CHAPTER FOUR

Nicholas descended the stairs, watching the whirling dancing with practiced nonchalance.

As he entered the room, he was struck by the interest his arrival prompted. He was not surprised by it, for any eligible Earl returning from years on the continent would pique the interest of society. It was more that he was once again reminded of his status in the world. A status he had been running from for a long time.

He scanned the crowds, noting the usual array of social climbers in the mix. Many mamas were already eyeing him for their daughters. He could almost hear the cogs whirring across the room.

He noticed Rosemary in the corner, standing beside another woman he did not recognize. This must be the ‘Miss Crompton’ she had mentioned. She caught his eyes momentarily but swiftly looked away.

Nicholas frowned. That in itself was uncommon. Most of the women he had met lingered on his countenance rather longer—he would even go so far as to say boldly. Her gaze suggested shyness, which he was not used to. She did not return to look at him again; he found himself a little put out by it. He was unaccustomed to indifference by the fairer sex.

His aunt approached him through the throng, and a familiar pang of guilt passed through him at her disapproving air. He was late. Again.

“Nicholas,” she muttered softly so as to avoid hungry ears all about them, “could you not have been here on time? Just once, I ask it of you. You are so rarely in the country. It does not endear you to the company to turn up an hour after your guests have arrived. Particularly when you are merely upstairs.”

Nicholas leaned down and kissed her cheek, flashing her a wide grin.

“My dear aunt, I am fashionably late, as is my wont. And as an earl, I would not wish to attract attention away from their wonderful hostess,” he said simply.

“Don’t try your charm on me, my boy, I know you of old. And it is not fashionable to be late to one’s own ball.”

“But this is your ball, aunt, and a very fine one it is too. I have never seen so many people laughing.”

That got her attention, and Eleanor glanced about them. Nicholas was not lying. He was impressed by the atmosphere and joviality of the room. Everyone looked like they were enjoying themselves immensely, and the dancing was lively. It was not too hot, and there were just the right amount of people.

“Truly, it is a triumph,” he added genuinely, and her ire slowly faded from her face, although she gave him a knowing look. “Besides, it was entirely Hargreaves’ fault. He will insist on a waterfall cravat, and it takes an age.”

Eleanor’s eyes flicked to his throat, where his valet had meticulously tied the starched linen. Nicholas had taken longer getting ready for the ball that evening, not wishing to let her down. The effort paid off as she smiled, flicking a gaze over his bottle-green waistcoat and immaculate appearance.

“Very well, that will do. You must dance. I shall not have you skulking at the side of the room as you did before you left.”

Nicholas forced his smile to remain in place. “I did not ‘skulk’ Aunt; I merely knew I would be leaving for Europe and did not wish to break a multitude of hearts before doing so.”

She scoffed. “You skulked and barely smiled at anyone for the month before you left. You seem easier in your demeanour now, however, so I shall expect you to be the talk of the ball by the end of the evening.”

Nicholas was about to protest for a second time at being so flaunted about when a familiar face approached through the crowd raising his spirits significantly.

Lord Henry Addison walked toward him, a happy smile on his face. Henry was one of the most agreeable people Nicholas had ever met and one of the kindest. He had a smile for everyone and lacked the reputation Nicholas had garnered. Henry was polite to a fault, flawless in appearance, and gentlemanly to every woman he met.

“My dear Nicholas,” Henry said happily as they shook hands. “I could not believe it when Lady Kingston told me you would be here. I am astounded you chose to abandon the heat of Spain for our snowy shores.”

“Indeed. I merely came back to speak with you, Henry. I am indifferent to the rest of the country.”

Eleanor cried out in indignation, and Henry threw back his head and gave a hearty laugh, which lifted Nicholas’s spirits. For the first time since he returned, he was genuinely glad to be there. Henry’s company was chasing away the melancholy that had been simmering beneath the surface since he had returned to England.

His friend’s dark blond hair was swept from his face, his patrician nose complimenting his elegant features. He watched Nicholas with startlingly blue eyes that were dancing with amusement, with a wide grin lighting up his whole face.

As Eleanor hurried away to tend to her guests, the two men walked to the edge of the room to observe the party. Henry’s curious gaze landed on him, and Nicholas raised his eyebrows in response.

“Are you back for good?”

“Not on your life. I am here for two weeks and that is all.”

Henry’s expression fell. “I had thought as much. I hoped you might be back for a few months at least to see to the estate. Are you sure I cannot tempt you to stay longer?”

Nicholas shook his head. “I am never comfortable in England. I shall be leaving as soon as my business is concluded. If I can persuade my aunt I am not about to immediately marry the first woman she puts in front of me, that is.”

Henry chuckled as Nicholas’s eyes were drawn across the room to the mysterious Miss Crompton. He found himself willing her to look at him again. He had only seen them briefly, but she had unusually dark eyes. He wanted to examine them to see what colour they truly were. She was speaking to Rosemary, however, and seemed to be perpetually looking at the floor.

“—and besides,” Henry was saying, “it would hardly have been seemly for him to keep the club, not after he had inherited.”

Nicholas made a non-committal sound, and Henry continued with the story. It was some inconsequential piece of gossip. Someone in trade had inherited a great fortune, it would seem. He was sure most of society would be scandalized to associate with such a man, but Nicholas found himself happy for him. If life dealt you a winning hand, you had to play it before it was taken from you.

Or before someone else trumps your winning card.

“For goodness sake, Bolton, you have been in my company for less than ten minutes and already you are not listening to me.”

“My sincerest apologies,” Nicholas said, dragging his eyes away from Miss Crompton. “You are being exceedingly dull.”

Henry laughed and nudged him playfully with his shoulder. As Nicholas returned his gaze to the floor, a flash of emerald green caught his eye. He felt Henry lean in beside him as he watched a beautiful blonde woman approaching with an elderly man on her arm.

“That is Lady Madeline Wilde and her father. A wealthy widower, recently out of mourning. Her family married her off to a man twice her age, who died and left her rich and with no children.”

Nicholas never failed to be astounded by the rapid summaries society created for some individuals. Henry sounded as though he were listing a business transaction in the way he spoke of Lady Wilde’s history. “Married, widowed, no children.” Nicholas allowed himself a discreet perusal of the lady as she walked through the crowd. She was extremely beautiful.

As his eyes returned to her face, their gazes locked and held, and he saw a familiar glint in her eye. He could have recognized that look in a crowd of thousands. It was an invitation—and a brazen one at that.

She might have secured his interest for a night or two if he had been in Paris watching such a display, particularly now that he knew she was a widower. This familiar game between a man and a woman should have excited him, but tonight, he could not feel the thrill he once had.

Lady Wilde and her father finally reached them, and he was swiftly introduced by Henry. Nicholas watched Lady Wilde’s gaze skim over his figure in a most forward manner. He kept his gaze carefully blank as her eyes moved to his. Her full lips curved up at the edges in a sensual smile.

This was bold, even for a widower, and he redirected his gaze to her father to avoid impropriety.

“I am most interested in your recent travels, My Lord,” Lord Wilde was saying. “I hear you have been everywhere in Europe.”

“Not quite everywhere,” Nicholas said, flashing his smile and slipping easily into the character. “I believe there is one small part of the continent I have yet to uncover, although I believe I have conquered the rest of it.”

The old man chortled happily and nodded his head.

“I have always wished to travel,” Lady Wilde added. Her gaze was less intense now that she was addressing the group. “I am most grieved that mourning has prevented any further exploration. I long to see Paris again.”

Nicholas was surprised to find himself wanting to lean away from the lady. It was a strain to maintain the facade this evening. It was as though he were wearing someone else’s skin, an itchiness prickling all over his body to be free of it, to be who he truly was.

“Paris is indeed beautiful,” he managed after a short pause. “I have been to the city many times, and I confess I believe it to be one of the most beautiful in Europe.”

“I can imagine you would be an excellent guide, my Lord,” Lady Wilde said with a wry smile.

“I confess, I am also the best guide in Europe,” he said, flashing his usual grin, and all three laughed. Nicholas’s chest was tight, but he kept his smile in place with an enormous effort. He felt too hot in his coat.

Lady Wilde was a beautiful woman and had made it clear she was interested in him, but he felt trapped in her presence. It was as though his old life and his new life were colliding, and his mind was trying to separate the two in full view of a room of strangers.

Have I really been this man for so long? Why do his easy smiles feel so foreign to me?

“I hope you will be in town for some of the season, my Lord?” Lady Wilde continued.

“Alas, I must be away very soon, but it is always a pleasure to return to England. I have a great love of London Society, not to say anything less of the country.”

Lady Wilde’s long, full lips stretched around her white teeth as she smiled up at him.

The orchestra suddenly began to play, and the first set started a moment later. Nicholas was caught between the Wildes and a desire to remain standing with Henry. However, Henry had apparently marked Rosemary’s card and crossed the room to collect her.

Paralyzed by indecision, Nicholas pasted on a smile.

“Are you engaged for this set, Lady Wilde? If not, I would ask you to do me the honour of dancing with me.”

“I would be delighted, my Lord." The rapidity with which she disengaged herself from her father was alarming, and soon, those long fingers clutched Nicholas’s arm as he walked her onto the floor.

In public, she had the manner of a polite dance partner who asked the right questions, knew all the steps, and did not step upon one’s toes upon the floor. But when they stood opposite one another, or her gaze was just on Nicholas, the calculating glint in her eye was always prevalent.

“You are quite the dancer, my Lord,” she said as they spun away from one another and returned.

“I have had the honour of some excellent partners,” he said automatically.

“I am sure you have,” she said, taking his hand and raising her eyebrows. He returned a polite smile, attempting to defer her amorous gaze, but he was unsuccessful. He had met women like Lady Wilde before and had always been more than happy to entertain them. He had even had a regular dalliance with a few. But a restlessness was building in his mind and body that he could not shake. As he spun around for a third time, he saw Miss Crompton at the end of the group with another man on her arm. For a reason he could not entirely explain, the sight irritated him.

He returned to his partner, determined to finish the set and ensure he did not have to dance with her again.

***

A little later, once he had appeased his aunt and danced with a few more of the ladies about the floor, Nicholas made his way to the refreshments, desperately needing a glass of rum punch.

As he approached the table, he noticed his sister in conversation with a young woman of about her age, perhaps a little younger. She had an array of green and gold ribbons in her hair. As he came up beside them, Rosemary caught his eye. It was only then that he realized Miss Crompton was also there. She had been obscured from his view by a bulky man barging his way toward the wine. Nicholas felt a spike of irritation as her gaze remained on his sister. She did not even glance at him.

“This is my brother, the Earl of Bernewood, Nicholas Bolton. Lord Bolton, may I introduce Miss Clarissa Crompton and her cousin, Miss Emily Crompton.”

Nicholas bowed, rolling the name around his head. Clarissa. It was only then that he realized he had been trying to recall it for the entirety of the evening.

Finally, after what felt like hours of waiting, Miss Crompton’s eyes met his. Nicholas gazed into them as a strange sensation overcame him. The restlessness he had felt since he had arrived in England faded away beneath her steady gaze, only to be replaced by a hum of anticipation.

It was strange to acknowledge that Lady Wilde left him utterly cold, yet this demure and rather shy woman, with the darkest brown eyes he had ever seen, had captivated him entirely.

The moment stretched as their gazes remained caught, hanging in the air like a flurry of snow that could not settle on the ground. He drank her in, her porcelain skin quite unique in its softness. There was a smattering of freckles across her nose, and she had full, berry-coloured lips, the top slightly fuller than the lower.

When he recognized how long he had been staring at her, those dark brown orbs skittered away to another part of the room.

He had never been so intrigued by a woman in his life.