Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nicholas was no stranger to the Bodleian Library.
Every visit reaffirmed his admiration for the place, the library proving even more majestic indoors than it looked from the outside, if that were possible.
He waited in the queue of guests for the master of ceremonies to announce him that evening, glancing through the tall, gilded archway into the busy room beyond.
“If I am remembering correctly,” Samuel whispered beside him, “it was at a place not unlike this that I attended my first ball. Do you remember that night? Montagu House in London?”
“Oh, vaguely,” Nicholas replied absently, unfolding his invitation.
“Father would have kept me on leading strings had he not feared making a laughingstock of the family. He should have feared letting me have free rein instead. Left to my own devices...” Samuel whistled, looking around.
“I believe I took one Miss Katia off the dancefloor and into an upstairs reading room before the ice had melted in the punch. And you were not much better—”
“You would be kind to refrain from such activities tonight,” Nicholas interjected, still peering through the crowd. “Or I will devise some makeshift leading strings and do what our father could not to reel you in.”
“So serious is the Duke of Avon this evening,” Samuel teased. “Not like you at all. Tell me, now that we are together again, might I expect a return to form soon, or is this maudlin gentleman to be your character forevermore?”
“I beg your pardon?” Nicholas guffawed.
“You know what I mean. Go on then, brother—is it?”
“I have not yet decided,” Nicholas said with playful levity. “Though I would hardly call myself maudlin.” He abandoned his search of the ballroom and adjusted the lapels of his coat. “There comes a time in every man’s life when he must… reassess the course of it.”
“Ah,” Samuel said with a knowing tone. “You mean to say, though you dare not, that you have landed yourself in such a pickle back home that you must make a monk of yourself while you are here in Oxford. Poor, poor brother. Not maudlin, no. Tragic.”
When Nicholas ignored him, not wanting to encourage Samuel, his brother soon grew bored of the topic.
“What drew your attention indoors?” Samuel asked after a beat. He nodded to the ballroom up ahead, having a slightly worse view than Nicholas because of his shorter height. “You were looking into the archway with those determined eyes of yours. Searching for someone in particular?”
Nicholas ignored his brother, knowing that the mere mention of his fears would keep Samuel entertained all evening.
But it would be in my best interest to determine quickly who is here, he thought, smiling politely as the master of ceremonies took their invitations and announced them.
Not everyone will be accepting of Samuel and I—and it would be wise not to cause any trouble until I can determine how long I must remain trapped here in Oxfordshire.
An impressive number of guests had collected that evening, crowding in old Duke Humphrey’s library, its central hall repurposed for the evening’s entertainments.
Nicholas shuddered at the thought of excited hands tearing the books from their shelves, hoping at minimum that the display rooms had been placed under lock and key.
The usual quiet of centuries-old scholarship gave way to a cacophony of voices and activity. The library was transformed from a place of study to spectacle, and it filled Nicholas with intense displeasure.
“Perhaps Oxford will not be so tiresome after all,” Samuel cried over the sounds of the crowd.
Nicholas glanced up in dismay as he and Samuel pushed through the crowd. The ceilings vaulted above, arches shining with candlelight, the flicker of suspended chandeliers dancing on the stone. His gaze swept the room.
A grand staircase, flanked on either side by statues of muses, led to a mezzanine where salivating observers leaned over the balustrades surveying the pit below. Nicholas felt more than saw their eyes settle on him and Samuel—had sensed the shift in the room once their titles had been announced.
At the far end of the hall, beneath a stained-glass window depicting a biblical scene Nicholas could not recall, stood George, adjusting his cuffs as he spoke to a collection of gentlemen, laughing at something one of them had said.
The men were dressed in their usual nightly attire, the women nearby sporting dresses that better fit the theme of the evening: a night in the European Quarter.
The colorful gowns on display had evidently been selected to recall the vibrant silks of the Orient, though Nicolas felt more dizzied than impressed by the noise of garments and faces before him.
How unusual, he thought. Perhaps I have internalized this chaste act too soon. Not a female countenance in the crowd appeals to me…
“Here they are now!” George hollered, turning to introduce the brothers. “We were just talking about you,” he whispered to Nicholas as he shook his hand. “All good things, I swear it.”
Unconvinced, Nicholas bowed to the group of gentlemen. “Good evening, gentlemen.”
“His Grace, the Duke of Avon, and his brother, Viscount Whitmore,” George introduced with ease. Unlike Nicholas and Samuel, George was a paragon of gentility. “Allow me to introduce my friends, Baron Hawthorne, Mr. Bright, and Mr. De Rees,” he announced in quick succession.
Nicholas settled his gaze on the De Rees. “Say, I know you,” he said, wagging his finger at the man and looking at Samuel for confirmation. “You were at The Pump Rooms this morning.”
The man, with his familiar golden hair, smiled genially. “Paul De Rees, Your Grace.” He bowed. “My cousin, whom you might remember from this morning, is a friend of Lord Gainsbury’s.”
“Ah, you’re that scholar!” Samuel added, evidently distracted by a group of passing women fluttering their fans at him. He blinked at George and the others. “The rest of you... I do not care to know.”
Before Nicholas could protest, Samuel left in pursuit of his admirers, disappearing into the crowd.
“Not exactly a chip off the old block,” George joked, laughing nervously. “So strange to see Samuel here again. I had not realized your brother was in town, Nicholas. Had not realized he could release himself from the shackles of London.”
“Neither had I,” Nicholas muttered, recalling the moment his brother had appeared that day—his apprehension over the arrival.
“He appeared at Riverside Court this morning without so much as a letter of warning. Came with his buggy and declared he would be staying awhile for want of something better to do.”
“Such is his way,” George chuckled.
“Indeed. But I would not see him turned out.”
“Such is your way,” George added sincerely.
Nicholas supposed there was some sincerity to it. He and Samuel were each as bad as the other, encouraging one another down dark paths indeed. But the love he had for Samuel was incorruptible, enduring through everything that had occurred in their short lives and everything that would come.
“Two Whitmores in Oxford when usually there are none,” George noted, a little sadly. “How ever will we survive the end of the year? I expect the town to go up in flames before Christmas.”
“Is there some history I am missing?” Paul said as the group descended into laughter.
“None that is worth repeating, I assure you.” Nicholas promptly ended his interrogation, already thirsty for refreshments.
The air was stifling, and he adjusted his cravat. He was about to suggest a tour of the room when he noticed George’s attention fixed somewhere in the distance.
“Something the matter?” he asked.
George started. “What? No, nothing at all. Why?”
“He is looking for Philippa,” said Mr. Bright, or perhaps Lord Hawthorne—Nicholas had already forgotten which was which and did not care to remember. “Should Elston manage to locate her—should he find the courage to speak with her—the evening will prove most entertaining indeed.”
Nicholas merely said, “Ah,” and turned to see whether he could spot the young woman who had enraptured his friend. Perhaps sensing his struggle, or wanting to compound George’s embarrassment, one of the men pointed her out for Nicholas through the crowd of Oxfordshire socialites and servants.
It was only then, halfway concealed by the fronds of a palm, that Nicholas noticed a duo of women pressed up against a wall. The only one plainly visible was tall and thin—taller than George—with light blonde hair and haughty features.
“The ?” Paul said with a laugh. “She is the woman you long to court?”
George quickly turned to them, his face flaming red. “I beg your pardon? Miss Ashwood is a perfectly normal height.”
“Not compared to you, old chap,” one of the others contested, clapping him on the back. “Why, she will look positively gargantuan next to you. It would not do to court her. No, never!”
George stumbled forward, catching himself. “You will cease this ribbing at once.”
“Agreed,” Nicholas got in, feeling unusually charitable. The woman was, in truth, only an inch or more taller than George. Hardly grounds for such bullying. “By my eye, she is perfectly suitable to court, though I shall offer you to context. You would make a fine pair.”
“Thank you,” George said in relief, composing himself. “Theirs are the japes of jealous minds! Miss Ashwood is by far the loveliest woman in the room.”
Despite his reassurances, Nicholas was not so sure. Miss Ashwood was certainly lovely, but beside her, face halfway hidden behind the plant, a woman seemed to be staring in wonder at the architecture above, which he deemed much more pleasing to the eye.
There was something strangely familiar about her, though Nicholas at first could not place it.
He heard George’s group dare him to cross the room and speak with Miss Ashwood. And almost as if she had heard them, the gentlewoman led her concealed friend by the arm and began moving elsewhere...
Allowing Nicholas a clear view of her friend, in a rich blue gown.
He had unwittingly committed the lines of her body to memory, surprised to find them enhanced by her attire—a maddening sight. He adjusted his cravat again, shifting his weight, certainly not because of the air this time, though it pained him to admit it.
She glided effortlessly through the crowd, her pale face flushed a touch with the heat of the room, her eyes, he was sure, glittering like the sea…
As his own eyes widened in horror at the danger her presence promised.
To his lie.
To his vow.