Chapter Three
CHAPTER THREE
T he ballroom was densely packed; every step brought a waft of cloying perfume or worse. In places, it was hard to move forward as the press of people swelled, each person jostling for position amongst their groups. Ash’s smile was rigid, his cheeks painful from forcing his lips into an unnatural smile. Every few steps, he was stopped by people who seemed inordinately pleased to see him. It was strange, because he had not been that popular before he’d gone off to war. Not that anyone had disliked him, just that he’d had his circle of friends and he’d had Amelia and that had been enough.
He couldn’t fathom why his return was garnering more attention than he’d ever received before, even if he took into consideration what he was rumoured to have achieved during the war. He was subjected to endless congratulations and backslaps from the men, which was more understandable than the mamas, who fluttered about him and introduced their marriageable daughters. If they knew how strange their complimentary words seemed to him, he wondered if they would continue. It was only luck that had seen him lead a victorious sally into enemy territory. He’d dragged his troops through, keeping them all alive through sheer pig-headedness. Somehow, the story of this particular battle had made it to the British newspapers and he was a hero to everyone who hadn’t been there, who hadn’t seen the other skirmishes that had not ended so well. Not one of these people would think him a hero if they saw him during the night, waking from a nightmare of being back in the midst of all that gunfire; the racing heart, the sweat and the shaking limbs were an almost nightly torture.
It wasn’t until he was on his second lap of the room that he overheard a woman speaking, and he finally understood the full reason for all the attention. ‘Of course the Ashworths have overstretched and are in desperate need of some ready blunt before the season is over.’
An icy chill spread from the centre of his chest as the voice he didn’t recognise continued to talk about his family’s personal business. He hadn’t realised his family’s problems were common knowledge, and the realisation was not a good one.
‘Arabelle Ashworth has to bring out her twins next year and get them married off. They’re not going to do it if the family can’t provide a good dowry. It’s rumoured the girls do not have the looks or personality to find a love match.’
Fury whipped through Ash’s veins, his fingers curling into fists. How dare a lady with such thick powder across her cheeks casually dismiss his sisters? The girls, so painfully shy, would be devastated to hear themselves spoken about in such disrespectful terms. It would destroy them, and he would take down anyone who took a piece of their burgeoning confidence.
His muscles tightened as he fought to remain where he stood, the urge to storm up to the gossipmongers and tell them exactly what he thought of them almost overwhelming. He knew he could not do it. This ballroom was not an army barracks and those women were not soldiers he could discipline. If he acted on his instincts, the chances of the girls making a good match would diminish yet further in the scandal of an unwise outburst.
He had not gone far enough when the gossip’s voice reached him once more. ‘The family’s a decent lineage and there’s Easton Hall to consider. A woman would put up with a lot to be mistress of that place, and nobody can dismiss what Mr Ashworth did for the war effort.’
‘That’s very true and…’
Ash pushed himself forward, aiming to get far away from the spiteful busybodies. His temper, already on a very thin leash, was threatening to explode, and raging at the lady would only provide momentary gratification.
He moved on and kept smiling and nodding as he walked from group to group, never once stopping to talk to anyone in depth. The knowledge his family’s situation was being discussed gave him the vague sensation of being stalked.
He was halfway around the ballroom for the fourth time when he heard a laugh. It rang out over the chattering masses, so pure and clean it struck a chord deep inside him. The sound didn’t belong here, it belonged to quiet, private moments when Ash had believed he was so happy he could burst. Ash was not that person anymore; he couldn’t remember the last time he had experienced innocent joy.
He moved away from the laughter, because while he’d once thought to grow old hearing that sound, now the noise cut him deeper than a knife, reminding him of all the reasons he was unworthy to hear something so bright and unfettered by scenes of war.
Ash knew he would probably have to see Amelia at some point. Their ancestral homes were neighbouring properties and their townhouses were on the same street. Although in the weeks since he had arrived in London, he had avoided glancing down the length of Williamstone Avenue just in case she was leaving or arriving. He had half hoped she would have moved to her husband’s London property but he’d been told, even though he hadn’t asked, that she’d sold it not long after Lord Mortram had died.
No, he wasn’t ready to see Amelia; he wasn’t sure he ever would be.
He moved away, no intention in his direction, the only thought to get as far away from Amelia as possible. As a wealthy widow with a sweet nature, intriguing eyes and delectable curves, she would not be back on the marriage mart for long, and he had to hope that he wouldn’t have to watch her being courted from the sides of the dance floor. Hopefully, their paths would rarely cross. Although they lived on the same avenue, London was otherwise a big place; they need not see each other much at all. And that was good. Spending time within her orbit would burn his damaged soul far worse than hearing her laughter.
Through the throng of people he spotted one of his closest friends, Ezra, glaring at the dance floor as if it had caused him a personal affront. He made to head towards him but he was too late.
‘There you are,’ his mother said, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow, stopping him in his tracks. ‘There are people you need to meet this evening.’ By people , she meant potential brides and their families. Something tight wrapped around his throat making it hard to breathe. He understood his duty; he knew the family needed money and that he had to marry at some point. A wealthy bride would solve both problems. As the time approached for him to meet someone, to potentially tie himself to that one person for the rest of their lives, he realised he would rather be on the battlefield than face this inevitability. He fought the urge to run his fingers through his hair. He knew he did this when he was irritated or anxious, but he thought perhaps he should not look as if he had scrambled through the undergrowth when meeting a potential bride. He groaned; just thinking the word bride made the contents of his stomach turn over. How he was supposed to find someone he liked well enough to contemplate asking them to take on this role was beyond him.
‘Ah, perfect,’ said his mother, tugging him forward before he had time to resist. ‘Miss Smythe, how lovely you look this evening.’
Ash growled under his breath as his evening went from bad to worse. He’d thought he’d made his feelings on Sienna Smythe very clear in the carriage but his mother obviously thought she could manipulate him. He knew before the war that he’d been an easy-going man, that he’d been happy to oblige anyone, but he was no longer that person. So his mother hadn’t listened and would find out the hard way that he was not the amenable boy he’d once been.
‘You remember Miss Smythe, don’t you? Although she is much grown since you last saw her,’ said his mother.
Ash bowed. ‘A pleasure.’ Sienna had become taller in the years Ash had been away but that was hardly surprising. She was now a willowy young woman with strawberry-blonde hair. She looked nothing like her more voluptuous sister or like the little girl he’d used to play with when they were both much younger. However, there was enough of the girl she’d once been in her features that, even if contact with Amelia wasn’t a factor, he would never be able to court her, even if she was the only eligible woman left in the ton. He didn’t want to appear rude in front of an old family friend, but there was nothing to say to her and he did not want to run the risk of her sister joining them. As he prepared to make his excuses, he realised Sienna Smythe was grinning at him in a most unladylike way, as if she had discovered a box of toys with which she couldn’t wait to play.
He frowned but her grin only widened. And then, the crowd behind her parted and the noise of the ballroom faded into nothing. For a moment, he could not breathe. He wasn’t sure he even blinked as Amelia stepped forward to stand beside her sister. Her rich, dark red hair, twisted into an elaborate style that showed off her high cheekbones, glinted in the ballroom light. Her dark brown eyes were framed with thick lashes that had surely lengthened since he had last seen her. The dress she wore clung to her generous curves and sparkled as she stood before him as composed as a queen standing before her subjects.
Their gazes locked and held and everything inside him stilled. Gone was the rage that burned beneath his skin, never giving him a moment’s peace; gone were the sounds of the battlefield that echoed in his ears, and gone was the strange blankness that seemed to envelop him. All he could see was her light and her radiance and he wanted to cling to it and never let it go.
This was Amelia as he had never seen her before. The sweet innocence that used to emanate from her had gone completely, and in its place was a vibrancy that shimmered beneath her skin. For several heartbeats, they stared at each other; time stretched, ceasing to have meaning. Once, he’d known her so well he could tell what she was thinking from the way she stood, but now he had no idea what the look in her dark gaze meant.
He tore his own gaze away from her, tried to keep his focus on anything else, but his willpower deserted him in less than two seconds and he was looking at her, drinking in the sight of her like a man who’d been wandering a desert for years only to find a lush oasis.
It was slight, but then he was staring at her so he could hardly miss it, the small shake of her head as if she was dismissing his presence. Then she was smiling and stepping forward as if nothing of importance had just occurred. ‘Mr Ashworth,’ she said to him. ‘How wonderful to see you. I do trust you are enjoying being home.’ It was the first words she’d addressed to him in years and, although she may have a different air to her, Ash recognised her words were completely insincere. ‘You look well, I’m pleased to see.’ With those disingenuous remarks finished, she turned slightly away from him and addressed an amusing anecdote about a mutual acquaintance to his mother. Even though his mother had been intent on getting Ash talking to Sienna, and had been rather dismissive of Amelia on the few times she’d mentioned her, she laughed along to Amelia’s story and by the time she’d finished, Sienna had been led onto the dance floor by a man far closer in age to her than Ash.
The Amelia he’d known was a shy creature, preferring to stay in the shadows and let other people do the talking. The lady before him now, who’d clearly swooped in and stopped a predatory mama from preying on her younger sister, was a completely different person. Perhaps it was her curves in that dress or maybe it was the way she had dismissed him but he found himself saying, ‘Would you care for a dance, Lady Mortram?’
It was worth asking just to see the slight wobble in her neatly put together facade, a glimpse of the shy woman she once was. She recovered quickly and he couldn’t stop the small dart of pride in her that flickered in his heart. ‘I thank you for the honour, Mr Ashworth, but I am engaged to dance with Lord Stanmere next.’
‘Later then, perhaps a waltz.’ Heaven knows why he was goading her into dancing with him. He’d planned to avoid her this season, and within moments of meeting her again for the first time in years, he was trying to persuade her into his arms. But just as it had years ago, the sight of her weakened his knees and his resolve. He knew he shouldn’t, that spending more time with her would ultimately make things worse for him, but for now, in her presence, he was actually feeling something, and anything was better than the endless blackness that threatened to consume him. Whatever it was, there must be something wrong with him, because her obvious reluctance to spend time with him was pushing him to do the opposite. There was no logic to explain it.
‘Oh, I…’ She glanced down at her dance card. From where he towered over her, he could see the next waltz was free.
‘Allow me,’ he said, knowing full well he was being high-handed and overbearing, but he was, for some inexplicable reason, amused at the thought of goading her into spending time with him when she clearly didn’t want to. It was the first time he’d felt that emotion in so long, he knew he would do almost anything to keep experiencing it. Even if that meant breaking his resolve not to spend time with Amelia. He reached for her dance card and scribbled his name next to the waltz. ‘I shall look forward to it.’
Her delectable mouth opened slowly and just when he thought he was about to receive a set down, she favoured him with a bright, dazzling smile that rang as false as her words earlier. ‘As shall I.’ With that patent untruth, she swept past him, her skirts brushing his legs as she passed.