Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

H annah learned that James had departed Bath quite by chance. It was Kate who revealed it. She was leaving Bath herself the following day, along with her parents, and had invited Hannah for an early morning gallop to say goodbye.

Riding in Bath wasn't the same as riding at home in the country. The cobblestone streets weren't well suited to horses. Most houses didn't even have an attached stable. The Heywoods' had been obliged to stable their own horses at an inn nearby. One of the grooms had brought Hannah's dappled gray mare, Jubilee, to her that morning, saddled and ready. Kate's groom had done the same, delivering her bay gelding, Ember, for her use.

The two young ladies had ridden out toward Lansdown where they'd enjoyed a gallop over the hills. The sun was shining and the sky was clear. It did much to boost Hannah's flagging spirits.

It had been several days since James's proposal and she was still not quite herself. Try as she might, she hadn't been able to get his face out of her head. That look he'd had when she'd refused him. The way he'd flinched.

Hannah didn't regret rejecting his proposal, but she deeply regretted that she had caused him pain. It wasn't in her nature to hurt someone. Indeed, she hadn't imagined that James could be hurt. The realization that she had been the one to do it—that she'd had that power over him—had rattled her to her core.

She'd taken little enjoyment in her season in the days since. Not the dance at the Assembly Rooms, nor the dinner party she'd been invited to. She hadn't even been able to focus on writing her cat article for the Animal Advocate .

She was in perpetual dread of crossing paths with James again. And not because she was afraid of his reaction, but because she was worried about her own. Given what had happened between them, how on earth would she manage to look him in the eye?

Kate brought her gelding to a standstill at the top of the rise. She lifted her head to the sky, inhaling a deep breath of fresh air. "I shall miss this," she said.

"I shall miss you," Hannah replied, bringing Jubilee to a halt beside her. The gray mare tossed her head, objecting to the restraint. She far preferred galloping to standing still. "I wish you could stay longer."

"So do I," Kate said. "Alas, Bath will soon be sorely lacking in Beresfords. Ivo is to be the last of us, and he only for another few days. He's accompanying Meg and her father back to Letchford Hall on Saturday."

Hannah gave her an enquiring look. She wouldn't allow herself to ask about James outright. She had no wish to betray a particular interest in him. As far as she knew, Kate wasn't aware of her older brother's proposal. No one was, except for Hannah's mother and father.

But all of Bath had seen him waltz with Hannah and sup with her at the ball. All were surely wondering if there was anything more to his behavior than mere civility to a young lady soon to be connected to him by marriage.

"James has already gone," Kate said in answer to Hannah's unspoken question. "He left the day after the Carletons' ball. Gone back to London, apparently. The insufferable fellow. I'd begun to think he might have a reason to stay, but…" Her brow creased. "As all my brothers do, he takes pleasure in thwarting me."

Hannah turned Jubilee in a circle to calm the mare's restlessness.

So, James had returned to London. And on the same day Hannah had refused his proposal. She supposed that was an end to it.

It should be a relief, really. Now she wouldn't have to see him again. Not until Kate and Charles's wedding, and that was months away.

But Hannah didn't feel very relieved. On the contrary. She felt the same lingering sense of regret she'd felt when she had refused him. He must have been badly hurt indeed to have left Bath so quickly.

"You're not disappointed, are you?" Kate asked.

"Disappointed? Me?" Hannah smiled. "Why should I be?"

"You must know we've been teasing James awfully about his reasons for coming to Bath. The truth of it is, I'd hoped he had come to court you."

Hannah bent her head, adjusting her gloved hands on her reins as Jubilee pranced beneath her. She made no reply.

Kate didn't require one. "I suppose, all along, it must have been this business with Ivo and Meg that brought James here. He didn't approve of their attachment initially."

Hannah had observed that much for herself when she and Charles had visited Beasley Park in January. Then, Meg Burton-Smythe had called unexpectedly during an after-dinner dance. The reception she had received from James and his family had been chilly at best. Understandably so, given the fact that Meg's father, Sir Frederick Burton-Smythe, and Lord Allendale were enemies of longstanding.

"He must have required further proof of Ivo's affections," Kate said. "Once assured, he had no more cause to remain. Nor why would he? James has no great fondness for Bath. He far prefers London. There were rumors last autumn that he might be courting Lady Augusta Newall, daughter of the Marquess of Deane. She's a paragon, apparently, as well as being highly connected. Perhaps he's returned to her?" She gave an absent pat to her gelding's gleaming neck. "Shall we ride back?"

Hannah numbly agreed that they should. The casual revelation that James had recently been pursuing someone else shouldn't matter to her. She had refused his offer, and there was an end to it. The information stung nonetheless.

A paragon, Kate had called the young lady.

A paragon.

Meanwhile, James had blithely referenced Hannah's failings even as he was professing his admiration for her. He'd spoken of struggling over his feelings. Of having misgivings.

It hurt far more to recall it than it had hurt in the actual moment. Then, she'd been too stunned to allow the words to properly penetrate. But not now.

She mutely turned Jubilee to follow Ember as Kate guided her gelding back toward town. Their respective grooms followed after them at a distance.

"James thinks only in terms of great alliances," Kate went on. "As though we Beresfords are pawns on a board, incapable of moving unless it's to advance some prestigious game."

Hannah rode up alongside her. The skirts of her close-fitting black wool riding habit fluttered in the breeze that gusted over the hills. "Has he always thought so?"

"He was encouraged in the belief by my great-grandfather. He had always dreamed that the family would regain its reputation. It was his son—my grandfather—who first submerged us in scandal. He was a known highwayman, you know. It's all rather shocking."

Hannah listened with unwilling attentiveness. She wished she weren't so eager to know more, but she couldn't seem to help herself. "A highwayman? Truly?"

"Oh, yes. He was a dreadful rogue. I never knew him myself. He died abroad, long before my parents married. Local people near Beasley Park still remember him, though. They still talk ."

"One can't help who one's ancestors are."

"That's what Charles says."

"Charles knows?"

"I confessed it to him when the two of you visited Beasley. He did not seem troubled to hear it."

"Does it trouble you ?" Hannah asked. "Having a family scandal in your past?"

"Not as much as it does James. Then again, he is the heir. It's he who must take the family into the future, not I." Kate flashed Hannah a sudden smile. "I shall soon be a Heywood, shan't I?"

Hannah smiled in return. "You certainly shall."

The following day, she bid goodbye to Kate and her parents. The day after that, Ivo and Meg Burton-Smythe departed, along with Meg's father, Sir Frederick. Hannah was left on her own in Bath with her parents and Charles.

This, it seemed was the real start of her season, not the brief illusion of romance she'd nurtured at the Carletons' ball. James was gone, probably returned to his pursuit of his London paragon. And Hannah was here, focused on her own future. An imperfect future, to be sure, but one that she hoped would ultimately be perfect for her.

* * *

The Marquess of Deane's sprawling house in Mayfair boasted one of the grandest ballrooms in London. A trio of enormous imported crystal chandeliers hung from a domed ceiling that had been artfully painted to resemble the summer sky—all white clouds, shimmering sunlight, and flawless blue heavens. The guests gathered beneath it were no less illustrious. Noblemen and women of every rank were in attendance, each of them immaculately tailored, exquisitely coiffed, and dripping in jeweled cufflinks, diamond pins, and costly parures.

James crossed the crowded dance floor as the orchestra tuned up for another waltz. He had promised this one to Lady Augusta, the marquess's daughter.

The two of them had first met last year at a society dinner party. They had been seated beside each other at table. A pleasant enough experience.

It had occurred to James then that Lady Augusta possessed all the qualities he desired in a wife. He hadn't acted on the observation. Despite her inarguable perfections, she had failed to stir his interest. However, in the aftermath of Hannah Heywood's stinging rejection, James's thoughts had once again turned to the estimable Lady Augusta. Not eagerly, by any means, but with a certain sense of resignation.

Whatever tumult he felt in his heart, he was resolved to do his duty. There would be no more unplanned deviations from the course he'd set for his life.

"Lord St. Clare!" Another young lady hailed him as he passed. A delicate blond, fair of face and figure, she wore a lilac silk ball gown and three gleaming strands of amethysts.

It was Bertrice Paley, the sister of Silas Paley, one of James's classmates at Eton. James had once stayed with Silas's family during the school holidays. A tedious visit, during which Silas had peppered James with questions about the Beresford family's scandalous history.

James grudgingly stopped to acknowledge her. "Miss Paley." He bowed.

She curtsied briefly before batting him with her lace fan in mock displeasure. "I didn't know you were in London, sir. You might have called on my brother and me. We are both in town at present, with my father."

"How is Sir Andrew?" James asked. The baronet was afflicted with gout, an ailment from which he'd been suffering for many years.

"Poorly," Miss Paley said. "He remains at home this evening. Indeed, he's threatening to leave London to take the waters. I have been attempting to dissuade him, but he insists we will depart within the week. It is most inconvenient."

"Please send him my regards."

"You may deliver them yourself, my lord, when you visit us." She dropped a calculating glance to her dance card. "Shall I put you down for a march?"

"I would be honored," James said. Taking his leave of Miss Paley, he walked on.

Up ahead, Lady Augusta was just leaving the floor, having completed a country dance on the arm of a duke's son. She murmured something to the young gentleman before detaching herself and moving toward James. "Lord St. Clare. I believe this waltz is yours."

James smiled. There was no warmth in it. He felt tonight just as he'd felt at every engagement he'd attended since returning to London—utterly empty. "I am come to claim it, my lady."

Lady Augusta smiled serenely in return. Her chestnut ringlets were caught up in pearl combs, revealing the swanlike grace of her long neck. She was an objectively beautiful young woman, in addition to her copious other charms. She had elegance in abundance. Confidence. Poise. Add to that, her wealth and pedigree, and it was plain why so many considered her to be the catch of the season.

She permitted James to lead her back onto the floor. They exchanged a bow and a curtsy as the orchestra struck up a waltz.

It was Strauss.

James recognized the melody as he stepped forward, taking Lady Augusta's right hand in his and setting his other hand at her waist. But it wasn't the melody he heard as he led her into the first swirling turn. His sullen heart overshadowed the music with quite another waltz. The Lanner waltz he'd danced with Hannah Heywood in Bath.

An aching swell of bitterness constricted his chest.

It took an effort not to succumb to it.

All his life, James had witnessed his parents all-consuming love for each other. It was an emotional anomaly, he'd believed. So rare as to be unattainable. Never once had he contemplated meeting a girl who would inspire such impassioned feelings within his own jaded soul. He had not thought it possible.

Until Hannah.

A young lady so beautiful and sweet, he'd known almost instantly, despite sense, despite strategy, that she was the one who had been waiting for him all along.

But it was impossible.

And not only because she wasn't right for him, but because she didn't want him.

Swallowing his bitterness, James refocused his attention on Lady Augusta. It was she who best suited his plans for the future. She was ideal in appearance, in behavior, in bloodline. And he felt…

Nothing.

The same nothing he'd felt on every other occasion he'd conversed with her, or danced with her, or taken her for a turn in a moonlit garden. She may be perfect for him on paper, but in reality, she fell entirely short of the mark.

He left the ball not long after dancing with her and Miss Paley, returning to his parents' townhouse in Grosvenor Square. He helped himself to a large glass of brandy in the drawing room and downed it one swallow. After pouring himself another, he sank down in a wingchair by the cavernous fireplace, staring into the dwindling flames. He was still there, several hours—and several glasses of brandy—later, when his mother quietly entered the room.

She was wearing her flannel dressing gown, her thick mink hair arranged in its nighttime plait.

"What are you doing sitting here alone in the dark?" she asked.

"Drinking myself into a stupor," he answered flatly.

"Brooding, more like." Her slippered feet were silent on the thick carpet as she came to the fireplace. She stood over him a moment, her dark brows sunk in a measuring frown. "I've scarcely seen you since you arrived. You've spent every minute boxing, crossing foils with your fencing master, or dining at your club."

"I'm sorry I haven't been more attentive."

"I require no apology. I'd prefer an explanation."

"Father hasn't confided in you?" James huffed into his empty glass. "I'm amazed."

"Don't be impertinent," his mother said sternly. "You're not too old for me to box your ears." She drew closer to him. "Of course he's told me about Miss Heywood rejecting you. And about your belief that her refusal has saved you from making a grievous mistake."

James had forgotten he'd said that. Thinking of it now, he recognized the sentiment for what it was. Doubtless his father had recognized it too. It had been the very definition of sour grapes.

"What puzzles me is why you're behaving this way," his mother said. "You should be celebrating your happy escape, not pummeling hapless fellows at a boxing saloon."

"Not only boxing. I was at a ball this evening. It was at the Marquess of Deane's residence."

"I presume you saw Lady Augusta?"

"I did."

"After which you appear more despondent than ever." She studied his face. "Why, James?"

James gave his mother a bleak look. "I'm unhappy."

Her expression softened. "Oh, my poor love." She smoothed a rumpled lock of hair from his brow. "I know you are. But it's an unhappiness of your own making."

"Because I've fixed my heart on the wrong girl."

"Your heart," she murmured. "So, it is engaged?"

"What does it matter? She's not right for me."

His mother touched his cheek. "Right for you? Rubbish. Do you imagine your father was right for me?"

"You and father are soulmates. You've always said so."

"Yes, we are, but we made no sense otherwise. Not when we were your age. Our situations were too different and there were countless obstacles in our way. We had to fight to be together. Surely, I raised you to do the same." She tipped his chin up, compelling him to look her in the eye. "If you want her, my dear, fight for her."

"To what end? She doesn't want me."

"Is that what she said?"

James cast his mind back to those crushing moments after he'd proposed. I do not wish to marry you , she'd told him.

But that wasn't all she'd said.

Recalling the words Hannah had uttered as he'd turned to leave the room, James felt the faintest glimmer of hope.

"There," his mother said. "You see?" Bending over him, she pressed a brisk kiss to his forehead. "I'm going back to bed before your father comes searching for me. If you plan on setting off at first light, I'd advise you to do the same."

James bid his mother good night.

She was right.

Rising from his chair, he summoned his valet.