Chapter 2
“Lady Pembridge, you look absolutely radiant this evening.”
Alastair Reed delivered the compliment with practiced ease, watching the elderly matron’s expression soften from suspicious disapproval into something approaching maternal indulgence.
It was a minor victory, perhaps, but victories were victories nonetheless, and he had learnt long ago that charm deployed strategically could accomplish what rank alone could not.
“Your Grace,” she replied, her tone still carrying a note of censure despite the flush of pleasure colouring her cheeks. “I must say, we had not anticipated your attendance this evening. The Bancroft ball is typically considered rather… respectable.”
“How utterly devastating for everyone involved.” He offered his most disarming smile, the one that had extracted him from countless uncomfortable situations over the years. “I do hope my presence has not irreparably damaged the event’s sterling reputation.”
Lady Pembridge’s lips twitched despite her obvious determination to maintain disapproval. “You are incorrigible, sir.”
“So I have been told. Repeatedly. With great conviction.” He executed a shallow bow, already scanning the room beyond her considerable frame. “If you will excuse me, my lady, I believe I see someone requiring my special brand of incorrigibility.”
He moved away before she could formulate a response, slipping through the assembled guests with the ease of long practice.
Around him, the opulence glittered and ladies giggled. Alastair observed it all with the detached amusement of a man who had no intention whatsoever of being captured.
The attention followed him as he walked, palpable as a physical touch.
He felt it in the sudden hush of nearby conversations, the sideways glances hastily disguised as casual observation, the way young ladies straightened their postures and adjusted their gowns as he passed.
The matrons’ expressions ranged from calculating interest to scandalised horror, often cycling through both in rapid succession.
He rather enjoyed it, if he were being honest. The notoriety, the whispers, the delicious certainty that his mere presence could shift the entire tenor of an evening. It was power of a sort, and power—even the frivolous kind—had its uses.
His gaze swept the ballroom with deliberate leisure, cataloguing faces and dismissing them just as quickly.
Lord Waverly holding court near the card room, likely already three drinks past proper.
The Brightmore sisters positioned near the orchestra, practically vibrating with eagerness.
Lady Huntington watching him with an expression that promised complications he had no interest in entertaining tonight.
Then his attention snagged on something far more interesting than any of society’s usual offerings.
Miss Penelope Hartwell stood at the refreshment table, her posture perfectly erect, her expression neutral, her entire demeanour radiating precisely the sort of studied disinterest that Alastair had learnt to recognize as its own form of fascination.
His closest friend’s sister-in-law. His friend William’s wife’s youngest sister. A connection tangled enough to make them perpetual dinner companions without being close enough to make such dinners remotely comfortable.
She had been inflicted upon him—or perhaps he upon her—at every social gathering for the past two years.
Always with that same expression of patient forbearance, as though his presence were a minor inconvenience to be endured with good grace.
Always with those clever hazel eyes that saw far too much and forgave far too little.
It was, quite frankly, rather irksome, the way the woman managed to get under his skin with her unimpressed eyes, as though he was no more than a nuisance.
She stood beside her friend—Miss Fairleigh, if memory served, the lively one who collected gossip like other women collected ribbons—and appeared to be engaged in serious conversation.
Her hands were clasped loosely before her, her head tilted slightly in that noticeable way she had when listening with genuine attention rather than mere politeness.
Beautiful, he supposed, in an understated fashion that London’s more discerning gentlemen would appreciate.
Soft brown hair arranged in simple elegance, warm hazel eyes that carried depths of feeling she seemed determined to conceal, features that suggested gentleness rather than drama.
The sort of beauty that required actual observation to appreciate, rather than announcing itself with obvious spectacle.
Not that he was observing, of course. Merely noting details with the same casual interest he might apply to any other element of his surroundings.
He was, however, in a decidedly teasing mood.
Alastair adjusted his course with subtle precision, navigating through clusters of guests with the sort of deliberate casualness that came from years of practice. As he drew nearer, he watched Miss Fairleigh’s attention shift, her eyes widening as she registered his approach.
Then, with admirable discretion, she murmured something to Penelope and melted away into the crowd.
Fascinating. Either Miss Fairleigh possessed the social instincts of a particularly cunning general, or she simply had no desire whatsoever to endure his company. He suspected the latter, which was perfectly reasonable and not remotely insulting.
Penelope had not yet noticed his approach. She was reaching for a glass of water, her movements unhurried, her expression carrying that same quality of quiet composure she wore like armour against the world’s intrusions.
Alastair stopped directly before her, close enough that propriety would notice but not close enough to constitute actual impropriety. A delicate balance, and one he had perfected over many years of skirting the edge of acceptable behaviour.
“Why did your friend leave?”
Penelope’s hand stilled over the lemonade glass. Then, with movements that suggested she was drawing upon considerable reserves of patience, she completed her reach, lifted the glass, and turned to face him.
Her expression remained perfectly neutral. Almost impressively so.
“Your Grace.” Her tone matched her expression—polite, distant, utterly unimpressed. “I did not realise you were attending this evening.”
“I am devastated to have disappointed your expectations.” He smiled, watching her eyes narrow.
“Though you have not answered my question. Your charming companion seemed rather eager to depart the moment I approached. I do hope I have not developed some condition that renders me socially repellent. Though I suppose that would explain the matrons’ reactions. ”
“I am certain Miss Fairleigh simply remembered a pressing engagement elsewhere.”
“How extraordinarily convenient.” He leaned closer, pitching his voice to carry no further than her ears. “Or perhaps she simply does not enjoy my company. A perfectly reasonable position, I grant you, though I must say it seems rather rude to abandon you to endure it alone.”
Penelope pursed her lips almost imperceptibly. “I suppose she does not like your company, Your Grace. Though I cannot imagine why. You are the very soul of pleasant conversation.”
The words were delivered with such perfect politeness that it took a moment for the sarcasm to fully register. When it did, Alastair felt genuine amusement spark in his chest—the kind that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with actual entertainment.
“How very kind of you to say.” He studied her face, noting the faint colour rising in her cheeks, the slight compression of her lips.
“Though I must point out that if Miss Fairleigh truly finds my presence so objectionable, you are entirely free to follow her example. And yet here you remain. One might almost think you were… enjoying my company.”
Her eyes—those remarkable hazel eyes that seemed to shift between gold and green depending on the light—fixed on him with an expression that could have frozen champagne.
“I assure you, Your Grace, I am doing nothing of the sort. I am merely being polite, a concept with which you appear only tangentially acquainted.”
“Polite.” He repeated the word as though tasting it, finding it wanting. “How very… dutiful of you. Though I must say, Miss Hartwell, you carry duty with rather less enthusiasm than one might hope. If I did not know better, I might think you actively disliked me.”
“What an extraordinary leap of logic.”
“Is it?” He tilted his head, studying her with genuine curiosity now.
She was bristling—very subtly, very properly, but bristling nonetheless.
It was rather endearing, in an utterly exasperating fashion.
“You consistently decline my invitations to dance. You arrange yourself as far from my seat as possible at dinners. You speak to me only when direct conversation becomes unavoidable. These do not, I must confess, suggest warm affection.”
“Perhaps I simply prefer to keep my distance from gentlemen of… dubious reputation.”
There it was. The accusation delivered with impeccable politeness, wrapped in velvet but no less pointed for the packaging.
“Dubious reputation,” Alastair repeated, his smile sharpening significantly.
“My dear Miss Hartwell, there is nothing dubious about my reputation whatsoever. It is, I assure you, entirely accurate. I am precisely as dissolute, irresponsible, and scandalous as rumour suggests. Possibly more so, depending on which rumours you have been entertaining.”
Colour flooded her cheeks now, genuine and unmistakable. “I do not entertain rumours, Your Grace. I merely observe behaviour and draw appropriate conclusions.”
“How very scientific of you. And what conclusions have you drawn?”
She met his gaze directly, her eyes filled with a strange rage.