Chapter Three

‘Y ou seem distracted, Henry dear,’ Lady Shrewsbury said as she cornered him at the edge of the ballroom, placing a hand on his arm, shooing away a young woman who had been nervously approaching. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

‘Of course he isn’t,’ Lord Shrewsbury boomed as he joined their little group. ‘The poor man is at a ball where every single unmarried young woman knows he is in search of a wife. He has been subjected to an endless stream of inane small talk about mutual acquaintances and the weather.’

‘Nonsense,’ Lady Shrewsbury said, turning on her husband. ‘Young women are not all fools with air where their brains should be.’

‘Perhaps he would be having a better time if you hadn’t let it be known he was out of mourning and looking for a wife,’ Lord Shrewsbury countered.

‘I am not looking for a wife,’ Henry said quickly, although he wasn’t sure anyone was listening. ‘Though don’t tell my father that.’

‘Henry, darling, you must dance with Miss Lippet. She is a very accomplished young woman and I think you will like her very much,’ Lady Shrewsbury said.

‘Leave the poor man alone.’ Lord Shrewsbury ushered his wife away, only to catch her arm and plant a kiss on her cheek. ‘Leave him to me,’ he murmured, quiet enough it was clear Henry wasn’t meant to hear.

‘I am fine, Shrewsbury,’ Henry said quickly as his old friend turned to him.

‘You’re anything but fine, although no one could blame you. This is the first time you’ve attended a ball since Anne’s death, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ His late wife, Anne, had passed away two years earlier. There had been the obligatory mourning period, which had lasted a year, but after that Henry had been surprised at how many people expected him to slip back into normal life. He had struggled, shutting himself away, unsure what he wanted from life and how to navigate all the guilt and sorrow he still felt.

‘Ignore my dear wife. She loves you, and she wants to see you happy, but I don’t think she quite understands that it’s going to take time. You do not need to choose a wife on your first outing in society.’

‘I do not wish to choose a wife at all.’

‘Yes, that might be a problem,’ Shrewsbury said with a frown. ‘Your dear old father isn’t likely to be swayed on the matter, is he?’

‘No.’ Henry thought of his father, the austere man he had only ever visited in his study, even when he was a young child. He couldn’t picture him anywhere else but the oppressive room, surrounded by is ledgers and books, a look of disapproval on his face. ‘I have never known him to change his mind on any matter.’

‘Then you have a choice to make. Do you satisfy your father and search for a respectable, wealthy wife, or do you honour your own feelings and stay a single man?’

Henry closed his eyes—for a moment it was as if he had been whisked away from the ballroom. The noise faded, the chatter of the guests a mere hum, the music from the string quartet no more than a soft trill on the air. These were decisions he didn’t want to make. Once he had been so certain of his own judgement, so ready to make difficult decisions. Then he had defied his father with his head held high. After everything had gone wrong, his confidence in himself had been crushed, and now he found it difficult to make even the easiest of decisions about his life.

The choice he was faced with wasn’t as straightforward as Shrewsbury suggested either. He could quite happily spend the rest of his life without ever speaking to his father again, but his father controlled access to his sister, and Henry did want to see her, to ensure the old man was treating her well.

‘Have a drink. Have three. I will ensure my darling wife does not push any more young ladies your way tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ Henry said.

Lord Shrewsbury clapped him on the shoulder and then moved away, already smiling at his next guests. Henry surveyed the room. The ball was a roaring success. Everyone was in high spirits. Despite the late hour the dancing continued—hardly anyone made their excuses to slip away. Silently he cursed, thinking of the young woman waiting for him upstairs.

He had thought of little else in the hour since he’d rejoined the ball. These last few weeks he had found it difficult to summon interest in anything, but her story was intriguing, and her practical manner was strangely endearing.

He could admit to himself what he probably liked was the element of distraction this matter promised. If he was dashing across London, trying to find Miss Shepherd’s missing sister, he didn’t have to think about his own predicament. He didn’t have to make any decisions about his future.

With a glance around the room to check no one was watching, he lifted two glasses of champagne from the table and slipped from the room.

Upstairs he paused outside the door to the library, not wanting to scare Miss Shepherd by bursting in. He knocked quietly and then opened the door. Before he entered he transferred the two glasses to one hand and picked up a candlestick from one of the tables, taking it into the dark room.

Miss Shepherd sprung to her feet as he entered, her eyes seeking his before she calmed and slid back into her chair.

‘You have been gone for ever,’ she said, her tone completely serious with no hint of exaggeration.

‘The ball continues. There are guests everywhere downstairs.’ He held out one of the glasses. ‘I brought you champagne.’

She sipped at it gingerly, then gave a surprised little nod before taking a bigger gulp.

‘It has been a tedious hour,’ she said, motioning to the room around her. ‘This could have been designed as a form of torture. Surrounded by books but with no way to see them.’

‘You could have got a candle from the hall.’

‘You told me to stay in here.’

He inclined his head, motioning to the candle he had placed on a table, far away from the bookshelves. ‘Now you can read whilst you wait.’

‘That is something at least.’ She paused, took another sip of champagne. ‘Thank you. For the candle and for the drink.’ Her eyes roved over his body—for a moment he wondered what she was going to ask of him next.

‘Did you bring any food?’

He laughed. ‘No, Miss Shepherd, I did not think to smuggle you a pastry in the pocket of my jacket.’

‘Hmm. Shame,’ she said, standing and taking the candle to move closer to the bookshelves. ‘How is the ball?’

‘Tedious.’

‘It did not look tedious.’

‘From what you saw peeking in from the bushes?’

‘Exactly. It looked...magical.’

He paused for a moment, considering what it would be like to look in from the outside, to see the glamour and the splendour when you led a much less extravagant life.

‘I sound like a poor little rich boy, don’t I?’

She smiled at this, and he felt something stir inside him. She had a lovely smile. It was a little tentative, as if she were not used to smiling in public, but that made it all the more endearing.

‘Have you been to a ball like this before?’

‘No, never.’

‘Have you been to any ball?’

‘No.’

‘A dance at the local assembly rooms then?’

‘My mother never wanted us to attend. I realise now she was worried about the gossip. She was terrified of a possible scandal, I suppose. After everything that had happened to her it made her a little cautious. Selina sneaked out a few times, but I never did.’

‘So you have never danced a waltz before.’

‘I have learned the steps with Selina, but I have never danced anything with anyone other than my sister.’

Henry knew he should leave Miss Shepherd to her glass of champagne and her book, but he had no desire whatsoever to go back downstairs to the ball. Before he could stop himself, he stood and held out a hand.

‘Would you do me the honour of the next dance?’

She stared at him as though he’d grown a second head.

‘Here?’

‘There is ample space, we can hear the music through the balcony door and there is no one else watching. I do not like to boast, but I am an excellent dancer. You are in safe hands.’

She did not look convinced, but he didn’t waver, holding his hand out until she put the candle on the table, alongside her glass, and placed one delicate hand in his. She exhaled softly as he pulled her to him, her cheeks flushing.

As if it were a sign from heaven, the first few notes of a waltz floated up from the ballroom below.

‘Try to relax, Miss Shepherd. As I said, you are in safe hands.’ She was stiff, her posture erect and her shoulders tensed so much they were raised towards her ears. Slowly he coaxed her into a more natural position, before exerting just the right amount of pressure on her lower back to guide her in the right direction.

With the first step he felt his spirits lift a little. He had always enjoyed dancing, the art of anticipating your partner’s movements, two people moving as one for at least a short while. His late wife, Anne, had not ever wanted to dance. Much like Miss Shepherd, she had not had the privilege of a dance tutor, or the expectation that she would be able to dance perfectly by the time she attended her first ball. On the two occasions they had danced together she’d hated every minute, and he had been left feeling guilty for even suggesting it.

Miss Shepherd was hesitant at first, but as they spun, their bodies moving in unison, he saw a flicker of a smile on her face. And then, when he executed a rather flamboyant spin, she actually laughed in delight.

‘Stop trying to look at your feet,’ he said, catching her hand and placing it on his chest. ‘Feel the music in here, find your rhythm and stop thinking about it too much.’

‘Is that what you do?’ She was looking up at him, her green eyes glinting in the candlelight.

‘I have not danced for quite some time, but yes, I try not to think of each individual step.’

‘I cannot believe the much-esteemed Lord Routledge is not in demand at every ball he attends.’

‘You assume too much, Miss Shepherd,’ he said as he twirled her again. In the darkness of the library he was daring to hold her a little closer than would be acceptable on the dance floor downstairs, but there was no one there to raise a disapproving eyebrow.

‘You wish me to believe that you are not a man held in high esteem by the rest of society?’ She had a teasing note to her voice that Henry realised he rather liked. He felt happier than he had in a long time, hiding in the shadows with Miss Shepherd.

‘Certainly not by all society.’

‘Ah,’ she said, looking up at him appraisingly. ‘Let me guess. Your father? He is the one who disapproves of you?’

‘He does indeed.’

‘Am I to understand your antics are too wild for him? You bring the family name into disrepute?’

Henry felt a heaviness descend on him as he thought of everything that had happened in the last few years.

‘My wife,’ he said. ‘He did not approve of my wife.’

‘I am sorry.’ She looked genuinely appalled at having touched on such a sensitive subject.

He shrugged, not wanting to go into the details. He could barely talk of Anne to the people who had known her, let alone explain the impossibility of their situation to a stranger. With a firm resolve he pushed all thoughts of the past from his mind. He found it easier to thrust them away rather than deal with uncomfortable truths.

Focussing on the woman in front of him, he worked on losing himself in the dance. Miss Shepherd might not have danced in public before, and every so often she stepped in the wrong direction, but she was a natural. Her body was lithe and graceful, and he was reminded how easily she had climbed the wisteria to the first-floor balcony.

Together they swayed and stepped and twirled, Henry thankful of the distraction from darker thoughts that nipped at the edge of his consciousness.

Sarah made the mistake of looking up and for a long moment she was lost in Lord Routledge’s eyes. Of course she’d noticed them before—even in the semi-darkness it was impossible to ignore the man’s good looks. His eyes were a wonderful deep brown, full of sadness and intrigue.

She swallowed, her pulse racing and heat rising through her body.

She knew she was passably attractive, and there had been offers from a couple of young men of her acquaintance to step out over the last couple of years. Never had she been tempted. But, right now, if Lord Routledge asked her to run away into the night with him, she would find it hard to refuse.

Silently she scoffed at the idea. As if the poised and eligible Lord Routledge would ask her that. No matter what he said, he probably had five or six elegant and well-bred young women waiting for him downstairs.

‘You look sad,’ he said, an expression of genuine curiosity on his face. ‘The waltz isn’t meant to be a melancholy experience. At least not if I’m doing it right.’

With a press of his fingers he spun her quickly, and somehow they ended up closer than they had begun, her body brushing against his. She inhaled sharply, and for a moment it felt as though time had stopped. Their eyes met. Ever so slowly, he raised a hand to her face, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

In that instant Sarah wanted to be kissed. She felt her lips part slightly, her breathing become shallow. She’d never been kissed before, but instinctively her body swayed towards Lord Routledge. Her heart thumped within her chest as he moved a fraction of an inch towards her, and then stopped.

Immediately Sarah felt like a fool. She looked away, hoping Lord Routledge had not noticed the pathetic way she’d been staring at him, like some lovesick puppy. It would be a miracle if he had missed it, but hopefully in the darkness he could convince himself he had been mistaken.

The last few notes of the waltz drifted up to the library. Lord Routledge gently let go of her and bowed, taking a step back.

‘Thank you for the dance, Miss Shepherd.’

Sarah turned, not trusting herself to keep a neutral expression on her face.

‘I expect you need to get back to the ball.’

‘I expect I do. I shall check downstairs and return when I think we can get you out of here without anyone noticing.’

‘Thank you.’

She felt strangely bereft as he slipped out of the library, closing the door behind him. Sarah had been the one to push him away, shooing him back to the ball downstairs. It was a protective action, done to stop any further inappropriate thoughts on her part.

Letting out a loud sigh she sat back down in the chair, allowing her head to drop back against the soft fabric. She blamed the uncertainty and worry around Selina’s disappearance for her uncharacteristic behaviour. Never would she have ever imagined breaking into someone’s house, and her thoughts about kissing Lord Routledge were similarly out of character.