Chapter 2
James Ridley, Viscount Redfield, stood at the edge of the ballroom and watched the guests moving back and forth.
The green eyes of the young lady he had just encountered lingered in his thoughts, haunting him.
He narrowed his gaze, the combination of bright lights and ceaseless chatter wearing on his nerves.
Loud noise troubled him greatly. After two years in Portugal on the front lines of the war, he found crowds and commotion deeply unsettling.
A man walked past quite close to him, and James tensed, then shot him a sharp glance—more irritated with himself for his reflexive reaction than with the man, who had done nothing beyond stepping innocently too near.
I should go outside, he thought, biting his lip. Indoors, amid the jostling, noisy throng, was not a wise place for him to remain. He could feel the familiar haze building in his mind—a warning sign of some violent reaction soon to follow.
He began walking toward the doors, then paused. The young lady with the green eyes had stepped out that way, and he was not at all certain he was ready to encounter her again just yet.
She must think I am a complete fool, he thought sadly.
He had noticed her a few minutes before the rude, uncouth young man had so callously bumped her with his arm.
Her posture and the observant look in her eyes had marked her instantly as different.
Having spent a great deal of time spying on enemy camps and watching their movements added to one’s talent at reading the gestures and postures of others.
The young woman in the blue dress was tense, but not afraid.
She did not like balls and parties—one could see it at once from the slow, halting way she walked as if she did not want to be in the room, and by the rigidity of her stance.
Yet, she was not frightened, because she was gazing out across the hall, observing the other guests; not too shy to make eye contact.
And she had talked happily with the red-haired young lady, who was clearly a friend.
The tall blonde young man must be a brother, he thought—his protective manner and the similarity of their features suggested it.
The two loutish individuals were, he presumed, friends of her brother.
I should not have sprung to her defence so impulsively, he thought bitterly.
It had been rude, and he was certain it had left a poor impression.
Strangely, that mattered to him. His instinct to step in had been reflexive, something he could not control.
She had appeared so vulnerable, despite the quiet confidence in her gaze.
Heat rose in him at the memory of those green eyes. Her gaze had held his, and in that moment, a wave of warmth had swept through him, rendering him unable to look away.
He recalled her face—a softened oval, with a graceful forehead, smooth skin and a sweet snub of a nose.
Her eyes were fringed with pale lashes, her hair thick and straight, its dark auburn hue striking against her pale complexion.
She was beautiful, he thought, biting his lip in irritation with himself.
It was unlike him to notice something like that.
No, he corrected himself. It was not unlike me to notice.
It was unlike me to allow myself to. The last thing he wanted was any sort of romance.
Love brought pain—he had learned that the hard way.
Not only on the battlefield, where dear friends and comrades had fallen around him, but also at home.
He swiftly pushed aside the haunting image of Redfield Hall in ashes, his parents lost as they tried to escape the burning manor.
At least they were spared suffering, he reminded himself. He had repeated those words to himself countless times upon his return—it was the only thought that had kept him from losing his sanity.
His parents had perished in a carriage accident, his father taking the reins and driving desperately through the storm to bring them to safety. They had struck a fallen tree across the road, and both had been lost instantly.
Yet the thought that never fully released him was that he should have been there.
His friends, among them his cousin Edward, had tried time and again to assure him that he bore no blame—that he was thousands of miles away, engaged at the front lines of battle.
And still, the thought persisted: if only he had been there, perhaps he could have made a difference.
“How are you enjoying the evening, old chap?” a voice spoke beside him, too loudly.
James whipped around, his temper flaring, only to find himself staring into the mild brown eyes of his cousin Edward, the Earl of Thornewood. His anger slowly ebbed, softened by his cousin’s unshakable calm.
“Not very,” James admitted sorrowfully. He wished that Edward had not invited him.
He hated parties. He had no idea how he had been convinced to agree to attend.
It was better than being shut away in the townhouse by himself, and that was all to recommend it.
It was the least he could do, he supposed, to be polite. He just couldn’t quite manage it.
Edward chuckled. “Well, mayhap a dance would cheer you up,” he suggested.
The musicians had started playing, James noticed distantly, and he tensed.
He had never been keen on dancing, even before the war and the terrible tragedy that had befallen Redfield.
He paused, allowing himself a moment to gather a polite reply.
“I believe I would prefer some air,” he said. “It is rather warm in here.”
Edward nodded. “It is, old chap. I’ll order the windows opened. But, of course, the terrace is always open—I do like to keep things informal.”
“As do I,” James agreed stiffly. He bowed, excusing himself.
He winced inwardly as he crossed the room, feeling awkward and annoyed with himself for his abrupt departure.
Edward was not only his cousin but also a long-standing friend and steady support; being discourteous toward him was never his intent.
But at that moment, escaping the ballroom took precedence over maintaining proper manners.
He went outside to the terrace.
Stepping outside brought one into a new atmosphere instantly.
The conversation around him was hushed, the breeze cooling him.
The night air smelled of dew and wet grass, and he breathed it in, the scent like balm to his soul.
The peace of the space soothed him— the only sound beside the murmur of conversation was the rustle of the leaves in a slight wind.
He leaned back against a pillar and closed his eyes, enjoying the peace.
“But you are so amusing,” a female voice murmured.
James opened his eyes. He could see the woman who was talking, her pale skin gilded in the light from the ballroom window.
She wore a dark-coloured dress, and she had thick dark brown—mayhap black—hair and a slim oval face.
Her lips were thin, her brows dark, and her eyes big and black in the muted candlelight.
She was very beautiful, and he knew that he had seen her before at other gatherings at his cousin’s home, prior to his travels with the army.
Caroline, Lady Langley, he reminded himself.
The tall man standing beside her had his back to James, and though he could not immediately place him, he was certain they had crossed paths at one of Edward’s house parties.
The man’s thick, greying blond hair and broad, powerful shoulders set him apart from the others, most of whom were neither as tall nor as solidly built.
His manner was not relaxed and easy, despite the light laugh from Lady Langley.
James narrowed his eyes, watching them. Something about the interaction drew his attention.
Lady Langley is afraid of him, he thought instantly.
He kept his gaze on them, but Edward’s voice spoke from beside him, making him whip round again, startled.
“Fifteen minutes before we go inside to dinner, old chap. Just thought you’d wish to know.”
“Dash it,” James said crossly. “Please do not speak so suddenly.”
He hated having to ask. He wished people might remember—or at least understand—the effects of two years spent in brutal war. But they never did, not even Edward, who had known him all his life.
“Sorry, old chap.” Edward looked down, clearly understanding. “I should not have startled you.”
“No harm was done.”
Edward did not say anything in reply, and James’s gaze moved to the people on the terrace.
Lady Langley had gone inside; the tall, blonde man with her.
He was not sorry that they had departed—their presence unsettled him.
The sight of anyone seeming fearful in the company of another was something he found deeply troubling.
For just a moment, he could have sworn that the young lady in the blue dress was there, too, watching the guests.
He had thought that he caught sight of her slight form clad in blue, standing by the door, but when he looked again, there was a young lady in a red gown there, and, if the blue-clad young lady had been there, she must have gone indoors quite swiftly.
“Dinner in fifteen minutes’ time, you say?” he murmured, remembering that he had sworn to himself to be polite to Edward.
“Yes. Not a long dinner. I decided three courses would suffice. Four, actually. Dear Adeline insisted.” He beamed. Adeline was Edward’s wife, whom Edward adored, and at the mention of her, James’s mood softened.
“I can endure four courses, if Adeline insists.” He grinned.
“She did.” Edward smiled fondly.
They stood silently for a while.
“I should go in,” Edward murmured beside him. James blinked. He had almost forgotten that Edward was there. That was something Edward did well when he remembered—being present without intruding.