Chapter 7

Nicholas stared at the young woman at the top of the stairs. Her one hand resting hesitantly on the railing, her honey coloured curls glowed warmly in the candlelight. It couldn't be.

He stepped forward, narrowing his gaze. He could barely believe it. It was her! The hazel-eyed woman from the ballroom.

Heat flushed through him, his heart thudding hard in his chest. Of all the people in the world that he might meet, he had both longed to and hoped he wouldn't. He felt his skin flush red as he recalled that night. He'd been quite offhand to her. He couldn't blame her if she was angry with him. He swallowed hard, his fear redoubling.

"Lord Rothendale!" A loud voice from Nicholas' right interrupted his thoughts. It was Grandfather greeting their host. "Good evening to you."

"Good evening," the tall, sandy-haired man with weary brown eyes murmured, inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement of Grandfather's greeting.

"Lady Rothendale." Grandfather bowed and took the hand of a thin, tense-looking woman with honey-colored hair in a chignon. "And of course, Miss Rowland," Grandfather continued levelly. "I'm pleased to introduce my grandson, Nicholas Lovell, Viscount Blackburne." Grandfather turned to Nicholas.

"Good evening," Nicholas managed. His voice was level, which was good. He was shivering with nerves and discomfort. Meeting anyone was bad enough, but this was ten times more difficult.

Lady Rothendale curtseyed. Lord Rothendale reached for his hand. Nicholas flinched. He wasn't wearing gloves, and neither was Lord Rothendale, and so the scar on his palm would probably be detected. He held out his hand stiffly. If Lord Rothendale noticed the scar, his reaction didn't show on his face.

"Lord Blackburne." The young woman greeted him softly. Nicholas bowed low. This close, he could smell the floral scent of her hair and he was aware of her in ways that made his senses swim. She had a squarish face and honey brown hair that glowed softly in the lamplight. Her nose was small and pert, and she had a pretty chin. Her figure was neither very slim nor very curvaceous, her cheeks flushed, and those inquiring, innocent hazel eyes scanned his face thoughtfully. He flinched as her eyes moved to his scar. He looked away, imagining her disgust. He didn't need to see her distaste and shock to know it was there.

He was used to it. Pretty socialites like her always showed some disgust the first time they saw him.

"Would you like to sit awhile?" Lady Rothendale asked in a refined, clipped tone. "Or would you prefer to proceed directly to the dining-room?"

Nicholas glanced sideways at his grandfather. Having to sit and chit-chat before dinner was, strangely, something he hadn't expected. He longed to escape.

"Let's proceed downstairs directly to dinner instead," Grandfather suggested, and Nicholas felt crippled with relief. He had never felt more thankful to the older man before.

"Did you have a pleasant coach-ride, Lord Blackburne?" Lady Rothendale asked as they walked. Miss Rowland was just in front of him and Lady Rothendale, and he breathed in, trying to ignore the confusing, wonderful floral smell of her.

"No. I mean, London traffic is as it is," Nicholas said uncomfortably. He heard his grandfather splutter. Whether he was laughing at Nicholas' honesty, or disapproving of it, was impossible to tell.

"He's not one for coach travel," Grandfather said swiftly. "You much prefer riding, eh, Nicholas?"

"I do," Nicholas said distantly. He wanted to remind his grandfather that he wasn't a child and didn't need him to speak for him. He squared his shoulders, turning his back pointedly on Grandfather.

"Riding! Now, that's a manly pursuit. Not so, Bernadette?" Lady Rothendale gushed, turning to her daughter.

"Yes."

Her mumbled reply resembled his own and Nicholas felt a stirring of compassion in his heart. Maybe she wasn't the empty-headed socialite he imagined her to be. She hadn't seemed that way on the night at the ball. She had seemed, as she did now, as awkward as he felt. She had not seemed at home at the ball, and she was also being spoken for by her family, just as he was.

He cleared his throat. "Do you ride?" he managed to ask her.

Her stare, eyes round and wide with surprise, twisted his heart just as it had when he'd first seen her in the ballroom. She looked directly at him; not at the scar, not gaping in shock. He felt his heart flutter.

"No. Bernadette does not ride. I think it is unseemly for a lady. Not so, Bernadette?" Lady Rothendale interrupted, answering on behalf of her daughter.

"Yes, Mama."

Nicholas felt his stomach twist queasily. Either Miss Rowland was more than a silly socialite, or she wasn't, but he was not likely to find out if her mother kept on speaking for her. And he desperately wanted to know. He cleared his throat again, trying to rack his brains for another topic of conversation, though lack of practice made it difficult. He'd never had the chance to converse much at balls because women tended to drift off across the ballroom, and even if they did not, he didn't have the courage to approach them.

Lord Rothendale appeared beside him, gesturing him to a chair.

"Sit down, my lord. It's an honour to have you here. And you, Lord Lockwood! Please, take a seat. You are our most honoured guests."

Nicholas swallowed hard. Flattery was something that confused him utterly, as well as making him deeply uncomfortable. He was unused to it. He glanced at Grandfather, but he was settling into the chair the butler pulled out for him and he didn't seem to have noticed Lord Rothendale's comments.

"Fine. Fine house you have here," Grandfather murmured offhandedly as he sat down.

"Thank you, my lord. It's just a modest abode," Lady Rothendale murmured.

Nicholas shut his eyes. If he let annoyance at their flattery and insincerity overwhelm him, he was sure he'd say something rude. He didn't want to. Miss Rowland would be shocked, and he didn't want that.

Miss Rowland took a seat across the table from him. His stomach twisted with nerves.

Clearly, they were trying to force the two of them to converse.

Nicholas cleared his throat, mouth parched suddenly as if he'd swallowed a slice of lemon. She looked back at him, those pretty eyes big and startled.

He took a breath, reminding himself that he had to try.

"Do you always eat dinner at this time?" he asked her, glad that the sound of Lord Rothendale speaking to Grandfather distracted the others at the table.

"No," she murmured.

Nicholas tensed. He had tried his best to start a conversation, and she wasn't being helpful. He looked around and tried to think of something else to say.

"Do you prefer town, or the country?" he asked her after a moment.

She blinked, staring at him in apparent shock. After a second, she wet her lips, looking down at her plate. "Um...the country," she whispered. "I much prefer the countryside to town."

Nicholas swallowed hard. He had done his best. She was just like the other ladies at balls and parties. All she was doing was politely ignoring him. A dark mix of sorrow and anger grew inside him. He didn't want to be here; an object of horror for a shallow young lady.

"Shall I serve the soup, my lord?" the butler asked Lord Rothendale quietly.

"Yes. Please." Lord Rothendale sounded tense; impatient.

Nicholas shut his eyes for a moment, ready to endure the dinner.

Grandfather did most of the talking. He chatted about the East India company, boring everyone at the table, even, Nicholas thought, Lord Rothendale, though the baron kept up the conversation quite a while.

"Shall we retire to the drawing room after dinner?" Lady Rothendale asked in a brittle voice as the dessert was served. It was syllabub, a dessert Nicholas was not especially keen on, but he couldn't taste it anyway. He ate mechanically, as he had the whole dinner. Opposite him, Miss Rowland took small, nervous mouthfuls, eyeing him sometimes like a mouse eyes a cat. He winced.

"Why not? Why not?" Grandfather asked expansively. "A brandy would be grand, eh, what?" He beamed at Nicholas. Nicholas looked at the table, cheeks burning. He very rarely drank alcohol and Grandfather knew that.

"Why don't you play for us, Bernadette?" Lady Rothendale encouraged as they retired to the drawing room.

Nicholas felt a wrench of awkwardness. She was probably a terrible pianist, and he was going to have to endure her playing and try to think of something polite to say afterwards. Marcia was a truly good pianist, but many young ladies just played to be able to claim that they had mastered it.

He focused his attention on Lord Rothendale, not watching as she went to the piano, seeing her looking shy and uncomfortable.

Miss Rowland started playing. The first notes were soft and sorrowful and lovely. The melody wrenched his heart, speaking of a sadness that he understood. He stared at her.

Her honey brown hair fluffed about her face, glowed in the candlelight; her hazel eyes enhanced by the dark blue dress she wore. She was looking down, watching her fingers as the melody flowed from them. It was effortless. Notes of dark, bittersweet sadness filtered through the room, and he shut his eyes, awed.

She's an excellent pianist.

The sonata she'd chosen to play matched exactly the mood that had settled on him. The feelings in the music matched his own so well. He felt trapped, but also unworthy and ashamed. He tried not to let a tear escape as the music brought forth the feelings of sorrow that he'd suppressed for so long. Not just sorrow for his wounding, but the inescapable sadness ever since Father passed. He opened his eyes again.

She looked up and for a moment, her hazel eyes locked with his. He felt his heart leap. The expression in them was a mix of surprise and sorrow that matched his own. It felt as though they were alone in all the world, two souls with the same searching sadness. Then her eyes widened, and she looked down.

I imagined it, he told himself harshly. Her sudden, terrified glance was like a cold palm slapping his face. She was like all the rest. She was shallow and silly, despite her great talent at the pianoforte, and she'd be scared of him.

"...the future looks promising for the importing of precious fabrics. We should invest now, and increase the value"

Nicholas heard his grandfather's words intrude on his thoughts and scowled at him where he leaned back, as relaxed as though he was more comfortable there than anywhere else in the world.

You find it easy to meddle in other people's worlds. Just like you're meddling in mine, he wanted to shout. He glared at him but Grandfather, comfortable and confident, didn't even notice and kept on talking, discussing recent losses in the rope-making trade.

Nicholas gazed over at the young lady who sat, pale as ivory, her fingers on the keys. She was looking down, at the notes, her eyelashes resting on her cheeks. She looked so sad and tragic, and Nicholas felt his heart ache in sympathy for them both, his throat tightened in pain.

He touched his scar, only barely aware that he did it, the deep furrow that crossed his mouth familiar and hateful, filling him with hot, queasy shame.

She was as fearful as every other young lady had ever been and it was like a constant reminder of his scarred face, his ugliness.

He focused on Grandfather instead. That was so much easier than trying to imagine what his future with the scared young girl at the piano would be.

"I say!" Grandfather commented loudly. "Is that the time? Already ten o' clock?"

"It is, Lord Lockwood," Lord Rothendale said politely.

"Nicholas, we ought to get on our way. I have a meeting with some investors of the East India Company tomorrow. I can't doze at the table then."

"Yes, Grandfather," Nicholas murmured sullenly. It was easy to be angry with him. Thinking any further—about what he thought of her or she thought of him—was too hard.

"Lord and Lady Rothendale...I've taken care of the announcements, the license, everything. You may rest assured, all is above board and respectable." Lord Lockwood grinned at Lady Rothendale as he stood up. Lady Rothendale smiled back.

"I assure you, we expected nothing less, my lord." Her voice was sugar sweet. Nicholas felt his guts twist. These people were clearly overawed by Grandfather. Could they not see what he was like? He was only using them as they likely believed they used him. Nicholas looked away sourly. The world was corrupt, much more than he'd imagined.

"Good. Then you'll not mind Nicholas accompanying your daughter to the Haymarket Theater tomorrow. Chaperoned, of course. That's only good and proper."

"Grandfather..." Nicholas muttered in shock, but his grandfather was already at the door, bowing and smiling and acting like the genial guest.

A whole evening at the theater loomed ahead, trapped in the private box with a young woman who was petrified even to look at him. He glared at his grandfather. His grandfather was already walking through the door and Nicholas could only follow him and rail silently against his decision for tomorrow.