Chapter Fourteen

Briggs

I stand at the end of the hall, just outside the door to the room that I’ve been assigned for the week, and I greet the other gentlemen as they trickle out and down the stairwell, dressed in their formal best and ready for the opening ball.

To any average passerby, it looks as though I’m simply waiting for a friend, which I am. Of course I am. I’m not a stalker, waiting for the opportunity to ambush Westley, corner him so that he couldn’t possibly avoid my presence any longer. I am not that person.

There’s a window to my left, and beneath it, a cushioned bench with two tasseled, floral pillows that offset the stripes of the drapes. They’re pulled back at just the right angle so that I have a view of the gardens below, and in them, Blythe Rowley, fully dressed in a ballgown of gold and cream skirts, with bronze stitched flowers. In her hands, she holds open a book, and as she reads, she paces back and forth in front of a rectangular pool with a fish for a fountain, spewing frothy water.

God, she’s magnificent. In the four years that have passed since I last saw her, Blythe Rowley has become the most beautiful lady of my acquaintance, with her long, wild brown hair and deep chocolate eyes. She’s taller than most girls and moves with a confidence I’ve rarely encountered—a confidence that makes me weak. And tonight, in her golden gown that allows her to glimmer brighter than the stars, she’s even more breathtaking than she was this afternoon when I let the words slip so effortlessly from my mouth. Like they were mine to offer her. Like I didn’t lose that privilege a long time ago. Besides, her reaction to my compliment made it clear it wasn’t welcome, and I refuse to look like some whimpering puppy following her around. No, I cannot be perceived as pathetic, but I absolutely can admire her from the safety of a distance.

I know what she’s doing down there. It’s become rather apparent that I know the inner workings of Blythe a little too well. She’s avoiding this ball for as long as possible. Balls are not something that Blythe revels in the way her cousin, Charlotte, does. She believes that she isn’t the kind of girl who shines at a ball, but I think if she gave them a chance, she might like them. At this current moment in time, however, Blythe is clearly dreading this evening’s festivities.

Besides, I have plans to introduce her to Lord Colchester. The earl and I met briefly this afternoon, and he is the perfect investor for her apiary business. That should cheer her up even if this ball is a complete waste of her time in other regards.

From the distant edge of the garden, Charlotte calls for Blythe. Reluctantly, shoulders slumped, head back like a petulant child, Blythe appeases her and follows her into the house. I chuckle at this.

My attention is quickly diverted by the creaking open of the door in front of me, and without so much as a passing word or glance, Westley slips out of his bedroom and heads for the staircase.

“Oh, you’re ready,” I say, as though I assume he wants me to tag along. Naturally, I do not assume this, nor do I believe Westley thick enough to believe otherwise. “You look very nice. I like your green waistcoat. It really brings out your eyes.”

Westley huffs as he descends the stairs. “My eyes are blue, Goswick.”

“Of course,” I reply. “Blue. But you wouldn’t want to be predictable and wear all blue. You’d end up looking like a pond.”

He pauses on the last step before the bustling foyer where guests mingle and sip from glasses of champagne. “Like a pond?”

“No one,” I say quietly, everything feeling rather silly suddenly. I clear my throat, adjusting my cravat. “No one wants that, right?”

Westley rolls his eyes and strides in the opposite direction.

That went well. But it was my first try. I have an entire week here to sort things with Westley. He just needs his space right now.

Perhaps I’ll have more luck with my other pursuit this evening, Lord Colchester. He stands near the door with Lord Drummond, both their gazes set on the pair of ladies coming in from the gardens: Blythe and Charlotte.

My opportunity practically lands at my feet.

“Ah, Goswick,” says Drummond, turning when he notices me. He grabs a glass of champagne from a passing tray and hands it to me. “Have you met the Earl of Colchester?”

“I have, this afternoon,” I reply. We offer one another a nod in greeting.

“What about either of these two ladies?” Colchester asks as Blythe and Charlotte pass through the foyer and toward the ballroom.

I study Colchester in the dim light offered to me by the sinking sun. He’s young, younger than I anticipated when I heard he was coming for the week, and not altogether terrible looking. I don’t cringe, at least, when he walks into a room. His taste in clothing is a little dull, as though he sorted through his father’s wardrobe to decide what to wear this evening. His mouth is a thin little line, and his eyes are a tad too close together.

Now that I’ve noticed it, I can’t stop staring.

And all this wouldn’t matter if the only interest I had to convince him of was becoming an investor in Blythe Rowley’s business, but I’m not naive. He watches her as she floats from knots of ladies in conversation, then to Westley and August, and it’s clear he wants more than a business partner.

“That is Miss Charlotte Barlow in the blue dress,” says Lord Drummond. “And her cousin, Miss Blythe Rowley, in the gold. But I’m afraid I intend to occupy a great deal of Miss Barlow’s time this evening.”

“Splendid,” says Colchester. “I noticed Miss Rowley earlier, reading in the gardens.”

No, I think. I saw her. That was my moment. The unexpected shock of possession cinches in my chest.

“Perhaps Mr. Goswick would be so kind as to introduce me to her. She’s enchanting.”

“Um. Yes. Yes, I suppose I can.” I take a long swig of champagne, let the bubbles tingle my nose. “Miss Rowley is the young lady I was telling you about this afternoon.”

“With the bees?” Colchester asks.

“Yes, she’s organized an apiary business with her cousin, and—”

“Good.” He slaps a hand down on my shoulder. “Now I have a conversation starter. Thank you, Goswick.”

“That’s not what I—” He’s gone before I can even finish the sentence. What the ever-loving hell just happened? One minute we’re discussing bees, and the next Colchester is surveying Blythe like she’s some kind of conquest.

I follow him across the foyer and into the ballroom where the warm light from the massive chandelier that hangs above our heads ensconces each guest. But particularly Blythe. She practically glows in her golden gown, radiating from her place between Charlotte and Sabrina, and suddenly everything feels too tight. Something is about to happen, something of my doing, and I cannot stop it.

“Miss Barlow, Miss Rowley, Miss Dixon,” I say as we approach. “May I introduce you to Lord Colchester?”

All three ladies dip politely, but Colchester focuses all of his attention on Blythe.

“A pleasure,” he says.

Fine, he’s not ugly. And there’s a certain charm about being flirted with by an earl, I suspect. But does Blythe need to bat her eyes like that? I mean, we get it. It’s flattering. Good for you, Blythe.

“Do you live nearby, Lord Colchester?” she asks.

“Not ten miles from here,” he replies. “My ancestral home is Longcross Abbey.”

“Oh, I’ve been there!” Sabrina cries.

Both Blythe and I turn in surprise at Sabrina’s curious enthusiasm, but Lord Colchester hardly spares her a smile.

“It has expansive gardens,” he continues.

Again, just directed at Blythe, like they’re the only two people in the room. Lord, it’s hot in here. I’m overheating.

“And I heard that you have your very own apiary business.”

Blythe’s smile erupts across her face. She stands up straighter, her eyes wide as she nods vehemently. “I do!”

“I think that shows a boldness of spirit, Miss Rowley, for a young lady to venture into the world of business.”

“Bold is one way of describing Miss Rowley,” I mutter.

“Excuse me?” Blythe asks.

I blink, considering what I just said. Not exactly the most helpful description if my goal this week is to secure her investors. “Nothing, of course, Miss Rowley.”

“Do you yourself work with the bees?” Colchester asks.

“I do. I even design the hives and help to build them.” She takes a step closer to him, her hands clasped together. “I’ve constructed a hive so unique that there’s no need to kill the colony when collecting honey, thus allowing the bees to continue benefiting the crops of the land.” Her eyes are huge as she explains this to him. She wants his approval, and it makes my jaw ache with jealousy.

Colchester, of course, devours her attention. “Remarkable. Truly, young ladies can do everything these days and still attend balls in all of their beautiful finery.”

Blythe blushes. She actually blushes. Cheeks as rosy as a spring morning. I don’t think there is any compliment I’ve ever paid Blythe Rowley that has garnered a blush, not even this afternoon when I flat-out called her beautiful. A sharp retort? Certainly. Sneers? Absolutely. But a literal blush? I am beside myself right now. And the words just sort of tumble out of my mouth.

“Mmm,” I agree. “Yes, Miss Rowley certainly cleans up well when she puts the effort in.”

Ah, there it is. Though I wouldn’t call this a blush so much as it is a rush of sheer, red aggression. I cannot believe the words that tumbled out of my mouth. My throat grows thick, and I can’t even look her in the eyes.

“Truly,” Blythe says. “With every passing moment, Mr. Goswick, I am pleased that you were able to find time to spend at an event such as this when it is so clearly lacking in cards, fists, and ladies with loose morals.” She inclines her head to the side and smiles politely.

“You know,” says Colchester, valiantly trying to change the subject as Sabrina and Charlotte look on with wide eyes, “it sounds as though the dancing is about to begin, doesn’t it?”

“It does,” Blythe agrees.

This is still going in the wrong direction. Colchester was supposed to be about business. Not compliments, and dancing, and blushing . No, not tonight.

Colchester’s gaze eases back to Blythe. “Do you enjoy—?”

“Do you know who enjoys dancing best of all?” I interrupt. “Miss Barlow. Miss Barlow, truly you are the finest dancer I know.”

“Oh, I do love dancing,” Charlotte agrees. “It’s a shame that Lord Drummond must open the ball with Mrs. Ryland. But I suppose it is her birthday, and I shall have to find another partner.”

“Ah, the perfect opportunity, then, Lord Colchester.”

Colchester looks from me, to Charlotte, and then back to Blythe. “Yes, well, of course. Miss Barlow, I would be delighted if you honored me with the first dance.”

Charlotte claps, looping her arm through the crook of Colchester’s, and he leads her onto the ballroom floor. I glance around the room, and in the chaos of the conversation, I’ve lost Sabrina and am left alone with the glare of Blythe Rowley.

“What is wrong with you, Goswick?”

“What’s wrong with me ?” I ask, my hand on my own chest. “What’s wrong with you ? You were flirting quite openly with Lord Colchester. How do you expect to secure investors when they cannot figure out your intention?”

She glowers at me, her chest heaving. “I was not flirting with Lord Colchester.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sabrina slowly back away, retreating to a table of delicacies and observing us from a safe distance. It should cause me alarm to so terrify the girl who’s supposed to be the object of my desire, and yet I’m too preoccupied with the argument I’ve constructed for me and Blythe. All around us, dancers pair off, ready for the opening song of the evening.

“Well, you were certainly encouraging of his attentions. How am I supposed to send prospective clients in your direction if I cannot rely upon your being able to differentiate between flirtation and negotiation?”

“Perhaps you could send me clients who are more interested in my bees rather than my attentions? Or do you honestly think the only way I can secure them is by my looks and charm? Is that really all you think of me?”

Every muscle in my body tenses. Her looks and charm. Seriously? It actually makes me seethe that she would even think the only things I believe she has to recommend her are her looks and her charm. Words swirl before my eyes—her cleverness, her warmth, her stubbornness, her laugh—but I can’t seem to offer any of them to defend myself. The strings of the readying violins infiltrate my rage, and the dancers prepare for the first few notes. I have to get out of here before I explode.

But when I turn to leave, Blythe digs her fingers into my forearm.

“Oh, no.” Her eyes are fixed on me. “Absolutely not. You’re not leaving me here on the ballroom floor without a partner. Not for the first dance. The first dance sets the precedent for the rest of the evening, and I will not be snubbed.”

“There’s that charm you mentioned, Miss Rowley.”

Her brows slam together. “Your arm, Mr. Goswick. Now.”

As though my body couldn’t possibly disobey her, my arm juts out, inviting her to link to me, and I lead her to our place on the ballroom floor. Blythe stands beside her cousin and across from me, her eyes pinning me with her glare.

When the music begins, her movements are sharp, stilted. If the dance calls for our hands to touch, she barely graces her fingers on my palm. She has no desire whatsoever to dance with me, but she’s determined to use me for what she needs—to be seen at this ball. In the meantime, she’ll make sure my enjoyment is at a minimum, and I have a feeling I’m going to pay for my actions long after this dance is over.

The song continues, and still, she won’t even look at me. But this is ridiculous, dancing together and not even trying to converse. I scrounge around through my thoughts, trying to find something to offer.

“Rather warm weather we’re having,” I say when she’s beside me once more in the dance.

Her eyebrows rise, her mouth falling open.

“What?” I ask.

“Are you really trying to talk to me about the weather right now?”

“Well, it’s better than dancing in total silence. Surely you have some opinion on the weather. Perhaps you prefer the icy, sharp blade of winter, Miss Rowley. It matches your tongue.”

“Don’t talk about my tongue, Mr. Goswick.”

I focus on a vase of summer blooms across the room, my eyelids fluttering in disbelief at how disagreeable she is. “I assure you, your tongue is the last thing on my mind.”

She’s silent again, but when she’s back in my arms, when she’s forced to maintain our close proximity for the steps of the dance, her eyes find mine, wide and beautiful. Her body softens in my embrace, all graceful curves. The flash of her throat, the swell of her hips.

I will myself not to admire her. I clamp my mouth shut, trying to hold my breath, but it’s soon too overwhelming a task to maintain. I tilt my head to the side, allowing myself a deep breath of her scent, and I’m dizzy with her sweetness. I should have walked away when I had the chance—I shouldn’t have allowed myself this intimacy with Blythe Rowley, because I know she will be the only thing on my mind tonight as I pray for sleep.

Around us, the dancers slow to a stop, the music fading in its final note. I take a reluctant step back, maintaining my grasp on her hand. “Miss Rowley,” I say, bowing.

She takes in a sharp breath, offers me a brief curtsy, and then retreats into the crowded room, disappearing completely from my view.