No,” he said, his voice so low it was almost imperceptible over the music. “I did not love her.”
The relief that flooded Adelaide in that moment was far too strong. It felt like someone had taken weights from her shoulders and she was free. But of course she wasn’t. This man didn’t even recognize her as the one he’d tried to seduce. Even if he did, there were no promises. Just a lusty encounter he likely regretted and would never repeat.
But knowing he didn’t love the beautiful woman he kept staring at still brought her ease. She found herself looking at the Crestwood party again. At the duchess, Margaret, especially. No one could deny her beauty. She had a lovely smile and dark, soulful eyes. Ones which held her handsome husband in rapt attention.
There was a connection between them that was powerful, palpable, even across a crowded room. Where Northfield had not loved her, clearly Crestwood did. And she loved him in return.
“They seem happy,” Adelaide murmured.
Northfield’s hand tightened in hers and his frown drew deep. “Thank you. That’s very helpful.”
She jerked her face toward his. “I’m simply saying that if you did not love her and he clearly does, perhaps what happened is for the best.”
For a moment, his expression remained unreadable. Then, to her surprise, it relaxed again. Like he had been freed, just a fraction, from his troubles.
“You are very bold,” he said, though the words weren’t an accusation.
She smiled slightly. “Wallflowers have the prerogative.”
The corner of his mouth lifted up into a half-grin and her heart stuttered. That was the same seductive look he had given her nights ago, when she was Lydia. When he wanted her. Of course, that was entirely impossible in this situation, but she felt the results of it nonetheless.
The music faded and he bowed to her before he took her arm and began to lead her from the floor. “Would you like to take a turn around the veranda?” he asked.
She stumbled at the unexpected question and he steadied her with a brief touch on the small of her back. She drew a few calming breaths before she faced him.
“Still trying to avoid all those eyes?” she asked, feeling them keenly even now.
He arched a brow. “In part.”
“And what is the other part?” she whispered, lost in the intensity of his expression. Lost in the desire she still felt for him even if he didn’t know who she was or what they’d done.
“I like bold,” he said softly.
Her lips parted with surprise. Her inner voice, the intelligent one, screamed at her to refuse him. Reminded her that every moment she spent with this man made it more likely that her secrets would be uncovered. Her life destroyed.
And yet she found herself nodding slowly. “Very well,” she agreed.
He held out his elbow again and she took it, then let him draw her from the ballroom and out into the cool night air.