Chapter 14
Edward hated soirees.
He hated the cramped rooms and the cloying perfume, and the endless parade of simpering conversations about nothing at all.
He hated the way the matrons eyed him like a prize horse at auction, calculating his worth in acres and annual income.
He hated the tepid lemonade and the stale biscuits and the quartet in the corner murdering Mozart with more enthusiasm than skill.
Most of all, he hated that he had come here voluntarily.
Lord Fallston’s drawing room overflowed with London’s finest, all of them dressed in their second-best evening wear, all of them pretending to enjoy themselves. Edward stood near the fireplace, nursing a glass of mediocre claret, and contemplated the merits of feigning a sudden illness.
“You look like a man attending his own execution.”
Hugo materialized at his elbow, impeccably dressed, irritatingly cheerful. “Smile, Edward. People are suspecting you have no teeth.”
“I am smiling.”
“That is not a smile. That is the expression of a man who has just discovered a spider in his soup.” Hugo sipped his own wine. “Why did you come if you intended to glower at the wallpaper all evening?”
“Lord Fallston is a business partner. It would be rude to decline his invitation.”
“You decline invitations constantly. You have elevated declining invitations to an art form.” Hugo raised an eyebrow. “What’s the real reason?”
Edward didn’t answer. The real reason stood across the room in a pale-yellow gown, laughing at something her companion had said.
Miss Amelia Stanton.
One of the names Lady Sophia had suggested at the garden party weeks ago. Before the museum. Before the ball. Before the balcony.
Before the kiss that had ruined his sleep and his appetite and his capacity for rational thought.
He had been avoiding Lady Sophia for days.
He had manufactured urgent business whenever she was scheduled to visit Oliver.
He had left the house at dawn and returned after dark, ensuring their paths would not cross.
It was cowardly, and he knew it, but the alternative was facing her and pretending that kiss had not altered something inside him.
He was not prepared to do that.
What he was prepared to do was focus on his original goal. Find a bride. Secure a mother for Oliver. Move forward with his life as if green eyes and sharp wit and kiss-swollen lips did not haunt his every waking moment.
Miss Stanton seemed as good a prospect as any.
Her father was a shipping magnate, not a peer, but rumors abounded that a baronetcy was forthcoming in recognition of his contributions to the Crown’s naval interests.
The ton whispered about it constantly. A duke marrying the daughter of a mere merchant would raise eyebrows, but a duke marrying the daughter of a soon-to-be baronet with a fortune rivaling most earldoms was merely unconventional.
“Excuse me.” He set down his wineglass and straightened his coat. “I have someone to speak with.”
Hugo followed his gaze and grinned. “Ah. The heiress. Shipping fortune, if I recall. Not a bad choice, though I hear she has opinions about literature.”
“What is wrong with opinions about literature?”
“Nothing, if you enjoy being quoted poetry at breakfast.” Hugo clapped him on the shoulder. “Godspeed, my friend. Try not to discuss architecture.”
Edward crossed the room, navigating the clusters of guests with the grim determination of a general advancing on enemy territory. Miss Stanton looked up as he approached, her smile brightening.
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. “What a pleasure.”
“Miss Stanton.” He bowed. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. Lady Whitmore and I were just discussing the new exhibition at the Royal Academy.” Miss Stanton gestured to her companion, a plump woman with kind eyes. “Have you seen it, Your Grace?”
Edward had not. He had no interest in art exhibitions. But Lady Sophia would have had an opinion. Lady Sophia would have debated the merits of each painting with passion and wit, would have challenged his assumptions and made him see things differently.
He pushed the thought aside.
“I have not had the opportunity.” He clasped his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you might tell me about it.”
Miss Stanton launched into an enthusiastic description of landscapes and portraits and something involving a shipwreck that sounded rather dramatic. Edward nodded at the appropriate times. He made sounds of interest. He kept his expression engaged and attentive.
But his mind wandered to a moonlit balcony.
The way Lady Sophia had gasped when he kissed her. The softness of her lips. The way her fingers had tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him on. The small sound she made when he deepened the kiss, a sound that had echoed in his dreams every night since.
“…do you not agree, Your Grace?”
Edward blinked. Miss Stanton watched him expectantly.
“Absolutely.” He did not know what he was agreeing to.
“Wonderful.” Her smile widened. “So few gentlemen appreciate the emotional depth of Turner’s work. Most dismiss it as mere spectacle.”
“Spectacle has its place.” Edward grasped at the thread of conversation. “But true art should provoke feeling.”
Miss Stanton’s eyes lit up. “Exactly! That is precisely what I was saying to Lady Whitmore. Art should move us. Should challenge us. Should make us see the world differently.”
Lady Sophia made him see the world differently.
Lady Sophia challenged him at every turn, refused to accept his icy demeanor, and saw through his defenses to something underneath.
Lady Sophia had looked at him on that balcony as if he were a man worth kissing, worth wanting, worth more than duty and obligation.
He was thinking about her again.
Damn.
“Your Grace?” Miss Stanton tilted her head. “Are you well? You look rather flushed.”
“The room is warm.” Edward tugged at his cravat. “Forgive me. You were saying?”
“I was asking about your nephew.” Her expression softened with genuine interest. “I understand he recently came to live with you. That must be quite a change.”
Oliver.
This was why he needed a wife. Not for himself, but for the boy who flinched when Edward entered a room, who only smiled when Lady Sophia visited, who needed a mother’s warmth that Edward could not provide.
“It has been challenging,” he admitted. “Oliver lost his parents recently. He is still grieving.”
“Poor child.” Miss Stanton pressed a hand to her heart. “Children are so resilient, but they need stability. Consistency. Someone to help them feel safe.”
Lady Sophia made Oliver feel safe. Lady Sophia kneeled on schoolroom floors and read stories and let him lead their conversations. Lady Sophia remembered his mother and spoke of her with love, while Edward could barely say Jane’s name without flinching.
He was thinking about her again.
“You’re right.” He forced his attention back to Miss Stanton. “Stability is essential. I am seeking to provide that for him.”
“A noble goal.” Miss Stanton smiled. “I have always loved children. My younger siblings adore me, if I may say so without sounding boastful. I believe children simply need to know they are valued.”
She was saying all the right things. She was pretty and accomplished and came from a respectable family. She had opinions about art and affection for children and a smile that was perfectly pleasant.
She was not Lady Sophia.
Edward wanted to bang his head against the nearest wall.
“Miss Stanton.” He cleared his throat. “Would you and your aunt do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk through Hyde Park? Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?”
Her face brightened. “I would be delighted, Your Grace. I had already promised to accompany my aunt on her walk. The air does her good.”
“Hyde Park, then.” His mouth curved.
“If it would not inconvenience you, we are accustomed to walking at two.”
“Excellent.” He bowed. “I shall be there at two o’clock.”
He excused himself and retreated to the fireplace, where Hugo waited with a fresh glass of claret and an insufferable smirk.
“A promenade in the park.” Hugo handed him the wine. “How romantic. How conventional. How utterly unlike you.”
“It is practical.” Edward drained half of the glass. “She’s suitable. Oliver needs a mother. I need a wife. Miss Stanton could serve both purposes admirably.”
“Serve.” Hugo’s smirk widened. “How passionate. I am certain she will be thrilled to know she has been deemed adequate for service.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you spent the entire conversation looking like a man trying to remember where he left his cravat.” Hugo leaned closer. “And I know that whatever you were actually thinking about, it was not Miss Stanton’s opinions on Turner.”
Edward said nothing. He stared into his wine and thought about green eyes and sharp tongues and the way his pulse still raced whenever he remembered the taste of her.
“Go home, Edward.” Hugo’s voice softened. “You are fooling no one. Least of all yourself.”
Edward finished his wine and set down the glass.
He left the soiree without saying goodbye to his host. He climbed into his carriage and rode through the dark streets of London, alone with his thoughts, his memories, and the growing certainty that no matter how many suitable ladies he courted, none of them would make him forget the unsuitable one who had somehow burrowed beneath his skin.
He was in trouble.
He was in so much trouble.