Chapter 8
M iss Penelope Prescott, the oldest Prescott daughter, couldn’t take her eyes off the floor as she danced opposite Thorn. Her spine was ramrod straight, her rapid breathing betraying her nerves despite her attempted composure.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Thorn murmured.
“Do I not?” Her voice quivered, her eyes darting to the crowd surrounding them. “I am not a perfect dancer, I am afraid. I don’t want to disappoint my father, nor do I want to tread on your toes.”
“You don’t have to worry about my toes, Miss Prescott,” he said, lips quirking into a half-smile. “I once taught my young cousin to lead in a waltz. At eighteen, he was a few stones heavier than me and wearing hunting boots. Suffice it to say, your delicate slippers cannot inflict more damage than I have already endured. Tread away.”
She let out a choked laugh before her eyes widened, scanning the crowd around them. The onlookers weren’t subtle in their attention. No doubt they made a curious pair—a viscount who had shunned society for years, now dancing with a chocolatier’s uncouth daughter. The gossips would feast tonight.
She wasn’t exactly uncouth, Thorn thought as she moved timidly across from him. While she could use a bit more refinement to win favor with the society matrons, for Thorn’s purposes, she was perfect.
“You needn’t worry about what others think, Miss Prescott,” Thorn said as they stepped toward each other, her movements precise but tense.
“Why not?” Her eyes met his briefly before skittering away.
“Because the more you crave societal approval, the more they withhold it.” He guided her through the first turn, feeling her gradually relax under his lead. “If you act as if you don’t care, people will flock to you instead.”
She swallowed hard, her gaze locked on her feet as if they might betray her at any moment. “Maybe that’s how it works for a young viscount. For a daughter of a merchant, I am afraid, the rules are a bit different.” As they twirled parallel to each other, Miss Prescott’s ankle wobbled, but she caught herself, righting herself before falling on her face. Her cheeks flushed, and her eyes darted sideways, checking for witnesses to her slip. Thorn followed her gaze—the vultures of society were indeed watching, their fans fluttering as they whispered, heads shaking in disapproval.
Thorn drew closer, closer than propriety allowed, and whispered in her ear. “Do you mind looking at me instead of the floor? And perhaps give me a smile or two. People need to think that we are flirting.”
Miss Prescott’s eyes reluctantly lifted to his, tension visible in her jaw. “I shall trip again.”
“And then you’ll fall into my arms, and it might work for our benefit,” Thorn countered, his lips twitching. “That is, of course, if you decided that you would marry me.”
“I would.” The words tumbled out without hesitation. He had given Mr. Prescott some time to speak to his daughter before asking her for a dance, and he expected a bit more uncertainty from her. Perhaps even rebellion. He saw none of that.
Thorn’s eyebrow arched. “So, you’ve decided?”
She swallowed, her eyes dropping to her feet once again before snapping back to his face, clearly remembering his request. Her distraction showed—she nearly missed her cue to spin.
Thorn smoothly caught her hand, guiding her through the forgotten movement.
“Your offer is the best I’ve gotten in over two years.” Her cheeks flushed at the admission.
“So you’ve gotten offers before?”
She jerked her chin in a nod. “From men old enough to be my father. They all just wanted my dowry. And I know that your intentions are not exactly pure either.”
“That’s not true,” Thorn hastened to interrupt.
“It’s not?” Her features twisted into a frown, eyes searching his face.
“I do need a wife,” Thorn elaborated. “Someone my father would disapprove of. Your father wants the opposite; he wants to be approved by society. We are a match made in heaven, wouldn’t you say?”
She clenched her jaw, her eyes dropping to study the intricate pattern of the floor beneath their feet.
Thorn reached out and gently tipped her chin up with his finger. An easy smile finally softened her features, transforming her face. She was rather beautiful when she was relaxed, Thorn admitted to himself, watching the way her eyes brightened.
She was still but a child, innocent, barely out in society. But she wasn’t naive. She seemed to have a mind of her own, and she didn’t take things lightly. Outside of society’s eyes, perhaps they could have an amicable marriage. Perhaps they could become friends.
“What you describe sounds more like a business transaction than a match made in heaven, my lord.” Her voice wavered slightly. “Now, I am not looking for a love match…” She lowered her eyes, not to watch her feet this time, but more to hide the flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She was lying. She was hoping for a love match. That complicated things.
“I am afraid love is something I cannot give you.” Thorn’s voice cracked a bit at the admission.
She lifted her questioning gaze. “How about loyalty? Respect?”
Thorn cleared his throat, tugging at his cravat. “That is something we can negotiate.”
She let out a deep sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly. “Apologies for being direct. But I believe it is best to be honest.”
“I appreciate that.”
They danced in silence for the next few moments until she looked up at him again. “My father needs an heir to his fortune. Only a male issue can inherit that, and he has five daughters.” They stepped apart, then back together in time with the music. “He is not exactly old, but he is worried that we will be hunted by unscrupulous men the moment he passes. But he also wants his line to be respected in society.” Their hands met briefly as they circled each other. “That’s why I spent the past two years a wallflower in these grand ballrooms. Yet, he doesn’t want me to be miserable. Or he would have married me off to the first impoverished old lord who asked.” A shiver passed through her. “I can’t imagine spending my nights with them.”
“And you can with me?” One side of his mouth lifted in a smirk.
She swallowed, her fingers tensing slightly against his palm. “It would be more tolerable, I suppose.”
He snorted. “A high honor.”
“You said you can’t offer me love…” She paused as they moved apart before coming together again. “How about a friendship?”
“A friendship.” He frowned in thought as they matched each other’s movements, step for measured step. Before meeting Miss Prescott, he hadn’t considered friendship, or any other relationship really. In his eyes, he would be getting back at his father, and nothing else mattered. He’d forgotten that he would be involving a real human being in his petty schemes. “Perhaps.”
“Then I would agree to our arrangement.” They twirled once again, her skirts flaring elegantly around her ankles. This time, she didn’t trip. She seemed bolder now, more confident both in her movements and her words. “However, before we marry, I would like to get to know you better.”
“What do you have in mind? A courtship?” He guided her through another turn, their bodies moving in tandem now.
“As much as I’d prefer that,” she said as they stepped apart, then back together, “I am afraid my father will insist upon us leaving for Brighton as he can’t leave his factory for long. But I suppose we can exchange letters.”
They came to a stop as music drew to a close. “Letters it is,” Thorn said with a formal bow. She answered with a simple curtsy. “Anything else?” He extended his arm, and they began the walk back to where Mr. Prescott waited.
“Everything else you can discuss with my father during the signing of the marriage contract.” Her voice held steady despite her quickened breath. “I believe he will protect my interests.”
Thorn handed Miss Prescott to her father and sketched another bow.
“Well?” Mr. Prescott looked at his daughter expectantly, one graying eyebrow raised. She nodded, a blush climbing up her face and his thin lips spread into a satisfied smile.
“Come over tomorrow,” Thorn said, his voice emerging curiously hoarse. “We shall discuss the details.”
Mr. Prescott extended his hand with a merry laugh. Thorn shook it firmly, then bowed to the Prescott sisters before turning on his heel and striding away.
He needed a breath of fresh air. Or any air. His chest felt tight, as though he was suffocating. He tugged ineffectually at his cravat, his fingers clumsy, and moved toward the balcony.
The crush in the ballroom slowed his escape, and every few steps, someone intercepted him for meaningless pleasantries. Thorn couldn’t make out their words over the loud buzzing in his ears. What was happening to him? The gilded ballroom seemed to whirl around him, the candlelight blurring into golden streaks.
Was he about to swoon?
Wouldn’t that be a treasured experience for the ton to gossip about?
“Thorn?” His name floated through the buzzing haze again. “Tho-orn?”
He wanted to elbow his way through the crowd, but ingrained manners forced him to try and focus on the voice.
“Didn’t expect to see you here today. Actually, I didn’t expect to see you in any ballroom anytime soon.” Lady Stanhope materialized before him, her fan fluttering rapidly.
“Yes, well, I’m…” Thorn yanked at his cravat again, his throat constricting. “It’s rather hot in here, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” she chirped, her high-pitched tone piercing through his growing headache. “Shall we take a turn about the gardens?”
Gardens! Better than a mere balcony. And with a woman on his arm, fewer people might waylay him. “Yes. Let’s,” he said, practically shoving Lady Stanhope’s hand into the crook of his arm as he propelled them toward the main doors with unseemly haste.
* * *
Lydia watched from across the ballroom as Thorn practically dragged Lady Stanhope toward the garden, his long strides eating up the distance. He must have been truly anxious for a tryst.
Her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. She let out a fortifying breath and moved toward the garden with deliberately unhurried steps. As she passed a side table, she plucked a glass of wine and took a large sip. More of a gulp, really.
She wanted to give the couple time to become thoroughly engrossed in each other, ensuring neither would notice her arrival. But if she was being honest with herself, she was also desperately in want of that drink.
She took another lengthy sip, the wine warming her throat.
Given how quickly Thorn had bolted from the ballroom, perhaps she should have hurried. She knew some men were very eager and could conclude a tryst in mere minutes.
One more sip.
Was Thorn one of those men? Was he an attentive lover, or did he care only for his own pleasure? He used to be gentle, so gentle…
Argh! Lydia was ready to scream at her inappropriate thoughts. It doesn’t matter!
None of it mattered except for her mission.
She tipped the glass to her mouth only to find it empty. She’d finished the entire glass of wine in under a minute. Lydia stared at the empty glass for a moment before returning to the side table and securing another drink.
She downed it in three long gulps, squared her shoulders, and hurried toward the garden.
Where did they go?
Lydia passed several couples hidden in shadowy alcoves as she searched for Thorn and Lady Stanhope before she heard his familiar low growl floating through the evening air.
“…were mistaken in my intentions, Lady Stanhope.”
Lydia crept closer, keeping to the shadows of a large topiary. Thorn and Lady Stanhope stood across from each other, at least two feet of proper space between them. What was going on?
Lady Stanhope stepped closer to him, gently but confidently trailing her hand over his arm. “Come, Thorn. Don’t tell me you don’t want one last tumble.” She purred the last word so softly that Lydia nearly missed it. Lydia fought the urge to turn away. How did she expect to coldly sneak in and steal the jewel while they were having a tryst when she could barely watch Lady Stanhope touch his arm?
Art placed his hand over Lady Stanhope’s, then yanked it away. “I am sorry, Anthea, but I am a betrothed man now, and I promised…”
Betrothed?
Lydia didn’t hear the rest. Art continued speaking, his lips kept moving, but it was as though no sound emerged. Or perhaps it did? The buzzing in Lydia’s head muffled all outside noise into meaningless sounds.
Buzzing… or was it screaming?
Betrothed!
He was betrothed!
As she stood there frozen behind the topiary, she watched Art’s tall figure quietly disappear down the garden path. Eventually, Lady Stanhope swept away as well, leaving Lydia alone in the cold autumn night.
He was betrothed.
What did she expect? For him to remain a bachelor forever?
Lydia began her slow walk back to the ballroom, her feet dragging against the gravel. She needed to inform Honoria of yet another failed attempt at stealing the jewel. She was a failure… At least, when it came to Art, she certainly was. She had never been able to hold her composure in front of him—why had she foolishly thought she would suddenly start now?
Because she hadn’t faced him in over a decade?
If anything, she should have known it would be worse.
She was so cocky, so certain that he was content with his bachelor life. He hadn’t even been a part of the marriage mart in the last ten years, or so she’d heard.
There were no rumors of that sort; he hadn’t attended any respectable balls or dinners. How had he managed to secure a betrothal so quickly? Was it an arranged marriage?
Tears blurred her vision, forcing her to stop and dab at her eyes with trembling fingers. She took several deep breaths, trying to steady herself. What was she doing? She needed to collect her scattered thoughts.
She needed to talk to her friend.
Lydia returned to the ballroom and immediately swept her gaze across the glittering crowd, searching for Honoria.
A flutter of black muslin slipped behind a large fern near one of the windows, and Lydia made her way toward it. She skirted the edges of the room, avoiding any attempts at conversation. Snagging a glass of wine from a passing footman, she finally reached the fern and turned to face the crowd. Lifting the glass to her lips as a shield, she whispered, “I didn’t get it.”
“How come?” Honoria’s calm voice seemed to materialize from nowhere. She needed to stay hidden—it wouldn’t do for a servant to be visible in the ballroom.
“Thorn refused a tryst.”
“That’s… odd?” Honoria added a questioning lilt to the last word as if unsure it was the right one to use.
“He is betrothed,” Lydia breathed, one wave of tension leaving her body only to be replaced by another.
“Betrothed?” Honoria’s surprise sharpened her whisper into something too close to a loud shriek.
“Shh…” Lydia glanced around anxiously, but nobody seemed to be paying her any heed. Or at least, if they were, they were polite enough to pretend not to notice a lady apparently engaged in conversation with a potted fern.
“I’m sorry,” Honoria returned to a low whisper. “I just don’t understand. Who is he betrothed to?”
Lydia shook her head, her hands curling into fists at her sides, her cheeks burning with humiliation. “I don’t know, he didn’t say.” Or at least, I didn’t hear him say it. Lydia’s voice grew fainter with each word, as if her strength was ebbing away.
A long pause stretched between them, until Honoria finally spoke again. “Are you certain he wasn’t lying?”
“You mean am I certain that he refused a tryst with a delectable countess and a known lightskirt during a boring function and came up with a lie to do it? Yes, I am quite certain.” Lydia fisted her trembling hands and began pacing like a caged animal. Three steps forward, three steps back. “And if he is refusing trysts because of his betrothal, it can only mean one thing.”
She stilled suddenly, her gaze distant, unfocused.
“What?” Honoria’s voice seemed to reach her from across a great divide.
“It means that it’s a love match.” The words fell from her lips like stones.
Honoria stepped out from the shadows and placed her hand on Lydia’s shoulder. Lydia shrugged it off immediately. “You can’t be seen, Honor. Go back. And I need to—”
“Come. Let us talk in private.”
Lydia shook her head, a hint of desperation creeping into her voice. “I don’t want to talk. I need to devise a plan. I need to get the ring—”
“Tomorrow,” Honoria soothed, her voice gentle. “You can worry about it tomorrow.” She took Lydia’s cold hand in hers and carefully led her away from the ballroom. “Tonight, you can mourn.”