Chapter 6
Chapter Six
That night, the ballroom was even busier than the day before.
Leander had to admit that the servants had done an excellent job with the decorations, having transformed the place completely: the flowers had been replaced, the banners and ornaments rearranged, and the color palette had shifted from the yellow and green hues of spring to deeper reds and oranges. It resembled a romantic sunset.
Now, to business. He searched the room for the Norish sisters.
He told himself his eagerness to find her was purely strategic.
The dining room gambit had been well-executed — public, visible, impossible for her to deflect without drawing more attention than she clearly wanted.
News of his interest would travel, and when it reached Lord Norish, the man would come crawling out of whatever hole he had retreated into last week.
That was the plan. That was all this was.
And yet he found her at the back of the room with the group of dowagers that had descended upon him the minute they’d arrived yesterday. before he had finished the thought. Matchmaking mothers were the terror of the Season.
Miss Julia Norish was standing at the edge of the room with her sister, her chin lifted at the precise angle of someone who had decided that if people were going to stare, they would have to work for it.
He had noticed that about her in the carriage incident — that particular brand of dignity that had nothing to do with status and everything to do with sheer, quiet refusal to be diminished.
Most women in her position would have retreated.
She had stepped out of the carriage and squared up to him on the cobblestones.
He hadn't been able to stop thinking about it since.
Leander reached for his glass and looked away, mildly irritated with himself. He was here for Lord Norish. He was here for Henry. That was the only thing that mattered, and he would do well to remember it.
He looked back across the room.
She was still there. Still unbowed. Still entirely unaware that he was watching.
He reminded himself, firmly, that this was a strategic observation.
There was no need to separate Miss Norish from the group; the musicians were about to play, and she’d promised him the first dance. He stepped up to the dance floor, waiting for her to join him.
“Your Grace!” came a sudden, simpering voice, and a tall blonde girl stepped into his eyeline, blocking his view of Miss Norish.
He recognized her immediately - the troublemaker who had tried to accuse Miss Norish of theft the previous evening.
“I seem to be partnerless for the dance,” Miss Burbank whispered in a papery thin voice.
“Lord Blackwell was supposed to meet me here, but he appears to be late to the ball tonight. Would you mind if I joined you, so that I am not left up here alone?”
Leander frowned, trying to look past her to where Miss Norish had been without seeming overly rude. “My apologies, Miss Burbank, but I am otherwise promised for this dance. Perhaps I could find you later?”
Ignoring his words, she took the spot opposite him. “The music is about to begin, Your Grace, and it seems that your partner hasn’t arrived either.”
Leander looked around, schooling his face to remain impassive.
Where could she have gone?
She’d been right there just a second ago. Her aunt and sister were still engaged in conversation.
The musicians started up a lively tune, and he moved automatically, not concentrating on Miss Burbank at all.
Miss Norish had, indeed, failed to appear.
Although he knew that it wasn’t a real invitation to dance, his pride was still a little wounded by her continued rejection, especially since she’d publicly agreed to join him.
Then he spotted her.
She was tucked into a secluded spot by the terrace doors with Lord Stockhill, who was leaning toward her with the particular attentiveness of a man who had decided he was interested.
Leander knew Blackwell. Everyone knew Stockhill.
He was charming in the effortless way of someone who had never had to work hard at anything, quick with a compliment, quicker to move on when something shinier appeared.
He felt the pull before he had finished the thought.
It isn’t jealousy, he told himself.
He had no claim to her and no desire for one.
But Stockhill was precisely the kind of man who would see Miss Norish’s situation — seemingly desperate, without family protection, without dowry — and read it as an opportunity rather than a circumstance.
The kind of man who would be charming right up until the moment charm stopped being useful.
And Miss Norish, for all her sharp wit and her stubborn dignity, had been so thoroughly ground down by everything her father had put her through that Leander wasn't certain she would recognize that particular brand of interest for what it was.
She deserved better than to be someone's convenient option.
The thought arrived with a force that surprised him.
"Lord Pridewell." Miss Burbank appeared at his elbow; her dance card extended toward him with the practiced confidence of a woman accustomed to getting what she asked for. "I believe the next set is beginning."
Leander looked at the card. Then at her. "I'm afraid not, Lady Burbank."
Her smile faltered almost imperceptibly. "I beg your pardon?"
"I won't be dancing this set." He said it pleasantly, with the absolute finality of a man who saw no need to elaborate. "I hope you enjoy it."
A beat of silence passed in which Miss Burbank clearly reassessed the situation and found no foothold in it. The smile returned, thinner this time, arranged carefully back into place. "Of course," she said. "Another time, perhaps."
"Perhaps," he agreed, which they both understood to mean there would be no other opportunity.
She withdrew. He turned back to the terrace doors.
Stockhill had shifted closer to Miss Norish, his shoulder angled inward in the way of a man trying to make a conversation feel more private than it was. Miss Norish was listening with her head tilted slightly, polite and attentive, and Leander watched her intently.
She wasn't charmed.
He could tell by the way she held herself, in that perfectly composed and pleasant manner, that she was enduring the conversation rather than enjoying it, with the patience of a woman who had spent years managing situations not of her choosing.
Stockhill, predictably, could not tell the difference. Leander felt irritation rising from inside him. The chap was more likely fortune hunting than anything else, hoping to get a dowry from Miss Norish.
Leander waited until her eyes met his across the room.
He tilted his head slightly as her eyes found his across the room, just enough to let her know he had seen the whole thing.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she turned back to Blackwell with a composure so deliberate it was almost amusing.
Despite himself, he smiled.
At least she was never boring. The rumors in town had pegged the elder Miss Norish as a bloodless bore.
A quiet, predictable creature easily overlooked.
Yet every interaction he’d had with her so far had proven the gossips entirely wrong.
She was sharp-witted, guarded, and fiercely protective of her sister.
He had to admit, if only to himself, that he was thoroughly intrigued.
He crossed the room at a measured pace and by the time he reached the doors, he had seamlessly positioned himself to block the other man's path to Julia, projecting quiet authority.
"Stockhill," he said.
Stockhill straightened immediately. Whatever he had been about to say to Miss Norish died on his lips as he turned and found Leander standing there with the particular expression that Anthony had once described, not unkindly, as the one that makes men remember prior engagements.
"Pridewell." Stockhill recovered smoothly enough. "Wonderful party."
"Thank you." Leander let a brief silence fall, the kind that required filling. "I believe Lady Ashworth was looking for a partner for the next set."
It was not a suggestion.
Stockhill looked between them once, read the room with whatever instinct for self-preservation he possessed, and inclined his head.
"Miss Norish." A short bow. "Your Grace.
" And then he was gone, moving back toward the floor with the dignified pace of a man pretending he had intended to leave anyway.
Leander looked at Miss Norish.
She looked back at him with an expression that was equal parts relief and irritation, which he was beginning to understand was her default response to him specifically.
“Were you observing me, Your Grace?” she asked, then turned around with a defiant gaze. “Or were you following me?”
“Can it be both? Besides, I was watching Stockhill," he replied dryly. "You happened to be nearby.” She laughed humorlessly. “It seems that Miss Burbank has caught your eye; shouldn’t you be observing her instead?”
“My preferred dance partner was busy over here, hiding in the darkness entertaining another man,” he retorted, “so regrettably I was forced to accept a substitute.”
“You make it sound so sordid,” Miss Norish accused. “We were simply having a conversation. In full view of everyone in the room, I might add.”
“What might this conversation have been about?” Leander found himself asking, the words tumbling out before he could think about them.
“With all due respect, Your Grace, what Lord Stockhill and I spoke about doesn’t concern you, so I’d prefer to keep it private,” she said, then turned away again and resumed gazing out over the garden.
Leander was quiet for a moment.