Chapter 3 Lady Worthington’s Ball
Lady Worthington’s Ball
Two weeks later
Edmund spotted her immediately.
She stood against the far wall with the other unclaimed ladies—spinsters, debutantes with unfortunate complexions, and girls whose dowries couldn’t compensate for their shortcomings. Lady Prudence wore a lavender dress which had faded to nearly white in places, and the hem showed careful stitching.
“Good heavens, is that the Dover girl?” Lady Penelope’s voice carried from his left, where she held court with her usual circle. “At her age, she should be in the dowager’s section, not lingering by the dance floor like someone might notice her,” Lady Penelope said with a smirk.
“Lord Dover’s been approaching every bachelor with two pennies to rub together,” another voice said. “I heard he even cornered Mr. Whitman last week. The man’s a merchant, for heaven’s sake.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened. Whitman was forty, widowed with three children, and had made his fortune in soap.
“Did you hear she’s been selling her mother’s jewels?” Lady Penelope continued, her fan fluttering. “The Countess’ emeralds went to a banker’s wife.”
“At least she’s stopped trying to discuss books with gentlemen,” another voice added. “Lord Hutton still flees when he sees her coming.”
Their laughter tinkled like breaking glass.
Edmund set down his untouched champagne and crossed the ballroom with deliberate purpose. He passed Lady Penelope without acknowledgment, not even the slight bow politeness demanded. Her fan stilled mid-flutter.
He requested the waltz from the maestro and moved to where Lady Prudence was studying her dance card as if it contained the secrets of the universe. She didn’t look up until his shadow fell across her.
“Lady Prudence.”
Her head snapped up, those cognac eyes widening. “Your Grace.”
“Would you honor me with the next dance?”
She blinked. Looked behind her as if he might be addressing some other Lady Prudence lurking by the wallflower wall. When she faced him again, her expression had hardened.
“No.”
The refusal rang out clearly, drawing curious glances from nearby matrons.
Edmund kept his voice low. “No?”
“You heard me perfectly well.” She returned to her blank dance card. “I’m sure Lady Penelope is available. She’s been waiting for you.”
“I don’t want to dance with Lady Penelope.”
“How unfortunate for Lady Penelope.” Her tone could have iced champagne. “Though not as unfortunate as a family losing their home because one man decided his political principles mattered more than people’s lives.”
“I cannot sacrifice my political convictions for one family, no matter how compelling their representative.”
She looked up at that, something flickering in her eyes. “I understand your position, Your Grace. I simply thought, after that night, that we had become… well, perhaps ‘friends’ is too strong a word. But something.”
“We are not friends.” The words came out harsher than intended. “We cannot be friends.” Not when he’d wanted to kiss her. Not when he could look at nothing but her mouth right now.
She flinched as if slapped. “Because of our families? Or because you find me so objectionable?”
“My lady—”
Her chin lifted. “The answer’s still no.”
Edmund wanted to explain. That friendship was impossible when he’d spent every night thinking about her chained to his balcony, that their families would declare war if he pursued anything more, that he’d already earned his family’s wrath by begging for a dance like this.
But the ballroom was full of eager ears.
“Dance with me,” he said ignoring his better judgment. “If nothing else, it will make you more interesting to other gentlemen. And it will certainly irritate Lady Penelope and her circle, which I believe we can both appreciate.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Petty revenge?”
“The most satisfying kind.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. “One dance. To annoy Lady Penelope.”
“Naturally.”
He led her onto the floor just as the waltz began. Perfect for his purposes as it would require him to hold her. The gossips would feast for weeks.
“Everyone’s staring,” she murmured as he placed his hand at her waist.
“Isn’t that what we wanted?” He guided her into the first turn. “You’re dancing with the most eligible bachelor in the room. Enjoy it.”
“Your arrogance remains intact, I see.”
“It’s not arrogance when it’s fact. Ask anyone.”
“I’d rather not. Their answers would only inflate your already oversized head.” But she was fighting a smile. “Why did you really ask me?”
“Lady Penelope was saying vicious things about you.”
“Lady Penelope always says vicious things. It’s her primary talent.” Lady Prudence tilted her head. “You publicly snubbed her for me. That’s rather dramatic.”
“I learned from an expert in dramatic gestures.”
She studied his face. “Social warfare is worse for you, isn’t it? A snubbed Lady Penelope is a dangerous enemy.”
“I have enough enemies. One more hardly matters.”
They turned past the refreshment table, and he saw the shocked faces of the ton.
“You voted for repeal,” she said quietly. “Despite everything.”
“I voted my conscience.”
“I know.” He heard a slight tremor in her voice. “I’m angry, but I understand. I just wish…”
“What?”
“I wish we could have been friends. You’re the only person who’s ever let me discuss economics without mocking me.”
“Prudence—” He stopped, aware they were passing Lady Penelope’s corner.
He spun her away from a collision with another couple. “Your father’s approaching every bachelor in London?”
Pink stained her cheeks. “He’s desperate. This morning, he cornered a widower with seven children who needs a mother for them. The man’s sixty and has gout.”
“Good God.”
“Papa doesn’t care. A husband is a husband, and Mr. Thornbridge has a good income from his mills.” She bit her lip. “I’ll probably have to accept someone soon. The mortgage payment is due in six weeks.”
Edmund’s hand tightened involuntarily at her waist. “You can’t marry some ancient widower.”
“I can’t let my family starve either.”
The music ended before anymore could be said. He bowed, she curtseyed, and then she was walking away, leaving him standing alone on the dance floor.
He returned to his usual corner, accepting champagne from a passing footman, and tried not to watch her. He failed miserably.
Old Lord Thanet approached her next—seventy if he was a day, recently widowed, desperately in need of an heir his first wife hadn’t provided. Prudence smiled politely through their dance while Thanet wheezed through the steps.
Then came young Lord Farley—barely twenty, giggling with his friends. A dare, clearly. Edmund heard his friends’ laughter when he returned to them.
“Twenty pounds, as promised,” one of them crowed.
Edmund’s champagne glass creaked under his grip.
Mr. Whitman, the soap merchant, claimed the next dance. At least he treated her respectfully, though he was likely calculating the prestige of a lady wife versus the burden of her family’s debts.
Lord Dover himself scurried between groups of men, his desperate energy visible from across the room. He’d cornered young Mr. Ashby, who looked ready to climb out of window to escape.
Edmund was contemplating intervention when a stir near the entrance caught his attention.
The Marquess of Blackwood had arrived.
Blackwood was wealthy and connected to royalty through his mother. He was also a recluse who appeared in Society perhaps twice a year. His presence at a middling ball like Lady Worthington’s was extraordinary.
The crowd parted as Blackwood moved through the room with purposeful strides. He was heading, Edmund realized with a start, directly for Prudence.
She was fidgeting with her fan when Blackwood reached her. He bowed—properly, formally, as if she were a duchess rather than a desperate spinster—and said something that made her eyes widen.
She placed her hand in his, and he led her onto the floor.
Edmund watched them turn together, Blackwood’s dark head bent to catch something Prudence was saying.
She was explaining something—her hands moving expressively as much as the dance allowed—and Blackwood was…
laughing. The reclusive, notoriously stern Marquess of Blackwood was laughing at something Prudence had said.
“Extraordinary,” Lady Penelope appeared at his elbow, her voice breathless with disbelief and relief. “What could Lord Blackwood possibly want with the Dover creature?”
Edmund didn’t answer. He was too busy watching Prudence smile up at Blackwood, the real one he’d seen on his balcony when she’d forgotten to be proper.
“Perhaps he needs a governess for his wards,” Lady Penelope muttered.
The dance ended, and Edmund watched Blackwood bow over Prudence’s hand, holding it perhaps a moment longer than strictly proper. Then, to everyone’s surprise, the marquess turned and walked directly toward the exit. He’d been in the ballroom less than ten minutes.
Edmund intercepted him in the entrance hall.
“Blackwood.”
The marquess paused, one dark eyebrow rising. “St. Albans.”
“Rather a brief appearance tonight.”
“I got what I came for.” Blackwood accepted his greatcoat from a footman. “Did you need something?”
Edmund kept his tone carefully neutral. “I’m curious what brings you out of hiding. You haven’t graced a ballroom in, what, two years?”
“Eighteen months.” Blackwood’s smile was enigmatic. “I heard some rumors about a certain lady. Came to see her for myself.”
Edmund felt his jaw tighten. A vein pulsed at his temple. “She’s not a creature at a zoological garden, Blackwood.”
Blackwood’s eyes narrowed. One corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk. “Fascinating.” He pulled on his gloves with precise movements. “No, Your Grace. We’ve been formally introduced, and it’s high time I think about heirs.”
“She’s not some broodmare to be evaluated.”
Blackwood quirked one brow. “I’m not certain why it interests you but let me just say she exceeded expectation.”
“In what way?” The question came out before Edmund could stop it.
Blackwood laughed—a short, sharp sound. “My intentions? Are you her guardian now, St. Albans? Or perhaps…” He tilted his head, studying Edmund with half-hooded eyes. “I think the better question is: what are your intentions?”
Edmund said nothing.
“I thought so.” Blackwood settled his hat on his head. “Well, you’ll have to wait like everyone else to discover my plans. Though I will say this. Lady Prudence deserves better than elderly widowers.”
“On that we agree.”
“How interesting.” Blackwood moved toward the exit but stopped to turn.
His smile was knowing. “Enjoy your security, St. Albans. Principles are so much safer than passion, aren’t they?
Less risk of scandal. Less chance of disappointing one’s family.
Less possibility of happiness, too, but one can’t have everything. ”
Edmund’s fists clenched.
“Good evening, Your Grace.” And with that, the Marquess of Blackwood disappeared into the night, leaving Edmund standing in the entrance hall with the uncomfortable feeling he’d just been thoroughly read and found wanting.
He returned to the ballroom to find Prudence once again against the wall, though now she was surrounded by whispering ladies. She looked overwhelmed and slightly miserable.
Their eyes met across the room. For a moment, neither broke the contact.
Lady Penelope materialized at his side. “Your Grace, you promised me this dance.”
He hadn’t, but arguing would require more energy than he possessed. “Of course.”
As she chattered about her recent visit to an art gallery, Edmund found his gaze returning to Prudence. She was dancing with Dover’s latest victim—a thin, nervous man who kept stepping on her feet.
Blackwood’s mention of heirs had him gritting his teeth. Why on earth did Edmund care so much?
The answer was uncomfortably obvious but examining it meant making decisions. Not here, not now, not when his emotions were a tangle of jealousy, fear and… longing.
Not when so much stood between them.
Principles, Blackwood had said, were safer than passion.
But watching Prudence force a smile through another terrible dance, Edmund was beginning to wonder if safety was worth the price.