Chapter 3 #2
Arnold gritted his teeth. Christ knew why his blackguard of a cousin’s estate wasn’t already entailed to the man to whom the title would pass—mayhap laws were different in the Americas—but Arnold would see to it that he was given what he was owed.
Calluna was precisely what was required. He would marry the wench in front of his cousin, gain the man’s fortune, land, and title after his imminent demise, and return to England with wealth and a whelp.
Champagne bubbled down Percy’s throat as he scanned the ballroom.
Music lilted through the space, the energy high and the air pregnant with anticipation.
Dancers swirled and twirled, the majority of those in attendance participating in at least this last dance.
But not Percy. He, like the wallflowers and chaperones of the evening, stood at the perimeter of the ballroom and observed.
He swallowed another gulp of champagne, his gaze searching for a black, feathered gown and artfully styled—if wind-swept—chignon with black ribbons.
Despite himself, curiosity ate at him. Even if the woman had no desire to continue a flirtation, and he was bound for the Americas on the morrow, the urge to at least see her face burned through him.
Dancers whirled past him in pinks, blues, reds, greens… A flash of black feathers caught his gaze, and his spine stiffened. Could it be?
His pulse quickened with interest.
But no. That woman had a toppling chignon of brown hair spotted with pearls.
Disappointment slammed through him, but he kept his gaze moving.
Far too many women had donned black that evening, curse it.
There! Blonde-red hair with black ribbons.
He strained his neck but failed to garner a clear view of her costume.
She danced with a vaguely familiar older man with a halo of stringy white hair.
The music swelled and the dancers spun, but Percy kept his gaze locked on the mystery widow.
His pulse sped faster, his breath quickening with anticipation as the waltz came to a close and the dancers clapped.
He was distantly aware of someone speaking from the musicians’ balcony, but the sound was muted by the rush of blood in his ears. The unmasking.
He hastily shuffled sideways, tilting his head in an effort to garner a better view of the bewitching widow. There! His pulse rushed in his ears, muting the hum of anticipation in the room. Her hands delicately swathed in her elbow-length black gloves, the woman reached up to untie her mask.
The mask fell away to reveal her face…and his blood froze solid in his veins.
My god. His gut twisted painfully, and an icy dread dampened his skin. It couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. Heather Morgan—his student, for fuck’s sake! She was to be married, was leaving for the Americas on the morrow. She was on assignment…with Percy.
Miss Morgan joined in the applause and pasted on a patently false smile for her intended before Leo, Jasper, and their wives encircled her and the Earl of Hanley. They chatted amiably for a moment, and Percy watched as though glued to his spot.
What have I done?
Nervous energy bubbled inside him, and he had to move.
Without a backward glance, he wove through the milling guests, down the corridor, across the foyer, and through the front door.
He ignored the waiting footmen and coachmen and strode directly for the street, needing desperately to clear his head.
The clip of his boots on the cobblestones echoed around him, and the oil lamps lent a dim light.
Heather Morgan. Hell, but he ought to have known it was her.
He’d even compared the “widow’s” hair and figure to Heather’s, for fuck’s sake.
He’d been wilfully ignorant. Hell’s teeth.
His gut gave another hard twist as guilt churned through him.
She was very likely an innocent, and he’d just robbed her of her maidenhead. Fuck.
In the heat of the moment, he’d thought her a widow well versed in the art of the tryst. He’d assumed she knew herself and the risks involved.
While he’d withdrawn when he’d spilled his seed, that did not guarantee that she would not get with child—or so he’d learned from acquaintances with troubled mistresses.
He sighed, and shook his head. Society mothers were notorious for ill-informing their daughters about relations between men and women, instead hoping that their future husbands would take care of it.
But Heather’s mother had passed some time ago, and she was not yet married…
It was possible her aunt had spoken with her, but from what Percy had gleaned about the woman, that was unlikely.
He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, but was impeded by his curst domino. Agitation rode him, and he tugged the thing from his head and shoved it into his pocket.
“Fuck,” he growled into the darkness.
It was fortunate he was already assigned to the frigate alongside Heather, for his duty was clear. Naturally, he understood her reasoning behind the tryst—she would be ruined upon their return, after all—but it begged the question: had she known it was him behind the mask?