Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

M yles had a lot to atone for, and there were no guarantees that Lady Lora would receive him if she remembered that night at the Templeton's ball and his callous disregard for her feelings.

He followed Stanhope through the crowded room, his height providing a clear view of bobbing heads, and bodies orchestrating movements like a flock of hungry gulls diving and surfacing, wings expanding and retracting, wave after roiling wave across the floor until he found himself delivered to a pair of young women standing by a potted palm.

There, Stanhope cleared his throat. The two wallflowers turned, and in an instant, Myles came face-to-face with the one young woman he'd been running from for several years—the Marquess of Putney's daughter.

"Ladies," Stanhope said with a bow. "The Duke of Beresford has requested an introduction. Your Grace, allow me to present Lady Lora Putney and Lady Elizabeth Seymore."

He bowed stiffly as the two women dipped a curtsy.

Lora, in particular, made a show of pushing a pair of spectacles onto the bridge of her nose and scrunching her nostrils.

Strange. The last time he'd seen her, she hadn't had poor eyesight.

"How do you do, Your Grace," the two young ladies said in unison.

Before he could respond, Stanhope presented his hand to Lady Elizabeth. "Lady Elizabeth, would you do me the honor of this dance?"

Lady Elizabeth flashed a radiant smile and a quick glance at Lora before accepting Stanhope's hand. "I would be delighted, sir."

"Excuse us," Stanhope said conveniently.

Myles watched the friendly solicitor escort Lady Elizabeth to the dance floor, then turned his attention to Lora.

The moment he'd both dreaded and dreamed of for three years had finally come.

Lora peered up at him, quirking a brow. "You honor us with your presence, Your Grace. My father will be terribly unhappy to have missed your arrival. It has always been his dearest hope you would attend."

"I am disappointed." He studied the picture Lora painted with her artfully arranged brown hair, and her eyes glittering behind glass like heated amber, the effect helping the minimal amount of frippery adorning her person to accentuate her beautiful face. Prim and proper, her stiff posture and stare were unyielding. She didn't appear impressed by his title, the ball, the music, or lack of dance partners. And as he studied her, she bit her lower lip as if biting back a retort. All of a sudden, he realized she might have misinterpreted his words. "What I mean to say is that I am disappointed that your father is not present. I was hoping to meet him and—"

"I understand you perfectly, Your Grace." A frosty tone edged her voice. "No need to explain."

He had upset her. Badly done.

An awkward silence surrounded them as the set ended and people mulled about once more. Lady Elizabeth and Stanhope returned and dispiritedness washed over him. Eager to gain an audience with her father and put this prickly reunion behind them, he asked, "May I have the next dance?"

Lady Elizabeth clasped Lora's hands, then glanced up at him expectantly. Lora, however, seemed unapproachable.

Recognizing their confusion, and how ludicrous he appeared, he breached the divide. "It would be a great honor to dance with both of you, but I confess to addressing Lady Lora at present."

Lady Elizabeth's smile waned as Lora quickly came to her defense. "My friend dances far better than I, Your Grace. Perhaps—"

"Are you otherwise engaged?" he asked, detouring her rejection.

Lady Elizabeth bent to whisper in Lora's ear. The latter's expression altered significantly. She searched the room, a battle waging war behind her eyes. "Very well."

She held out her gloved hand, and he took it, her flawless skin brightening as she smiled and he led her to the dance floor. Filled with a sense of calm, he placed her fingers in the crook of his elbow, feeling more alive than he could remember and wondering at the change in himself. Her touch sent a charge through his extremities, instantly transformative, and far more destructive to his plans than he'd ever imagined possible.

Warily, he reset his goals. He hadn't attended Putney's house party to form an attachment to Lora or anyone else, as much as she'd haunted his dreams. He had a mystery to solve and a killer to catch.

But what had Lady Elizabeth whispered in Lora's ear? Had she reminded Lora that refusing to dance when asked prevented a lady from dancing with anyone else? Possibly. But he'd never known a young woman to actually summon such criticism. Truth be told, no female he'd ever seen had refused to dance with him, especially spurred on by matchmaking mamas with visions of grandeur.

But he sensed Lora desired to. Why? I am kind and polite, wealthy and wise. Tall, handsome, and dedicated. No woman has ever avoided me before. And wasn't this house party an opportunity to broker a betrothal for her? Stupefied, he licked his wounded pride as dancers parted to provide them space.

The waltz began.

He gazed down at Lora's indifferent expression, laboring over the exhilarating challenge she presented. Remember, old boy, you need an audience with the marquess, nothing more. Lora's future nuptials were none of his business.

Ignoring the friction flaring between them, he chose a suitable topic to break the ice. "My compliments to whoever arranged the exquisite décor. The attention to detail exceeds my expectations."

"And what, exactly, did you expect to find when you arrived, Your Grace?" She cocked her head to the side, studying him. "Would you have us believe country dances pale in comparison to city balls? Are we not as established and genteel?"

"You misunderstand." He spun her around in dizzying circles. "No matter the expense or location, every ball is a tedious chore."

Her eyes narrowed. "Then why attend at all?"

I seek answers. "It is my present desire to—" he started without thinking, about to say ‘make amends.' "In regards to Winterbourne, it is my understanding the marquess has recovered and—"

"You are two years too late," she said, quickly cutting him off.

"Too late?" Shock shot through him. Inconceivable as it was, the marquess's long road to recovery and his absence from the House of Lords had caused many to worry that something untoward had occurred. "But your father is alive, is he not?"

"He is."

Their gazes locked, hers combative, his probing. He felt tension seize her spine as she pulled away from his embrace. Blood and hounds! Why did he feel she wanted to avoid conversation about her father altogether? "His injuries—"

"Were severe, Your Grace. But this is a ball, is it not? Why ruin the ambiance with topics that occasion pain?"

Bollocks! Every word coming out of his mouth seemed offensive to her. "I believe we have gotten off on the wrong foot."

"Your Grace." After an audible pause, she added, "You are an excellent dancer. And this is a ball where flights of females constantly besiege titled gentlemen. If you are unhappy with my expertise, or lack of it, another lady will surely satisfy."

The realization that he didn't want to dance with anyone else hit him hard. He fancied Lora, had always desired her. But in this instance, he wanted what she could provide—an audience with her father. And it was imperative that he got one. "Finding another partner won't be necessary. I would not want to subject you to undue criticism."

She stomped on his foot, meeting his stare with incomparable resolve. "How about now?"

"You little minx." He glanced around and discovered they were under close scrutiny. Pulling her close, he whispered in her ear. "I wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself in front of your guests."

"Why have you come . . . after all this time?"

He detected a tremor in her voice, so he said simply, "Kingston is my home."

"Something you seemed to have forgotten until now."

"I didn't forget." He spun her back into his embrace and their gazes locked in a clash of wills that energized his blood. "I know what I want."

"And what, pray tell, could that be?" she asked.

"The answer may surprise you."

"How so?" she asked doe-eyed, a hint of mischief and madness glinting behind her crooked spectacles.

"Has distancing yourself from Society blinded you?" He longed to make her understand that if she'd finished the Season, he could have shown her that she was the only woman for him. Liar! He'd been dead set on avoiding the ball and chain, and had been relieved when she no longer posed a temptation. "How long since you last visited London?"

"You are transparent, Your Grace."

He sucked in a breath, wondering if she had the ability to read minds. "Am I?"

"You have deftly maneuvered the conversation back to my father."

He exhaled a sigh of relief. "Indeed, I have."

He led her around the dance floor, noting a particular veteran smirked whenever they passed. Lieutenant Samuel Hawkesbury.

"Your Grace, I fail to understand why it is so important for you to meet my father. Can your business not wait until the morrow?"

"No. But it seems I do not have a choice in the matter." To circumvent an unwelcome confrontation with the lieutenant, Myles swept Lora to the other side of the ballroom. " ‘The existence of things depends on their being perceived' , Lady Lora."

"So, you are a philosopher." She recognized Berkeley. That was a surprising revelation. Most women did not find reading about the principles of human knowledge particularly entertaining. "Well, I observe a great many things, too, Your Grace." Daggers shot from her eyes. "Do not fault me for donning armor. Like others of my sex, circumstances have forced me into the battle."

"Being suitably armed is a wise choice." She had much to lose in the matter of who would inherit when her father died. "Accept my condolences. The situation that you and your father find yourselves in is not ideal. I never had a brother, but I know, based on your devotion, that yours must have been a good man."

"He was, Your Grace." Emotion brightened her eyes in the candlelight. "Do not speak any more of it, I beg."

He refused to let go, however, sparked by suspicion and a niggling desire to soothe her. She'd suffered unbearably, enduring her father's withdrawal from Society and her brother's death. "Life has not been easy for you, has it?"

"Clarify easy ." Bold and brave, she met his stare.

He swept her around the room once more, keeping time to the music. Mindful that the lieutenant watched their every move, he quickly sought to turn her mind away from the morbid thoughts occupying the conversation. "Tell me about your home."

"Winterbourne?"

"No." Fiend seize it! They were not just waltzing in circles; they were talking around each other. And, by Jove, he was making a muck of it. "Kingston," he said, "the birthplace of England. Where King Egbert and Archbishop Ceolnoth joined forces, and seven Saxon Kings—Edward the Elder, Athelstan, Edmund, Edred, Edwig, and Ethelred—were crowned on the coronation stone, now mounted outside the town hall."

"You know your history. Surprising, given how long you have been in Town."

He ignored the rib. "Of course, I know my history." They danced past Lieutenant Hawkesbury again. The man quickly snapped to attention and pretended to converse with someone to his left when Myles caught him staring. "My lengthy time away puts me at a great disadvantage. As it happens, I am keen to learn about the area and its inhabitants ."

"Why?"

Her question was innocent enough, so he produced the first answer that came to his head. "I am the Duke of Beresford."

Producing a winning smile, he expected a swoon, but the giddy reaction did not come. Strange. His ability to charm the most withered of wallflowers had never failed him before. Was he losing his touch?

"Perhaps the information you seek would be more forthcoming if you entertained a lasting fascination for your birthplace."

"Lasting—" He fought the urge to describe what Kingston meant to him, and the death stare that haunted him still. Stuart. She could not understand the horror and guilt plaguing him. She ought not. Why, mere hours ago, they'd put his faithful servant to rest. "I have . . . obligations."

Her glistening lips summoned him like a shimmering lure. "I am a woman, Your Grace. What are duty and obligation to me?"

The last chord of the waltz played, the strains hovering before fading away. Separating, they stared at one another before Lora frostily curtsied, then departed, immediately followed by her first cousin.

Irked by Hawkesbury's endeavors to occupy Lora's attention, Myles sought out Stanhope. Amid fluttering fans and murmuring gossip, he wove through the crowded room to Hawkesbury the elder. The man appeared to be conversing with the solicitor about some serious matter.

Had word got out about the robbery at Darby and Stuart's death? He'd sworn his entire staff to secrecy. Servants talked, however. It was only a matter of time before half the countryside feared for their very lives. And the longer they maintained peace, the quicker they could restore safety.

Putney was out of reach for the time being. Lora held prejudice against him. But the Honorable Thomas Hawkesbury might prove to be a fount of information, especially when it came to his son. Grimes's paperwork divulged the extent of Lieutenant Hawkesbury's debts. They were great. Odd, that. Given that he'd supposedly been serving in military campaigns.

Was there a connection between Lieutenant Hawkesbury, Stuart's death, and the red-cloaked highwaywoman? He shook off the thought.

He knew one thing for certain. ‘There is no greater tyranny than that which is perpetrated under the shield of the law and in the name of justice.'