Chapter 5
By the time Julian entered the ballroom, it was already thick with guests.
The air was warm with candlelight and close with the scent of hothouse flowers and warm beeswax.
Conversation rose and broke in waves; somewhere at the far end the musicians drew their bows across their strings, testing them for the dance to come.
Julian had no intention of dancing. He had come because Brookmire had insisted upon it, and because a man could not hide in his study forever and expect the talk to die of its own accord.
“A fine evening, I think.”
Julian glanced at his brother and the satisfied set of his smile, and allowed himself a small one in return. “Yes. I suppose it shall be.”
“For tonight, neither of us ought to think of wills, houses, elderly relatives, or determined young ladies.” Brookmire arched a brow.
“And I say so only because Miss Galbraith is sure to be present, and I intend to spend as much of the evening in her company as she will permit. Though she is a great deal more inclined toward yours, I fear.”
“There is nothing I can do about that.” Julian chuckled. “You are quite taken with the lady. I am certain you can persuade her that you are the better match.”
“You are quite sure you have no interest there?” Brookmire tilted his head. “We have all been acquainted these many years, and — ”
Julian held up a flat hand. “Pray, desist. Miss Galbraith is pleasing enough, but I have no thought of pursuing her. If you wish to, you have my blessing and gladly.”
A grin broke across Brookmire’s face, and Julian sighed inwardly. There were a hundred handsome young ladies in London, and his brother had fixed upon the one who did not return his regard. He supposed matters of the heart did such things to a man, though he had no experience of it himself.
“Capital. Then we forget Stoneleigh House and Miss Trent — for this one night.” A twinkle came into his brother’s eye. “Or you shall, at least.”
“I have not attended a ball in some while.” Julian inclined his head. “Perhaps you are right. One evening’s respite from the matter will do no harm.”
Brookmire spread his hands, as if presenting the whole glittering room for his brother’s consideration.
“There are a great many suitable young ladies here. And we are both aware that you must settle on a match soon enough. You hold the title. You owe the line an heir. Whatever I do about Miss Galbraith, it is your future that signifies.”
Marriage was a practical matter; Julian did not pretend otherwise.
Yet just now the thought of it felt remote and gray beside the sharp, fresh absence of Stoneleigh House.
“It is not the moment,” he said. “I cannot give my mind to Miss Trent and to courtship both at once. The house is the more pressing of the two.”
“True enough.” Brookmire’s gaze wandered the room. “Though it cannot be put off forever.”
Julian tipped his head a fraction, wondering whether his brother spoke of the house or of himself. Before he could ask, a familiar voice cut across them.
“Carrington? Is that you?”
A broad smile came to Julian’s face, the first true one of the evening. He clasped the Earl of Yarmouth’s hand. “Yarmouth! It has been an age.”
“Far too long.” His friend nodded to Brookmire. “You are both well, I hope?”
“In body, well enough,” Brookmire answered before Julian could. “In mind, perhaps a good deal less so.”
“Oh?” Yarmouth’s smile dimmed.
“There is some frustration on my brother’s part, and on mine, for his sake.” Brookmire shook off the warning press of Julian’s hand. “You will have heard, no doubt, that Lady Warrington left her great London house to a young lady who is no relation to her at all?”
Understanding crept across Yarmouth’s face. “Ah. I had heard there was something curious in the will. I did not know it concerned the house.” He looked at Julian. “That must have been a hard blow.”
“It was.” Julian gave a grim smile and let his gaze drift across the room, and there it caught, and held.
Miss Viola Trent had just come in upon her sister’s arm.
The candlelight found her chestnut hair and deepened it to copper where it was gathered at the nape of her neck.
Her gown was plain beside the silks around her, a pale blue, unadorned save for a little lace at the throat, and her gloved hands were clasped tight before her, as if she might fly apart should she let them go.
Then she lifted her head, and her clear brown eyes came directly to his, and widened to find him already watching.
His heart struck hard against his ribs. He pulled his gaze away, heat climbing his neck at being so plainly caught.
“It seems everyone is watching her,” Yarmouth murmured.
It was true. Julian let his eyes move over the room and found scarcely a head not turned her way — some openly curious, some sliding their glances sidelong behind a fan.
He looked back at Miss Trent. Her shoulders had drawn up, a rigidity setting into her frame.
She felt the weight of all those eyes. He had no doubt of it.
“She has the look of a rabbit set down in a field of hounds,” Brookmire said, a thread of unkindness in his voice and in the curl of his lip. “And no notion of how to run.”
“She is afraid.” The words were out of Julian before he had decided to say them. “Surely that much we can all understand.”
A small silence. Yarmouth glanced at Brookmire and back again.
Julian cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is that her fear is plain enough, and reasonable. I am not yet acquainted with the lady, but — ”
“Though you must be, if you are to settle the matter of the house.”
Julian shot his brother a look and turned pointedly back to Yarmouth. “As I was saying — I saw her only yesterday, in the middle of London, overwhelmed near to fainting by the attention she had drawn. It is no small thing, to be made a spectacle of overnight.”
Yarmouth gave a low, gruff sound of agreement. “Yes. I should think it most unnerving — the more so for being unexpected.” Then he straightened. “Wait a moment. Is that Lady Manion beside her? Is Lord Manion here as well?”
Julian looked at him, surprised. “You are acquainted with the lady?”
“Lord Manion and I were at Eton together. I was presented to his bride last Season.” Yarmouth’s eyes warmed with mischief. “If you wish it, I might introduce you to Lady Manion — who would then, I do not doubt, present you to her sister.”
Brookmire’s hand came down on Julian’s shoulder. “That is precisely what is wanted. Yes — let us all go across. I confess I should like to know this Miss Trent myself.” His eyes narrowed by a degree. “I should very much like to know what bound her to our cousin.”
Julian brushed his brother’s hand away. “I will take the introduction. But, Brookmire — we ask her nothing. Not tonight.”
His brother grimaced. “Very well.”
With a nod to Yarmouth, Julian followed him across the floor, his stomach lurching as Miss Trent’s gaze found him once more and her brows lifted in wary recognition.
“Lady Manion!” Yarmouth boomed, in his usual cheerful way. “How delightful to meet you again. I had hoped your husband might be with you — I should be glad to see him.”
Lady Manion’s smile was warm and immediate.
“Good evening, Lord Yarmouth. Alas, my husband has remained in the country. But I am here with my younger sister, Miss Viola Trent.” She gestured to the young lady at her side, who stood now with her head a little bowed, bracing herself, it seemed, for whatever the introduction would bring.
“Viola, may I present the Earl of Yarmouth.”
She sank into a curtsy. “Lord Yarmouth.”
“A pleasure indeed.” Yarmouth turned, the knowing smile not quite hidden. “And permit me to present the Marquess of Carrington, and his brother, the Viscount Brookmire.”
So that was the moment she learned his name.
Julian saw it land. Her eyes came up to his face, and he watched the recognition sharpen and settle — the cold gentleman from the solicitor’s office, the stranger from the street who had known her name without being given it. Her chin lifted by the smallest degree.
He bowed. She curtsied, and clasped her hands again at once before her.
“I hope the Season has used you kindly thus far, Miss Trent,” he said. “It can be a fatiguing business, when one is newly come to it.”
“Indeed it can,” Brookmire put in, leaving her no room to answer. “Though you must find it harder still, given your present circumstances.”
A faint color brushed Miss Trent’s cheeks.
“The circumstances I find myself in are surprising,” she said slowly.
“As I am sure you are all very well aware.” Her gaze came to Julian, steady now.
“You were at the reading of the will, my lord. That is how you knew my name yesterday, outside the dressmaker’s. ”
Heat touched his own face; he had given himself away there, plainly enough, when he had spoken her name in the street.
“Yes,” he admitted. “That is so.” He hesitated.
He had told Brookmire there were to be no questions, and yet he found himself unable to keep from it.
“I must ask you something, Miss Trent. Will you tell me how you were connected to her? For I cannot recall that she ever once spoke your name.”
She looked to her sister, whose lips had thinned.
“I am not connected to Lady Warrington in any way,” she said.
“She was acquainted with my father, rather than with me. There was a kindness in her that I do not think I shall ever forget — but a kindness is not a connection. I understand it no better than you do, my lord.”
Julian rubbed a hand along his jaw. She spoke without embellishment, without the smallest attempt to charm or to soften him, and that frankness reached him where flattery never would have. She was as lost in this as he was. He felt suddenly, uncomfortably sure of it.
“And now you have a second kindness at her death,” he murmured, watching the color rise higher in her face. “The house is a great boon.”