Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"Pembroke! I thought it was you!"

George Fitzroy, the Duke of Pembroke, spun around at the sound of the male voice behind him. He had just finished being presented to the Duke and Duchess of Rochester and had managed to procure a glass of champagne, sipping it as he skirted the ballroom, eying the local ton. It seemed a lot longer than five years since he had been back in the district. It seemed a lifetime ago.

"Somersby!" George's eyes widened, then he broke out into a wide grin, surging toward the other man. It was Charles Talbot, the Viscount Somersby, and one of his oldest friends. He had practically lived at Charles's home when he had been a youth. "It is so good to see you, old chap!"

George clapped the Viscount on the back, gazing at him fondly. There were a lot of people assembled in this house that he didn't particularly want to run into, but Charles wasn't one of them. His old friend had always been the salt of the earth.

"When did you return?" asked Charles, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing footman. "And why have you not called at Somersby Hall yet?"

"Steady on," laughed George, taking another sip of his champagne. "I only got here late last night. Today has been settling into the old house and making it comfortable." He took a deep breath. "It has not been used in many years and even though the servants have done their best, it is still a little rough around the edges."

Charles rolled his eyes. "I could only imagine. These old houses with a hundred rooms take a lot of work to keep well maintained." He grimaced. "Believe me. I know. Somersby Hall is starting to fall to pieces before my eyes."

George smiled sympathetically. He knew that Somersby had a few issues with cash flow—his old friend had inherited the title and estate when his father had passed six years ago, but it hadn't come with a large stipend. As far as he knew, poor Charles had to run that large estate on only a couple of thousand pounds a year, which was a pittance to maintain such a large house.

His old man was a secret gambler , thought George, feeling another stab of sympathy for the gentleman standing in front of him. He whittled away the family fortune, leaving Charles with practically nothing. It must be difficult for him.

He gazed at his friend. Charles had filled out a little—he was more thick set now. He also had a few crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. Well, it had been five years since they had seen each other. He was sure he looked different, too, after so long.

"I am sorry to hear that, Somersby," he said. "The Hall is a splendid old house."

Charles shrugged, draining his glass. "We all have our crosses to bear in this life," he said, grinning. "Maintaining that old house happens to be mine!" His grin widened. "But enough about me, Pembroke. Tell me, how are you, and why have you suddenly returned to the district after all these years away?"

George smiled. "I am well," he replied slowly. "I am still enjoying my life in London at the townhouse on Grosvenor Square." He paused. "It is far more cosmopolitan than dear old Brighton."

"I am sure it is," said Charles, grimacing slightly, before chuckling. "The dear old town has never been the epicenter of excitement. But I am fond of it just the same." He drew a deep breath. "What do you get up to in London?"

"I run a shipping business," replied George, his smile widening. "I like the challenge and stimulation of it. A bit of a hobby. So much of my time is spent there." He hesitated. "But in my spare time, I like the usual things—spending time at White's, playing cards with the gentlemen, and going to Covent Garden. And so on."

Charles arched an eyebrow. "And is there a duchess now? Have you thrown off the mantle of bachelorhood?"

George gave a bark of laughter. "Heavens, no! I have not yet met any lady I think superior enough to become my wife… although London society is filled with lots of lovely ladies, of course. I just have not found one that suits me particularly." He shrugged.

Charles laughed. "You do not need to convince me," he replied, gazing around the ballroom. "I have not yet met any lady who I find superior above all others, either. And I am unlikely to in this company. It is the same ladies from one social event to another."

"You should come to London," said George. "There is a far wider circle available there. Perhaps you would meet your match. You are very welcome to stay with me at Grosvenor Square any time you like, you know."

"That is decent of you, Pembroke," said Charles, grinning. "I might just take you up on that offer at some point." He shrugged his shoulders. "Although, I am not confident I would find a lady there, as opposed to here. You have not, after all."

George shrugged, conceding the point, gazing around the ballroom. There were a few attractive ladies in attendance, though they weren't as beautiful or as sophisticated as the ladies in London, to be sure. But then, he had never expected that they would be.

He grimaced, pulling at the collar of his shirt. He didn't really know why he had accepted this invitation tonight—he supposed he must have been slightly curious about seeing the ton of Brighton once again, after all his years away. He had grown up there, after all. But after his father had died, he hadn't fancied rattling around that old house by himself, and he had always had a yen to live in the big city.

His heart shifted. And there hadn't been anything keeping him there. No matter how much he yearned for it to be different.

Why did you come back here? What on earth possessed you to think that you could do it?

George pulled at his collar again. He was starting to sweat. He gazed into the crowd, at all the fashionable ladies milling around, and his heart started to pound. None of them were her. But then again, would he even recognize her after all this time? It had been five years. She may look totally different now.

His eyes slid back to Charles. Should he ask? But how could he bring up the topic, without it sounding forced and affected? Would he color violently and give away that his enquiry wasn't as casual as it appeared to be?

He was just about to do it, when he balked, gazing over his old friend's shoulder, visibly gaping. He couldn't help it.

She was walking through the crowd toward them. He assumed that she must be walking, as he knew that she was a mere mortal like him and everyone else here, but to his eyes, she appeared to be gliding, as if she were skating on ice, or else moving through the air on invisible wings.

His heart somersaulted in his chest. He couldn't take his eyes off her. She was wearing a peacock blue silk gown, with ruffles on the bodice, and short puffed sleeves, with a very high empire line, as was the current fashion. A single diamond necklace hung around her neck and matching diamonds hung from her earlobes. Her dark auburn hair was swept up into a high chignon, with tiny curls framing her face.

His eyes swept to her face. Her skin was as pale as he remembered, as smooth as alabaster, and as flawless. Her face was angular, with high cheekbones, and a pointed chin. Her eyes were warm brown, the color of honey, or molasses.

His heart flipped again. She had grown taller and more curvaceous. But then, that was probably to be expected—she had only been eighteen when he had last gazed upon her face. She had been a girl blossoming into womanhood then—now, she had blossomed into that woman. A beautiful woman… even more beautiful than he could ever have imagined she would be.

Amelia. The younger sister of the friend standing beside him.

He felt the sweat trickle down his neck. He wanted to turn and run away, but there was nowhere to run. She was almost upon them, and it would look pointed and rude if he just suddenly bolted. No, he had no choice but to endure it, however painful it was going to be.

"Ah, there you are, sister," said Charles, drawing her into the circle. "I lost you as soon as we entered. Where have you been?"

Amelia's eyes flickered toward George, then back to her brother. His heart contracted. Did she remember him, or had she forgotten him entirely?

"I have been socializing, brother," she replied, with a small smile. "And catching up with Louisa."

George felt his cheeks redden. She must be referring to Miss Louisa Sedgewick—he recalled that they had always been close friends. It appeared that some things never changed… even as everything did.

He pulled at his collar, feeling more awkward than he had ever felt in his life. The desire to bolt intensified. When the deuce was Charles going to re-introduce them and be done with it so he could do just that?

Finally—mercifully—Charles turned his sister toward him, a slight smile upon his face.

"You remember my younger sister Amelia, do you not, Pembroke?"

Amelia swept into a low curtsey, before rising, looking him straight in the eye. "Your Grace."

"Lady Amelia," he said, his voice cracking just a little bit, inclining his head. "How charming to see you again."

"She is all grown up now, is she not?" Charles was grinning from ear to ear. "I bet you hardly recognized her, Pembroke!"

"Indeed," replied George, in a stiff voice. "You were quite a few years younger when we last saw each other, Lady Amelia."

He knew that he sounded overtly formal and pompous, but he just couldn't seem to help it. It seemed safer. He looked away, gazing pointedly over her shoulder, seeking his escape.

"You should ask Amelia to dance, Pembroke," continued Charles, his grin widening. "For old times' sake!"

There was a tense silence. Amelia looked mortified, glaring at her brother, but Charles was composed, looking completely unruffled. Clearly, he saw no harm in asking one of his oldest friends to dance with his younger sister, and indeed, why should he? It was a harmless enough gesture—in fact, it was quite chivalrous.

The silence lengthened. Amelia's cheeks turned pink. Damnation! He had to do something. He must respond. But the thought of standing up with her on the dance floor, enduring her proximity, was simply too much.

"I think not," he said, in a stiff voice, inclining his head again. "I am afraid I am due to meet an old friend and cannot spare the time."

Amelia's color deepened. Even Charles had picked up on the awkwardness and looked embarrassed, now, staring down at the floor, shifting on his feet, a frown on his face.

"Excuse me," said George, bowing, before walking stiffly away.

He didn't look back.

When he had turned the corner, and was safely away from them, he sagged, leaning against a wall. People flitted past him, laughing brightly and chattering, but he didn't notice them at all. They looked as insubstantial as shadows to him.

I should never have come back to Brighton. I should never have come to this ball.

He pushed back his hair, mortified to find that his hand was shaking.

He had willingly done this to himself. He had stepped into the mouth of the lion. And he only had himself to blame.