Chapter 6

A hollow stillness enveloped him. He closed his eyes a moment to catch his breath.

Memories of Donald pounded through him. He had been the best of men, and Nicholas should have been on the battlefield with him. Not sitting at home reading crop reports.

She was older now than on the day she had come to collect her father after Donald's funeral. She had been crying almost inconsolably. He had asked Donald's father about her, thinking perhaps she had been a sweetheart Donald had never mentioned.

But she wasn't. Mr. Young had been just as confused as he had been. Her older sister was married to Donald's younger brother, Richard, but as far as Mr. Young knew, Donald had never met the girl. Donald certainly hadn't ever mentioned her.

That young girl, inconsolable and unembarrassed by her grief, was the first person Nicholas had thought of when his mother hadn't mustered up tears for her own husband.

But who was she? Donald wasn't ranked, so it wouldn't follow that his younger brother had married someone with a title. Yet those emeralds around her neck flaunted wealth. Perhaps her family had recently come into money. What was the name of Donald's brother's wife?

"Being the wife of a soldier would not be an easy task."

"Oh," she nodded, "I know." Her eyes clouded over, and he wondered if she was thinking back to that gloomy day five years ago. But then she blinked hard, and her smile returned. "But it wouldn't be as demanding as being the wife of a duke. Can you imagine the parties and the elegance a woman would have to have? I would hardly qualify."

"Qualify? Is there some list of requirements in order to become the wife of a duke?" He violently ignored the fact that he'd argued just that with Ottersby. The whole idea seemed preposterous to him now. For all their plotting, he hadn't listed "capable of strong feeling" as an asset, and suddenly that asset had jumped to the top of his list. Freckles might make the top five. What else had he missed?

The sound of her laughter filled the corridor. He had seen her cry and now laugh. Both were equally fascinating to him. "Do you honestly think there isn't?"

"Perhaps this particular duke would not expect his wife to do anything she didn't want to do," Nicholas said. "Perhaps he could throw his own parties, and he wouldn't care if she weren't accomplished in all of the art forms ladies are taught." Especially if one of those artforms was singing.

The woman's shoulders bounced, and she bit her index finger, most likely to stifle another laugh. "Oh no, I guarantee you social planning skills would be at the top of any self-respectable duke's list."

He stepped away from the wall. That was not at the top of his list. Rank had been. "I suppose this means you aren't one of the ladies who would be interested in marrying a duke?"

She turned around and blinked. "The thought hadn't crossed my mind. I can't imagine a duke being interested in me."

He took a step back and surveyed her. Critically. First of all, she had made an impression on him the first time he saw her. She'd been young then, but she was certainly not the youngest woman out in Society now. Her laughter was pleasant, and unlike Lady Marion, she wasn't afraid to speak. But she was standing outside the cardroom with a complete stranger, eavesdropping on the men inside. It was a definite mark against her. But seeing as he was doing the same thing, perhaps not an insurmountable one. There were worse things. And those blasted freckles. Something told him he would be counting them in his sleep after the ball. He blinked hard. Freckles shouldn't make the list, and they definitely shouldn't make the top five. Nothing physical needed to be anywhere near the top of that list. He needed to forget them.

"Do you sing?"

Her eyebrows furrowed as if his question made no sense. "Do I sing?"

"Around the house, as you write letters, or look over menus? Would you sing in those types of situations?"

"In those types of situations? No."

"Then perhaps the duke would be interested in you."

Her gloved hand went to her mouth, this time covering it completely. She was as bad as Patience—always ready for a laugh. Once she was calm, she raised those dancing eyebrows, dropped her hand, and leaned forward. "I hardly think that would be the most important characteristic of a future duchess."

He raised his eyebrows back at her. Two could play at that game. "The Duke of Harrington doesn't have a perfected list of characteristics he is looking for, but when he does, that will be at the top of it."

She pulled her head back and tipped her head to one side. "How could you possibly know what—" She paused. Her eyes slowly slid from the top of his head to his chest and waist. She took in the fine cut of his clothing, then continued her perusal down to the shine of his shoes. He had never been so thoroughly examined before in his life. It was all he could do to hold still, instead of pulling back his shoulders or turning his head slightly to one side to make his profile more favorable. After what seemed like ages, but was likely only a few seconds, her eyes widened. "You know him. Is he a friend of yours?"

This was his chance to introduce himself. He should introduce himself. More accurately, he should have someone introduce them to each other, but he was a little late for that. However, the memory of Lady Marion's lack of conversation still irked him. Would every woman stop speaking the moment they found out his title? The woman in front of him waited for his answer, her brilliant eyes practically shining in the dark. He couldn't do it.

"I might."

Her eyes sparked again. "And is he looking to marry? As everyone is talking about?"

"He is thinking seriously about it."

"Well." She tipped her head with a grin, and a curl slipped out of her coiffure. He had the sudden urge to touch it and tuck it back into place with one of those pins of hers. "It is a serious matter."

He didn't reach for her, but he didn't step away or ball his fists either. He simply stood his ground. "Definitely."

The corridor was silent. Even the men in the cardroom seemed to have settled down. Not even a low murmur came from the room. His eyes were locked with hers, and the air around them crackled with energy. Energy he hadn't felt in a long time.

He could simply ask this woman to marry him and be done with the whole blasted ordeal.

He could marry her, count those freckles, and fall asleep every night with his last sight being her thick lashes closing over her gemstone eyes. She'd said the majority of women would marry a duke without considering his person at all. What side of the majority would she fall on? He could chance it. He leaned forward, his body acting almost of its own accord, wanting to be closer to this woman who had intrigued him more than anyone ever had, not just once but on two separate occasions.

His foot edged forward before he caught himself. He blinked hard and took a deep breath. He should not be here—not in a corridor and most definitely not alone. The woman in front of him was an innocent, bright young lady. She should have nothing to do with him. At least not like this. Not improperly. He caught one last glance at the specks across her nose and cheeks, then tipped his head in a very short farewell. He turned on his heel and strode away.

He was being ridiculous. And he was never ridiculous. Not anymore. The farther he got from the woman, the sicker he felt to his stomach. What was it about her laugh, her skin, and her complete lack of respect for societal rules that had made him revert to a man who was so uncalculating?

Was it the fact that he had seen her before? Or was it simply that for the first time since his father had passed away, he was allowing himself the possibility of connecting with another human being? He didn't know. Whatever had just happened was incalculable to him. An unsolvable mathematics problem that would never add up.

When the world no longer made sense, it was time to retreat. There was no pressing forward when plans made no sense, and his brash idea to simply propose to the woman was the most irrational thing to run through his head since he had been seventeen years old.

He made it back to the ballroom before realizing his abrupt departure must have been terribly rude to... to... Blast. He didn't even know her name.

That woman.

He made his way distractedly through the crowd, nodding briefly to the men and women who tried to start a conversation as he passed. He finally reached Ottersby and greeted him with a distracted nod as well, before looking around the room. He couldn't see her. She hadn't returned. She must still be eavesdropping on the men playing cards. Alone. Where was the woman's chaperone? Should he send Patience to stand with her? Patience would have no qualms about listening in on men's gossip.

"Where's Patience?"

Ottersby tipped his head in the direction of a large group of women. Patience was in the midst of them, laughing about something.

Interrupting a group like that would be a resounding mistake. The woman in the corridor would be all right. Her chaperone would have to go looking for her at some point.

But as the minutes ticked on, he debated the wisdom of counting on a chaperone who had lost track of her responsibility in the first place.

Just as he was about to leave Ottersby to extract Patience from the women—a task that would lead to much more blushing and flirting and simpering than he felt he could stomach—the woman in emeralds returned to the ballroom. She stood out even more than the woman in white had. Not because of her clothing or even the jewelry and ornate design of her hair. Light seemed to focus on her, leaving everyone else around her dim in comparison. He waited until she joined a small group of people to turn to Ottersby.

"Who is that?" Nicholas asked. He had asked about so many women this evening, one more shouldn't make Ottersby suspicious.

"Who?"

"The woman in emeralds, speaking to Mr. Beauford."

Ottersby narrowed his eyes. "Hmm. I recognize her. I don't believe she was on my list though. Which means she is either titled and therefore not someone I would have thought I could convince to marry me, or she is... not."

Ottersby had the grace not to say what else he meant by that statement. If she wasn't titled, and she wasn't on his list, then she was not well-positioned enough to merit being on Ottersby's list.

"I think Patience may have been right about the list being a bad idea."

Mr. Beauford led the woman in the emeralds to the center of the dancers. The strains of a lively Viennese waltz jumped off the quartet's strings.

She was an excellent dancer. Mr. Beauford was also an excellent dancer, and he must be an excellent conversationalist as well, because her laughter managed to drift all the way to where he and Ottersby stood watching them.

"Should I ask Patience to discover who she is?" Ottersby asked.

Nicholas shook his head. "No." The woman was too carefree, too free with her smiles and laughter and much too ready to speak with a stranger in a corridor. He had been attracted to the depth of her feeling, but if a person could feel deeply enough to cry at a stranger's funeral or laugh in the middle of a waltz, was that truly a depth of feeling? Or was she simply mercurial? A woman who could easily love any man and move from one to the next was not at all the type of woman he was looking for. He'd seen enough of that from Lady Plymton. Still, those freckles mocked him. Even from across the room, he wished she would remove the heavily adorned necklace and show off the tiny spots that splashed across her chest. God had given her adornment enough. She needn't try to compete with Him.

He shook his head. Men didn't marry women based on the flecks of color on her otherwise pale skin. He joined Ottersby in surveying the room once again. Every once in a while Ottersby would discreetly point out a woman from the list they had made together, but he barely noticed them. He certainly wouldn't recognize them the next time he came in contact with them. Despite an inordinate number of candles, the ballroom seemed to dim. With both Lady Marion and the woman in emeralds, he had felt a jolt of excitement at the prospect of marriage, but with both of them now eliminated, he was left with a room full of women who had never interested him in the first place.

Patience extracted herself from the group of women and made her way to Ottersby's side. She smiled toward the room, but under her breath she whispered to Nicholas, "If you aren't planning on proposing to Lady Marion, you had better ask a few more women to dance this evening. Everyone is talking about your special attention to her."

Nicholas sighed. The business of finding a wife was already growing tedious. "Anyone in particular you would like to suggest?" he asked.

"Lady Bryant is here. I find her fascinating." She turned toward Ottersby. "We really need to invite them to join us for supper again soon."

"I can hardly squash rumors by dancing with Lord Bryant's wife. There must be some other lady who has caught your attention."

Patience joined them in casting her eyes about the room. "Oh, what about the honey-haired woman with all those emeralds? She looks interesting."

Nicholas clenched his jaw, and Ottersby shot him a calculating look. She did look interesting. She was even more interesting alone in a corridor, but interesting wasn't exactly what Nicholas was looking for. He needed a woman with a solid place in Society and connections he could count on. And blast Patience for being much better at describing hair color than he was. Honey. It was the perfect name for those gold-and-brown locks. "Do you know who she is?"

"No, but I can find out. In the meantime, please find someone else to dance with. I should have guessed what a sensation your interest in Lady Marion would have caused, but I didn't, and now I'm quite tired of being asked about your intentions. I thought that was a brother's duty, not a sister's."

Nicholas arched an eyebrow. "You never gave me much of an opportunity to fulfill that duty, seeing as you were in love with Ottersby before you were even presented to Society."

Patience shrugged and wove her way through the crowds, presumably to find the name of the woman in emeralds. Ottersby nodded toward a few of the women on the list, and Nicholas strode over to the closest to ask her to dance. He didn't need to sway and weave through the crush like Patience had. Men and women alike stepped to the side to make a path for him. It was one of the perks of being the highest-ranked individual at almost any function he was involved in. If only Parliament would give him such deference.

Nicholas quickly roamed the ballroom and asked three more ladies to dance. All were titled, and every one of them beautiful in her own way, but none of them excited him. And that was not a problem. He didn't need to be excited about marrying. He simply needed to find someone compatible. He didn't need to allow emotion or longing to overshadow logic. The last thing the Harrington title needed was another marriage like Patience and Ottersby's. The amount of work that mess had caused him was preposterous. He'd had to get Ottersby his title, for heaven's sake.

Not that he regretted it. Ottersby's father should have been titled long ago. His only qualm now was that he told the Queen that Ottersby would make a fine courtesy title for General Woodsworth's son. He should have thought through how often he would need to call his brother-in-law by the undignified-sounding name.

Laughter from the honey-haired girl had floated near him multiple times throughout the evening. Frankly, it was distracting. Dancing should be controlled, calculated, and measured. There was no need to laugh and lean in toward each other like all of her partners seemed to do.

After Nicholas finished dancing with the three women he had asked, he was ready to permanently retire to the cardroom. No one could say that he paid any special attention to Lady Marion now that he had danced with three other young eligible women as well. He said as much to Ottersby as they strode side by side down the red-carpeted corridor.

"That is unfortunate."

"Why?"

"Patience found out your lady's name." His lady? What the devil did Ottersby mean by that?

"I don't have a lady." But his steps quickened at Ottersby's use of the word lady . If she were titled... if she were a lady in her own right... He could manage a bit of levity if she were titled. The ton and, more importantly, the lords of Parliament whom he was trying to influence, would forgive her that. Encourage it, even. Nicholas could be broody and quiet enough for the both of them at social functions. It could be an advantage to have a captivating wife.

Ottersby brushed aside Nicholas's protest. "The woman with the emeralds. Her name is Lady Mercy Rothschild, the second daughter of Lord and Lady Driarwood."

She was titled.

Driarwood. He knew that name. Donald had mentioned it when his brother had married, and Nicholas had simply forgotten. Lord Driarwood had a positive outlook on the people of Ireland, but Nicholas hadn't gotten around to speaking with him. He'd been too concerned with trying to turn the opinions of those who disagreed with him. He forced himself not to smile, even though he was walking fast enough now, they were only a pace away from running. Her father was an earl, and while not the highest-ranked man at a ball like this, she outranked all but three or four of the unattached women in the room.

"How did you miss her on your list?"

Ottersby's habit of pulling on his sleeves reared its head; he tugged on each one making certain his appearance was impeccable. Nicholas had insulted his list-making capacities... a grave offense. "Driarwood..." Ottersby rubbed a hand down his face. "I remember the family, but she hadn't been presented to Society when I made my list. I would have liked to add her because her family hadn't seemed particular about titles and positions. Her parents are the product of a very well-known love match, and her older sister married an untitled gentleman—"

"Richard Young," Nicholas finished for him.

Ottersby blinked. "Yes, actually. How did you... ?" Ottersby waved a hand. "It doesn't matter." He glanced back toward the ballroom, and even though it was most certainly Nicholas's imagination, he could make out the sound of Lady Mercy's laughter over all the other noises coming from the room. Ottersby smiled and turned back to Nicholas. "Shall I find her address?"

Nicholas didn't bother answering. They both knew if Ottersby didn't, Patience would.

And on the slight chance that Patience didn't?

Nicholas would do it himself.