Chapter Four
The promise weighed on Laurence’s mind in the months that followed. Grief overwhelmed him, and for a while, he retreated to the countryside. Not that he was sure being there helped. There were no distractions like there were in London, just endless memories of his beloved father.
And yet, he could not bring himself to return to London, to the life he had led before. It wasn’t because he was now a viscount, or even out of a sense of duty—it was knowing that in London, he would be expected to be the old Laurence: fun and flirtatious, the life and soul of the party.
And at that moment in time, he simply did not have it in him to be so.
*
Anastasia was finding the Season even less enjoyable than she had anticipated.
It wasn’t just that her brother generally abandoned her in order to gamble and drink, although that was irritating enough.
No, it was also the fact that the further they got into the Season, the more he insisted that she needed to marry for the good of the family.
He wanted her to find someone titled and wealthy, but she was not really sure what she had to offer.
She thought she was fairly attractive, though she knew she often went unnoticed.
And then there was the fact that, according to the rumors, her brother had frittered away the dowry that had been set aside for her by their father.
So she was shy, with no title and no money. Hardly an incredible prospect.
She had asked Oliver about her dowry when she had first heard the rumors, but his spiky reaction had stopped her from asking again.
She watched from the edge of another dance floor as couples moved in time with the music, laughed, drank, and flirted.
It was unlikely that her dance card would remain entirely empty; neither would she be overwhelmed by suitors eager to dance with her and call on her the following day with flowers.
And as time ticked on, Oliver grew more and more impatient.
“May I have this dance, Miss Carrington?”
Realizing she had been daydreaming, Anastasia forced her attention back to the present—where Baron Brett stood before her, grinning broadly with his hand outstretched.
A chill went down her spine. She had met the baron once or twice when he had come to their home to play cards with her brother, and again at several social functions.
And it wasn’t that he had done anything wrong, but there was just something about him that made her feel uneasy.
The way his eyes seemed to rake down her body every time he saw her.
The way he never seemed to pay attention to anything she was saying, even if he had been the one to select the topic of conversation.
The way he so often sought her out, whether her brother was there or not.
She hoped he was not getting any ideas of courting her, for he was surely older than her father would have been had he still been alive.
The same age, at least. And although she knew Oliver wanted her married, she did not think she needed to settle for a man like Baron Brett.
Oh, he had money and a title—but she did not believe there was any way he could make her happy.
And the thought of kissing him, of allowing him to touch her…
well, it sent another uncomfortable chill down her spine.
“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied, even though she really wanted to say no. Of course, to do so would be unconscionably rude. It would certainly anger her brother. And she always tried not to anger Oliver. It wasn’t easy to calm him down, once he was riled.
He took her hand and led her to the dance floor, which was already filling up with couples ready for the next set.
“Is that a new gown?” the baron asked, his eyes resting for far too long on the neckline of her dress.
Anastasia felt a strong urge to cover up, but the music began, and there was no way she could use her fan to hide her décolletage from his incessant staring.
“It is,” she simply replied.
“Well, you must allow me to say how becoming it is,” he said when the music brought them together.
“Thank you.”
In truth, she did not particularly like the new gown.
It had been made before her father had died, when there had been money for such extravagances.
But then he had passed, and the shade had been too bright to wear even in half-mourning.
And so the dress had lain forgotten, untouched in the parcel it had been delivered in from the modiste.
Until Oliver had told her she needed to make more of an effort to attract a husband and had pulled it out, insisting it be worn. She supposed she had liked it when she had chosen it, but now the fabric seemed too bright, the neckline too daring, and the purpose of the dress left her melancholic.
She did not want to be trussed up to attract a husband. She would much rather do so with conversation, wit, and intelligence.
Of course, that was not the way these things worked. First, one attracted a gentleman with dresses like these and flirtatious smiles from behind a fan.
And then, if you were lucky, you got to know one another and discovered some compatibility.
She very much doubted that could ever be the case with Baron Brett.
She thought he was attracted to her—but she was very much not attracted to him.
And as to whether they had anything in common…
his main interests seemed to be gambling and drinking.
He would be far happier spending an evening conversing with Oliver than he would be with her, that was for certain.