Chapter 4
Edward didn’t know where he’d gone wrong.
Certainly, he could have been a bit more tactful, but he hadn’t wanted to fool himself—or Miss Hart, for that matter.
This whole situation was difficult enough without pretending to be something he wasn’t.
He would not act as though he were interested in her for more than her money.
She deserved better than that. He had thought she might even respect him for it, telling her exactly where he stood.
Although, if he had been entirely truthful, he would have also told her that when his mother had pointed her out to him, he’d felt a tug somewhere deep inside of him.
An overwhelming and unexpected desire to be near her, to hear her speak.
He wasn’t certain where the feeling had come from.
She did not have the sort of look he usually found appealing, with her wintry, nearly translucent skin and pearly blond hair that reminded him of frost-coated wheat.
He would have thought she powdered it to get it that light, but her brows were the exact same shade, highlighting eyes that, even from a distance, he could tell were the clearest blue, so light as to be almost crystalline.
She was taller than most of the women here, but so slender, she looked as though she would fracture at the slightest touch.
She was a snowflake drifting lazily, miraculously, through the stifling summer air, and Edward had felt the instant, oddest urge to protect her—from the people surrounding her, who did not seem to realize how delicate she was, and from the heat, which would surely melt her before he had the chance to hold winter in his palm.
He’d kept his gaze fixed on her as he moved across the ballroom.
Saw her stumble into the fern behind which she was trying to hide.
Someone must have breathed on her, that was really all it would have taken.
And then she threw back her head and laughed at nothing, her eyes crinkling, and he felt his lips tug into a smile of their own accord.
It did not take long for him to realize she was deep in her cups.
Her eyes were shiny, and she did not seem to be fully in control of her faculties.
He’d felt sorry for her when she’d mistakenly addressed him by the wrong title.
Her cheeks had flushed a lovely rose color, and he could practically see her berating herself in her mind for the slip.
He’d wanted to tell her it was typical, her being an American and all. She was bound to make mistakes. He was certain he would make far more mistakes were he to go to New York tomorrow and try to fit into her circles. But he did not say any of this, not wishing to prolong her embarrassment.
Too bad he embarrassed them both not five minutes later.
How strange, he’d thought, that this snowflake, this woman he felt certain was a fragile thing in need of protection lest she be blown away on the summer wind, could so easily turn into a fire-breathing dragon with a spine of steel.
Stranger yet that he could provoke such a response from her, especially when he’d only said aloud what they had both been thinking.
Hadn’t he?
“Well done,” Holbrook remarked, a smug smile splitting his face as Edward stalked up to him.
“Shove off,” Edward growled.
“Your technique has declined considerably since our Cambridge days.”
Edward ignored him, striding after a footman for another glass of champagne, even though what he really wanted was to retreat to his study with a brandy and his ledgers so that he could continue wading through the estate’s accounts.
But his mother would not let him hear the end of it if he walked out on her ball before it was even halfway finished.
Holbrook followed. “So, what exactly did you say that had the poor lady running off as if you were the two-headed slime creature from the moors?”
The footman disappeared into the crowd ahead of him.
Edward exhaled his frustration. “I told her I intend to marry her.”
Holbrook whistled. “A risky move, my friend, but I admire your bravery.” He slapped his arm across Edward’s shoulders. “Who’s next?”
“No one.”
Holbrook frowned. “You can’t be serious. I know rejection can bruise the ego a bit, but there are plenty of other heiresses in attendance—”
“I meant what I said,” Edward replied. “I intend to marry Miss Hart.”
And with that, Edward strode from the ballroom.
This was his house now, and if he wanted to escape this monstrosity of an evening, he would do so without the slightest twinge of guilt, especially considering the whole point of this ball was to find himself an American bride, and he had—at least in his mind—succeeded.
Now he just needed to figure out how to get the lady in question to accept him.
“The Dowager Countess of Hayward’s Annual Summer Ball, held at Whitefawn Manor in Hampshire, went off without a hitch.
Among the ladies present were the most celebrated debutante of the last London Season, Miss Olivia Tate, as well as several American heiresses, one of whom reportedly could not handle her champagne and consequentially cast up her accounts on the side of the road whilst returning to her lodgings.
We should not judge her too harshly, however, for what can one expect from an American? ”
—The London Ladies’ Journal (June 8th, 1908)